The Economics of Deforestation (St.Antony's S.)

The Economics of Deforestation The Example of Ecuador

Sven Wunder

St Antony’s Series General Editor: Richard Clogg (1999– ), Fellow of St Antony’s College, Oxford Recent titles include: Craig Brandist and Galin Tihanov (editors) MATERIALIZING BAKHTIN Mark Brzezinski THE STRUGGLE FOR CONSTITUTIONALISM IN POLAND Reinhard Drifte JAPAN’S QUEST FOR A PERMANENT SECURITY COUNCIL SEAT A Matter of Pride or Justice? Simon Duke THE ELUSIVE QUEST FOR EUROPEAN SECURITY Marta Dyczok THE GRAND ALLIANCE AND UKRAINIAN REFUGEES Ken Endo THE PRESIDENCY OF THE EUROPEAN COMMISSION UNDER JACQUES DELORS M. K. Flynn IDEOLOGY, MOBILIZATION AND THE NATION The Rise of Irish, Basque and Carlist Nationalist Movements in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries Anthony Forster BRITAIN AND THE MAASTRICHT NEGOTIATIONS Ricardo Ffrench-Davis REFORMING THE REFORMS IN LATIN AMERICA Macroeconomics, Trade, Finance Azar Gat BRITISH ARMOUR THEORY AND THE RISE OF THE PANZER ARM Revising the Revisionists Fernando Guirao SPAIN AND THE RECONSTRUCTION OF WESTERN EUROPE, 1945–57 Anthony Kirk-Greene BRITAIN’S IMPERIAL ADMINISTRATORS, 1858–1966 Bernardo Kosacoff CORPORATE STRATEGIES UNDER STRUCTURAL ADJUSTMENT IN ARGENTINA Responses by Industrial Firms to a New Set of Uncertainties Huck-ju Kwon THE WELFARE STATE IN KOREA Cécile Laborde PLURALIST THOUGHT AND THE STATE IN BRITAIN AND FRANCE, 1900–25

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The Economics of Deforestation The Example of Ecuador Sven Wunder Senior Project Researcher Centre for Development Research Copenhagen Denmark

Foreword by Jeffrey A. Sayer Director-General Centre for International Forestry Research

in association with ST ANTONY’S COLLEGE, OXFORD

First published in Great Britain 2000 by

MACMILLAN PRESS LTD Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and London Companies and representatives throughout the world A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 0–333–73146–8 First published in the United States of America 2000 by ST. MARTIN’S PRESS, INC., Scholarly and Reference Division,

175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010

ISBN 0–312–23446–5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wunder, Sven.

The economics of deforestation : the example of Ecuador / Sven Wunder.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references (p. ).

ISBN 0–312–23446–5 (cloth)

1. Deforestation—Ecuador. 2. Deforestation—Economic aspects—Ecuador. I.

Title.

SD418.3.E2 W86 2000 333.75'137'09866—dc21 00–023348 © Sven Wunder 2000 Foreword © Jeffrey A. Sayer 2000 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. 10 09

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire

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Contents List of Tables

viii

List of Figures

ix

List of Abbreviations

x

Foreword by Jeffrey A. Sayer

xiii

Introduction

Part I

1

Deforestation: Facts and Theories

1 Some Basic Concepts Definitions and measurement Deforestation data Historical aspects Summing up

9

9

11

19

22

2 The Wealth of Theories The logging debate The `fuelwood trap' revisited Impoverishment and agricultural frontier expansion More people, less forest? Land tenure and access rules Policy factors Towards different schools of deforestation

26

26

30

34

37

40

43

46

3

56

56

61

67

71

74

82

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation Resource endowment and the environmental agenda Spanish versus indigenous land use Deforestation in the neotropics Key features: Central American deforestation Key features: Brazilian deforestation Latin American deforestation: its distinctive attributes

Part II

Ecuadorean Deforestation

4 A Closer Look Ecuador: a microcosm of diversity v

91

91

vi Contents

5

How much forest, how much loss? New forest-cover estimates Historical colonization and agricultural export cycles Ecuadorean deforestation: a summary

94

99

106

110

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests Export boom, foreign borrowing and structural change The oil bonanza and sectoral redistribution Oil production and Amazon forests The competitiveness of primary commodity sectors Urbanization and the shifting demand for food Road construction and transport subsidies The cost of production factors Institutional funding Bonanza and deforestation: a complexity of outcomes

117

117

120

122

125

127

128

130

131

133

Part III

Highland Land-Use Patterns

6

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? The context of the highlands study The study areas Land-use change and deforestation Demographic change Scarcity or abundance of labour? Income generation and poverty Ethnicity and land use Push or pull forest-clearing?

141

141

143

146

150

153

154

157

159

7

Felling the Forest for the Trees? National wood supply Wood production and land-use impacts Caught in the fuelwood trap? The markets for wood Are primary producers squeezed by middlemen? Wood quantities and incomes Wood-led deforestation?

164

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178

181

8

Institutions and Policies Land-tenure policies Tenure and land use in the areas studied The dynamics of tenure and access rules Credit access Forest administration

185

185

187

190

192

194

Contents vii

9

Infrastructural investments Conclusions

196

199

Conclusion and Reflections Changing forest cover in Ecuador The net present value approach Combining deforestation motives The impact of wood products Poverty and population growth The applicability of deforestation models Deforestation and development National policy implications Increasing conservation incentives Reducing demand for converted lands

205

205

206

209

212

213

215

219

222

224

228

Bibliography

233

Name Index

250

Subject Index

252

List of Tables

1.1 Forest cover and deforestation by main regions 1990±5 1.2 Tropical forest area and forest cover by main ecological

zones 1.3 Area transition matrix for the tropical zone, 1980±90 2.1 Three deforestation schools 3.1 Tropical forest cover in Latin America 4.1 National and international estimates on Ecuadorean

forest cover, and its change over time 4.2 Forest cover in Ecuador's three main regions 4.3 Agropastoral land-use trends in Ecuador 1972±3 to 1988±9 5.1 Dutch Disease effects and Ecuadorean deforestation: an analytical overview 6.1 Household income sources and estimates in selected

villages 6.2 Land uses and demographic patterns in selected study

areas 7.1 Average firewood consumption in study areas 7.2 Wholesale and retail prices for charcoal 7.3 Price ranges for firewood in study areas 7.4 Timber wholesale and retail prices 7.5 Charcoal commercialization margins 7.6 Timber commercialization margins in Quito 7.7 Estimating charcoal demand and supply in Quito 7.8 Charcoal production and income in study areas 7.9 Timber production and income 8.1 Institutional forest impacts 9.1 The deforestation cycle and per hectare profitability 9.2 Net present value of deforestation cycle under different

scenarios 9.3 Empirical relevance of three deforestation schools

viii

14

16

17

49

68

95

102

104

135 156

158

169

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174

175

177

179

179

180

200

203

210

218

List of Figures

2.1 4.1 4.2 5.1 5.2 6.1 6.2 7.1

The fuelwood trap and peasant immiseration Forest cover in Ecuador, 1994±5 Trade-led deforestation Foreign exchange inflows External inflow GDP shares Highland study areas The deforestation cycle Flowchart of primary wood transformation in

Ecuador, 1992

ix

31

100

112

119

119

144

148

166

List of Abbreviations

BNF CDR CESA

Banco Nacional de Fomento (National Development Bank) Centre for Development Research (Denmark) Central Ecuatoriana de Servicios AgrõÂcolas (Ecuadorean Centre for Agricultural Services) CIFOR Center for International Forestry Research CLIRSEN Centro de Levantamientos Integrados de Recursos Naturales por Sensores Remotos COTESU CooperacioÂn TeÂcnõÂca Suiza (Centre for the Integrated Survey of Natural Resources through Remote Sensing) CPI Consumer Price Index CPRs Common Pool Resources CPrR Common Property Rights Ä ar y CREA Centro de ReconversioÂn EconoÂmica de Azuay, Can Morona Santiago (Centre for the Economic Recovery of Äar and Morona-Santiago) Azuay, Can CVRD Companhia Vale do Rio Doce Danida Danish International Development Assistance DIVA Centre for Research on the Cultural and Biological Diversity of Andean Rainforests ECLAC Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean FAO United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization FAO-FRA FAO Forest Resources Assessment FUNAI National Indian Foundation (Brazil) FLACSO Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales (Latin American Social Sciences Faculty) GDP Gross Domestic Product GIS Geographical Information Systems GNP Gross National Product ha hectares HYVs high-yielding varieties IDB Interamerican Development Bank IBRD International Bank for Reconstruction and Development ICBP International Council for Bird Preservation ICDP Integrated Conservation and Development Project

x

List of Abbreviations xi

IDEA

Instituto de Estrategias Agropecuarias (Agricultural Policy Institute) Instituto Ecuatoriano de Reforma Agraria y IERAC ColonizacioÂn (Ecuadorean Institute for Agrarian Reform and Colonization) International Institute for Environment and IIED Development International Monetary Fund IMF Instituto Nacional de ColonizacioÂn INC Instituto Nacional de ColonizacioÂn de la Region INCRAE AmazoÂnica Eucuatoriano Instituto Nacional de Desarrollo Agrario (National INDA Institute for Agrarian Development) Instituto Nacional de EnergõÂa (National Energy INE Institute) Instituto Nacional de EstadõÂsticas y Censos (National INEC Institute of Statistics and Censuses) Instituto Ecuatoriano de ElectrificacioÂn (Ecuadorean INECEL Institute for Electrification) Instituto Ecuatoriano Forestal y de Areas Naturales INEFAN y Vida Silvestre (Ecuadorean Institute for Forestry, Natural Areas and Wildlife) Instituto Ecuatoriano de Recursos HidraÂulicos INERHI (Ecuadorean Institute of Water Resources) International Tropical Timber Organization ITTO The World Conservation Union IUCN Ministerio de Agricultura y GanaderõÂa (Ministry of MAG Agriculture and Livestock) metres above sea level m.a.s.l. Non-Governmental Organization NGO Net Present Value NPV OrganizacioÂn Latinoamericana de EnergõÂa OLADE (Latin American Energy Organization) POLONOROESTE Northwest Brazil Integrated Development Programme Programa Eucatoriano Desarrollo de la RegioÂn del PREDESUR sur (Ecuadorean Programme for the Development of the South) Programa de Bosques Nativos Andinos (Programme PROBONA for Native Andean Forests) Structural Adjustment Programme SAP

xii List of Abbreviations

SUDAM Superintendency for the Development of Amazonia (Brazil) SUFOREN Subsecretaria Forestal y de Recursos Renovables (Subsecretariat for Forestry and Renewable Resources) S/ Sucres (currency of Ecuador) TCA Tratado de CooperacioÂn AmazoÂnica (Amazon Cooperation Treaty) Tropical Forestry Action Plan TFAP UMACPA Unidad de Manejo de la Cuenca del RõÂo Paute (The Paute Watershed Management Unit) UNCTAD United Nations Conference on Trade and Development UNEP United Nations Environmental Programme UNESCO United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization UNICEF United Nations Children's Fund UNRISD United Nations Research Institute for Social Development USAID United States Agency for International Development US$ United States Dollar USFS United States Forest Service WRI World Resources Institute WCMC World Conservation Monitoring Centre WWF World Wide Fund for Nature

Foreword

The sight of newly logged rainforest or areas freshly cleared for slashand-burn agriculture makes a dramatic impact on the visitor to the tropics. Indeed as these activities penetrate even further into the more remote and often hilly landscapes of tropical countries, they often cause serious local environmental degradation. But tropical rainforests are not stable pristine wilderness ± as the popular media often portray them. They are highly dynamic ecosystems that have been subject to various forms of human-induced and natural disturbance for millenia. The rich biodiversity that is such a treasured attribute of rainforests has evolved in response to the constantly changing conditions in the forest. When large-scale patterns of land use are examined the issues look quite different. Selective logging and cycles of shifting cultivation have many of the characteristics of natural disturbance of forest systems. Within reasonable limits, and subject to certain controls, these activities are not inconsistent with the maintenance of many of the environmental values of forests. The real threat to these values comes from the permanent conversion of forests to agriculture and infrastructure. The studies described in this book provide valuable insights into the real nature of the threats to tropical forests. They help us to appreciate better the scale, relative importance and true social and environmental significance of the different human actions that lead to the modification of forests. Tropical deforestation has now been at the centre of the environmental stage for two decades. The issue has generated intense emotion, lofty political commitments, a plethora of reports, plans and strategies and a surprisingly large allocation of international funding. Yet, disturbingly, it is doubtful if all this activity has had much impact on saving the forests. Even more surprising is the fact that we still have little knowledge of how much forest we are losing, where it is located and what type of forest it is. After twenty years of conservation effort we are still uncertain about the symptoms and have made little progress in properly diagnosing the cause of the problems. The Inter-governmental Forum on Forests, the international negotiating mechanism established under the UN Commission for Sustainable Development to examine forest issues, has now recognized our ignorance of the real underlying causes of forest loss and degradation and is embarking upon a number of studies to examine the issues. The xiii

xiv Foreword

studies described in this book will make valuable contributions to their analysis. International concern about tropical forests has often been most marked among people with little first-hand experience of the impacts of forest loss or degradation. It has been mainly driven by environmental campaigners, often located in northern industrialized countries. These campaigners have made skillful use of the media to create a virtual world of tropical forests, a world firmly rooted in European and North American culture and values. In particular two misconceptions have underlain popular perceptions of the forest problem: first, an assumption that we are dealing with an empty wilderness and a failure to recognize that tropical forests are home to hundreds of millions of people; and secondly, that desirable forest `outcomes' in the tropical south are essentially the same as those in the temperate and boreal north. This has had two consequences that have combined to reduce the impact of our conservation efforts: first, a relentless pursuit of the symptoms of tropical forest misuse and a failure to understand the real underlying factors which drive deforestation; and secondly, a firm commitment to a vision of forest values that are largely alien to the people who live in and around the forests. The real value of this book lies in the insights it provides into the complex interrelationships between what happens in the forests and more general patterns of economic and social development. Pressures on the land are profoundly influenced by the other livelihood options that are available to people, which depend upon the relative attractiveness of employment in industry versus different land-based activities. The latter are profoundly influenced by access to markets and by the prices of agricultural products. One element that is missing from much of the debate about the future of tropical forests is any clear vision of what the ideal future might look like. In poor countries with rapidly growing populations it is difficult to imagine a future that does not involve the clearance of a great deal of forest for the expansion of different sorts of agriculture and infrastructure. Globally about 6 to 8 per cent of forests are allocated to national parks and equivalent reserves and a number of conservation organizations have advocated increasing this to 10 per cent. A more relevant objective might be to maintain a much larger area of near-natural forest under different types of multiple-use management. The interesting question is whether it would be possible to have a shared vision of how much forest would be ideal, what type of forest it would be, who would own and manage it, and how it would be distributed through the landscape.

Foreword xv

There are only a few forest values whose benefits genuinely accrue at the global level, mainly some components of biodiversity and some climate-related values. Most forest management should be for those values that are important for the people who live in and around the forest. My own view is that management for these values should be largely a matter of societal choice. People should have the right to decide how much forest and what type of forest they would like to have in their surroundings. People's choice will vary from place to place and over time depending on their economic condition and their own cultural values. There is no need to have a globally determined prescription for a desirable state of the forests. My own conclusion is that we have to apply a form of subsidiarity to the case of tropical forests. We have5 to accept that there are relatively few global values requiring the maintenance of a set of elite undisturbed sites, mainly for bio-diversity conservation. Most other forest values accrue at national and local levels, and for these values there is no need for the international community to make judgements about whether or how these values are maintained. The key issue is therefore to establish an appropriate hierarchy of responsibility for forests which fully recognizes local and national interests. But at present the international debate is still locked into the pursuit of a uniform romantic vision of vast areas of untrammeled wilderness. This book is an excellent product of recent attempts to apply scientific rigour to the problems of tropical forests. It provides a careful analysis of what is happening on the ground in some key locations and examines the real causes of the changes that are occurring in the extent and condition of the forests. It subjects many of the assumptions about causes of forest change to careful review and thoughtfully examines the myths that have clouded the tropical forest debate. In so far as there is a `solution' to the tropical forest problem it cannot lie in a perennial battle between people who have different views on what the fate of any particular patch of forest should be. The `solution' must be based on a widely shared vision of what the desired state of the forest should be and on an understanding of the laws, policies, fiscal incentives and tenure arrangements that are likely to lead to this outcome. Anybody interested in such outcomes will benefit greatly from reading this book. J E F F RE Y A . S AY E R Director General Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR)

Introduction

Of all manifestations of life which evolution has produced, the tree is the most complete. Trees possess this peace of mind, this distinct repose which they gained ages ago, winning the struggle for height and light. Clearer than anything else, the tree displays the place of all living things between Earth and Cosmos. Rolf Edberg, By the foot of the tree (1974)1 For humans, coexistence with tropical forests has always been problematic. Antagonism is not at any given moment a necessary part of the relationship, but forest `clearing' is not merely a dictate of cultural prejudice and pride or of improvident political and social arrangements. The aggrandizement of our species has been based upon the destruction of forests that we are ill equipped to inhabit. Warren Dean, With broadax and firebrand (1995) Since the Earth Summit in Rio in 1992, forests have gained a prominent place on the international agenda of global environmental problems. Our anxieties about the loss and degradation of forests range from dwindling precious timber stocks and forest-dwelling people's unmet subsistence needs, to diminished carbon storage, compromised watershed protection and even reduced inputs for biotechnology. In spite of the considerable political attention that forests have received, little has hitherto been achieved on the ground: tropical deforestation and forest degradation have continued at an unaltered pace. The demands of present societies continue to create pressures that lead to the elimination of forest cover in developing countries. 1

2 Introduction

The paradox between the growing consciousness of forest values and persisting forest loss, between forest conservation rhetoric and its results on the ground, is also reflected in the two quotations above from distinguished students of forest±human interactions. What are the essentials in the fundamentally different emphases of the two statements about trees and forests? One is a vision derived from temperate, planted forests in Sweden, accessible for long walks on luminous autumn days and inspiring alienated urban dwellers to philosophical discussions about nature. The other could represent the impenetrable `green hell' of a natural tropical forest in Brazil, bearing mortal diseases and packed with hostile insects, an area that, through slash-and-burn agriculture, imperceptibly gives way to a squatter's plot. As expressed by the Nobel Laureate Rene Dubos: `What we long for is rarely Nature in the raw; more often it is a landscape suited to human limitations and shaped by the efforts and aspirations that have created civilized life' (Dubos 1968: 201). But, beyond the consideration of different forest types, of developing versus developed countries and of different types of agent and forest use, the contrasting views above may be rooted in more fundamental questions: romanticism versus pragmatism, idealism versus realism and anthropocentrism versus a recognition of other living beings' rights. Are the stakes of different interest groups in the forest so disparate that they cannot be reconciled? After a decade of hope that the magic formula and environmental shibboleth of `sustainable development' would resolve these conflicts, must we acknowledge that, for tropical forests, conservation and development will never be fully compatible? This book does not intend to give definite answers to these broader questions. Nevertheless, in spite of economists' efforts to search for objective standards of land-use optimization, I believe no analysis of deforestation can fully avoid the use of subjective value judgements. In my own case, I would underline two elementary premises with relevance for the following analysis. The first is sympathy with the historically sustained view of Warren Dean, which also appears as a common thread throughout this book: tropical deforestation and human development processes have de facto been closely linked, because of man's innate desire to dominate landscapes. This also implies that growing population and consumption pressures may continue to cause deforestation in tropical developing countries in the future. This process should not be deemed inappropriate per se, although we still do not know what impacts and harm the unprecedented loss of tropical forests will have in the future. Consequently, a principal strategic task is

Introduction 3

to find widely applicable models that `delink' development from deforestation and vice versa. The second premise is much closer to the Edberg position: forest conservation, within the priority-setting of different land uses, is a desirable safeguard and a wise use of natural resources. This is true for all types of forest, although this book will focus on developing countries and tropical forests. The premise results both from a broader ethical viewpoint of nature's own right, and the spiritual, cultural and humanitarian concept related to it: `Sensitive persons have always experienced a biological and emotional need for harmonious accord with nature' (Dubos 1969: 196). Yet a sensitive civilization is not anti-developmental by disposition; on the contrary, the precautionary principle tells us that under conditions of uncertainty it is a rational strategy to minimize excessive, accelerated and irreversible damage to natural ecosystems which would restrict our future options in natural resource management. The fact that I have chosen to juxtapose the two premises about conservation and deforestation also reflects the overall optimistic view that many development options exist and can be embarked upon by countries currently subject to rapid deforestation, and that it is possible to make choices in such a way that the degradation and loss of forest ecosystems can be managed, without decisively jeopardizing current aspirations for human well-being. Economics has much to contribute here in setting priorities among different land uses, given a diversity of preferences, conflicting interests, and a situation of a growing scarcity of natural resources. It can also help us to gain an in-depth understanding of composite rationales for ongoing forest clearing, including the weight of different motives in decision-making about land-use changes. In methodological terms, the type of economics needed here is not the purely quantitative, narrowly model-oriented approach, but one which is both embedded in the greater family of social sciences and open to interdisciplinary applications. In its structure, the book is organized according to a stepwise, descending level of analysis, moving from the global to the local level. Part I is dedicated to an analysis of global and regional issues: deforestation definitions, empirical evidence (Chapter 1) and theories (Chapter 2); this is supplemented with specific forest-loss features in Latin America, including historical processes (Chapter 3). Part I serves as an introduction to the Ecuadorean case study, but it may also be read independently: there is a rapidly growing literature on deforestation issues (75 per cent of the 300 cited references are from the 1990s) which hitherto

4 Introduction

does not seem to have been summarized in an analytical manner. Part II briefly outlines the relationship between deforestation and development patterns in one country, Ecuador, covering historical characteristics from the Spanish conquest up to the 1970s (Chapter 4) and structural and macroeconomic trends during the last couple of decades (Chapter 5). This sets the stage for Part III, a micro-oriented application of the theoretical framework of Chapter 2 to four field study areas in the Ecuadorean highlands. Various hypotheses about population and impoverishment (Chapter 6), wood products (Chapter 7), and institutional and policy issues (Chapter 8) are investigated as to their alleged impact on forest loss. Based on the various insights drawn from the different levels of analysis, Chapter 9 offers some general conclusions and policy recommendations. It would not have been possible to write this book without the help of a range of institutions and individuals. I am indebted to the Centre for Development Research (CDR) in Copenhagen, Denmark, for financial support during the last one-and-a-half years, the period of data systematization and writing. From 1993 to 1996, I was employed by the South American Regional Office of the World Conservation Union (IUCN) in Quito, Ecuador. I am especially grateful to Xavier Izko, coordinator of the Programme for Native Andean Forests in Ecuador (PROBONA), for his encouragement and support; this programme is affiliated to IUCN, and most of the data presented in chapters 6±8 resulted from field studies carried out under the direction of PROBONA.2 Fieldwork in four areas of the Ecuadorean highlands was facilitated by a large number of institutions and individuals; space restrictions do not allow me to mention them here. I am grateful to the Danish International Development Assistance (Danida) which financed my salary during the threeyear tenure at IUCN. Earlier drafts of the manuscript have been reviewed by Stuart White, Joseph Henry Vogel and Robert Parkin. The present version has benefited greatly from their multiple and insightful comments, based on their specific fields of professional expertise and, for the two first mentioned, on their detailed knowledge about environmental issues in Ecuador. I would also like to thank Carsten S. Olsen, Stig Jensen, Thomas Christiansen, Steffen R. Nielsen and Jan Ole Haagensen for criticism and suggestions regarding different parts of the manuscript. Xavier Izko and Abel Tobar commented extensively on the earlier research report, and their insights have been very useful in the elaboration of chapters 6±9. The same is true for the work of the Ecuadorean consultants Enrique Laso and Fernando GuerroÂn, who did part of the fieldwork in the

Introduction 5

original PROBONA study. Chapter 5 is based on Wunder (1997), a working paper prepared as part of a larger comparative study on macroeconomics and deforestation with David Kaimowitz and William Sunderlin from the Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR) in Bogor, Indonesia; it has benefited from the continuous dialogue with CIFOR researchers. Flemming Skov from the DIVA programme kindly provided assistance in preparing the cartographic documentation. Ulla Rùdgaard and Anette Riber provided secretarial help. Notes 1 My translation from Swedish.

2 See Wunder (1996) for the study report, published in Spanish.

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Part I Deforestation: Facts and Theories

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1

Some Basic Concepts

Any book about deforestation in any one country must begin with an overview of the data regarding deforestation worldwide and the problems inherent in those data. Important distinctions will be made between `narrow' and `broad' definitions of deforestation, between survey/satellite imagery and model-generated data, time series and crosssection data-analysis. This chapter will elucidate such distinctions and put them into a wider historical context. The explanation of forest loss on a global scale will set the stage for the more regional situations of Latin America, Ecuador and its highland regions in the rest of this book.

Definitions and measurement Although over the last two decades deforestation has attracted an increasing interest from a large number of scholars and institutions, separate interpretations coexist in the current debate on the precise meaning of the word or its delimitation in regard to related terms such as `forest loss', `fragmentation', `conversion', `degradation' and `forest decline'. This involves not only disagreement about what types of anthropogenic intervention are to be seen as compatible with the `forest' label, but also a more basic debate about which tree-based ecosystems may be characterized as forests, e.g. monocultural tree plantations with a limited range of forest services, or comparison between closed and open forests, woodlands, shrublands, fallows, and so on. For instance, substitution of natural forests by plantations may be regarded as reforestation by government planners, but as deforestation by conservationists.1 Empirically, it is difficult to distinguish between gross and net deforestation, the latter including not only new plantations but also natural 9

10 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

regeneration (Gregersen, et al. 1992: 138). This plays an important role vis-aÁ-vis the 400 million or so shifting cultivators in the developing world: what fallow length or degree of tree regeneration is sufficient to be able to talk about forest cover? It is obvious that the choice of deforestation criteria and definitions has important repercussions on both the size of deforestation estimates and the subsequent analysis of its causes. In simplified terms, we can divide the predominant views into `broad' and `narrow' definitions of deforestation. The `broad' version is inclusive in the sense that it highlights not only forest conversion (the elimination of trees and shifts to other land uses), but also different types of degradation that reduce forest quality (density and structure, ecological services, biomass stocks, species diversity, gene pools). Not surprisingly, biologists, ecologists and conservationists particularly favour this type of definition. Norman Myers (1994: 28) defines deforestation as the `complete destruction of forest cover', plus the `removal of, or unsurvivable injury to, the great majority of trees', with particular reference to logging in Southeast Asia. Also international organizations such as the United Nations Research Institute for Social Development (UNRISD) have adopted the `broad' vision of deforestation; depletion of biomass and forest degradation are thus explicit deforestation criteria.2 Under these circumstances, selective logging becomes a prime cause of direct deforestation, but other degradation factors may be equally important: as Rowe et al. (1992: 35) conclude, `[a]long with fuelwood gathering, overgrazing is the main form of deforestation in North Africa, the Middle East, South Asia, and the Sahel area of Africa'. This would indeed be a surprising conclusion for the defenders of the `narrow' definition of deforestation in the sense that their vision focuses on a changing use of forest land. In the most extreme version, this would imply a criterion of `complete destruction of forest cover [which] means that not a tree remains' (Myers 1994: 28). However, the decisive criterion is removing forest cover sufficiently to allow alternative land use (agriculture, pasture, infrastructure, etc.). Obviously, this may leave certain mixed systems undetermined, such as agroforestry. The United Nations Food and Agricultural Organisation (FAO) has chosen `depletion of tree crown cover to less than 10%' as the criteria of tropical deforestation (FAO 1993: 10).3 All other types of tree removal and loss of biomass are termed `forest degradation' (representing shifts between categories, e.g. from `closed' to `open' forest), and are thus not included in deforestation estimates. The FAO criterion tends to be favoured by geographers, economists and land-use planners.

Some Basic Concepts

11

Obviously, degradation and deforestation tend to be intertwined phenomena, in the sense that the former often precedes the latter in the history of forest intervention. Furthermore, mixtures of the two criteria have also been applied by some researchers using different definitions according to who is to be blamed for forest conversion.4 The broad definition has been more powerful as a political tool, as it alarms the public about the fact that a larger area is affected by anthropogenic changes. In the following, however, we will adopt the FAO criterion, i.e. is the `narrow' definition of deforestation (`forest loss' will be used as a synonym), basically for motives of operationality and functionality. The `broad' definition may interpret even limited, specific degradation (say, over-hunting) as deforestation; in principle, all tree-based ecosystems with (unsustainable) human interventions may potentially be deprived of their status as forests, which is hardly an operational criterion. Secondly, the economic analysis in this book will focus more on the motives for land-use changes than on specific forest-ecosystem functions, which thus makes the `narrow' criterion more relevant in functional terms. Other dimensions of the deforestation concept refer to the type and degree of human intervention. Not only do `frontier forests', i.e. large continuous tracts of natural forest, have a special interest from a biodiversity viewpoint,5 they may also be subject to different clearing pressures from fragmented forests (Rudel and Roper 1997). Another distinction refers to colonists today compared to those of prehistory. It is often argued that tropical forests coevolved with the indigenous people who have occupied the habitat for millennia; the rainforest is thus almost a garden where artificial selection creates a variety of useful plants. These themes will be further elaborated in the context of political ecology in Chapter 3. With respect to the impact of colonization today, one must draw a distinction regarding tenure: typically it begins with an appropriation of state-owned lands by private interests, involving `homesteading' motives that are quite different from on-farm deforestation, where tenure has already been consolidated. I shall return to this distinction in Chapter 2.

Deforestation data The FAO Forest Resources Assessment (FRA), first carried out in 1980 by FAO and UNEP and repeated in 1990 by FAO, generates deforestation figures combining survey and modelling approaches that use both

12 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

national and sub-national data (aerial photos, satellite images, national surveys) as inputs.6 For the purpose of land-use change-analysis, the figures are clearly preferable to the FAO Production Yearbook data, the most popular alternative source of deforestation data, which builds on national forestry agencies' own (and rather subjective) reporting to FAO and uses a somewhat awkward delimitation of forest stocks.7 Other global-comparative volumes, such as the yearbooks published by the World Resources Institute (WRI), for example WRI (1994), draw on a mixture of FAO data for deforestation estimates, although not always in a consistent manner.8 Finally, the World Conservation Monitoring Centre (WCMC), assisted by the World Conservation Union (IUCN) and the Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR), have recently produced a Conservation Atlas for each tropical continent, processing existing maps that focus on closed tropical forests (e.g. Harcourt and Sayer 1996 on the Americas). These quantifications challenge the FAOFRA forest stock estimates for several countries, having both significant higher and lower values (see Chapter 3, Table 3.1), but no alternative estimates of global deforestation over time are provided. Even though we have to accept FAO's FRA data as the best available knowledge on forest-cover change, an inherent problem is the insufficient amount of national surveys on land-use changes in tropical countries: from the 90 countries under FRA, in 1993 only 21 disposed of more than one assessment up to 1990; by now, this figure has risen marginally to 24 (FAO 1997: 11). Modelling thus still dominates over the survey approach in the generation of FRA data, because extrapolation is necessary for more than two-thirds (66) of countries. FAO applies a logistic model, based on forest stocks and human population density as the main explanatory variables (FAO 1993: 11). For the analysis of deforestation causes, FAO's use of population variables in the generation of deforestation data means that a subsequent test of the impact of demographic variables on deforestation is approaching tautology, due to the circularity of the argument.9 Even where sequences of remote sensingbased surveys exist, there may be problems of comparability, due to different resolution and sampling coverage (Pearce and Brown 1994: 9) or correction for clouded areas (Andersen 1996: 313). Some analysts, such as Rudel and Roper (1996; 1997), go as far as to reject completely the use of FAO-FRA data. As an alternative, they construct a binary variable (`high' v. `low' deforestation) from countryspecific and regional reports. This procedure is less pretentious vis-aÁ-vis the limited knowledge available, but it also implies a significant loss of correct information and an arbitrary cut-off point between `high' and

Some Basic Concepts

13

`low' (1 per cent is chosen as a threshold). There is not much reason to expect that a country with a 0.9 per cent deforestation rate should be characterized by a fundamentally different set of explanatory variables from one with a 1.1 per cent rate. Capistrano and Kiker (1995) use instead the tropical closed broadleaved forest areas that are industrially logged as a proxy for deforestation. This is a highly unfortunate procedure, because it presumes a strong causal link between logging and deforestation which is only confirmed for certain regions (see below). On the aggregate, although the FAO-FRA statistics should be treated with a great deal of caution, some of the criticism against them also seems exaggerated.10 Table 1.1. reproduces selected estimates from the latest FRA (1990 data, with a 1995 update; FAO 1997: 186±9). Note initially that, compared to the FRA from FAO (1993), estimates of 1980±90 natural forest loss in the tropics during the 1980s have been revised downward to an annual figure of 14.63 million ha (from 15.41 million ha). Surprisingly, for total forests (adding net plantation) the figures are unchanged: 12.80 million ha in both cases.11 For the recent 1990±95 period, net annual loss of natural tropical forest is estimated at 12.91 million ha (a rate of 0.74 per cent); this is a loss reduction of 1.72 million ha per year (13 per cent less than during the 1980s).12 These changes are a result of both the inclusion of new survey estimates for a number of countries and slower population growth in tropical developing countries (resulting in lower model predictions of deforestation). With the limited and fragile data available, it is thus hard to say to what degree there has been an actual slow-down in deforestation, or how much is simply a `model mirage'. Table 1.1 also shows that the development of the world's forest cover is highly heterogenous. There is a net increase in forest cover in developed countries (North America, Europe) and in other temperate and boreal regions (former USSR, Eastern Europe). This partially offsets rapid tropical deforestation, so that global forest cover is now diminishing by only 0.3 per cent per year. Within all three developing continents, deforestation is more rapid in the tropics than in temperate regions. In the tropics, deforestation rates are highest in Southeast Asia, followed by Africa and Latin America. In absolute terms, remaining tropical forest stocks are highest in the Americas, followed by Africa and Asia, but the total number of hectares lost to deforestation follows the same ranking. The `Big Three' tropical forest countries, Zaire, Indonesia and Brazil, still account together for no less than 44 per cent (792 million ha) of 1990 total tropical forest cover (1797 million ha), although with differential trends of annual loss (Indonesia 1.0 per

Region/country

14

Table 1.1 Forest cover and deforestation by main regions 1990±5 (thousands ha) Total forest 1990 Total forest 1995 Total change 1990±5 Annual change Annual change rate (per cent)

Tropical Africa

523,376

504,901

�18; 475

�3695

�0:7

Zaire Non-tropical Africa TOTAL AFRICA Tropical Asia

112,946 15,602 538,978 295,041

109,245 15,336 520,237 279,766

�3701 �266 �18; 741 �15; 275

�740 �53 �3748 �3055

�0.7 �0:3 �0:7 �1:1

Indonesia Temperate Asia TOTAL ASIA Tropical Oceania Temperate Oceania TOTAL OCEANIA Northern Europe Western Europe Eastern Europe TOTAL EUROPE TOTAL AREA OF THE FORMER USSR Temperate North and Central America Central America and Mexico Caribbean TOTAL NORTH & CENTRAL AMERICA Tropical South America

115,213 195,771 490,812 42,659 48,490 91,149 52,498 57,688 33,858 144,044 813,381 453,270 79,812 4816 537,898 851,223

109,791 194,406 474,172 41,903 48,792 90,695 52,538 59,479 33,971 145,988 816,167 457,086 75,018 4425 536,529 827,946

�5422 �1365 �16; 640 �756 302 �454 40 1791 113 1944 2786 3816 �4794 �391 �1369 �23; 277

�1084 �273 �3328 �151 60 �91 8 358 23 389 557 763 �959 �78 �274 �4655

�1.0 �0:1 �0:7 �0:4 0.1 �0:1 0.0 0.6 0.1 0.3 0.1 0.2 �1:2 �1:7 �0:1 �0:6

Brazil Temperate South America TOTAL SOUTH AMERICA GRAND TOTALS

563,911 43,243 894,466

551,139 42,648 870,594

�12,772 �595 �23; 872

�2554 �119 �4774

�0.5 �0:3 �0:5

Source: FAO (1997:186±9)

3510,728

3454,382

�56; 346

�11; 269

�0:3

Some Basic Concepts

15

cent, Zaire 0.7 per cent, Brazil 0.5 per cent). In regions dominated by forest fragments (Mesoamerica, Caribbean, parts of SE Asia), loss rates are higher than in those with large remaining `frontier forests' (South America), a conclusion that is reinforced by disaggregated WCMC data on different South American forest types (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 9). Of course, another relevant question is how much of the original forest cover in the tropics remains. According to a recent estimate (WRI 1997: 2), a total forest area of 450 million ha has been lost since 1960, most drastically in Asia (one third of forest cover has been lost), compared to Africa and Latin America (each about 18 per cent). Alternatively, Myers (1994: 30), using the broad definition of deforestation, finds for 1989 that only 800 million ha out of an original tropical moist forest cover of 1400 million ha remain (corresponding to 57 per cent); the annual loss is 1.6 per cent here, compared with FAO-FRA's 0.71 per cent for 1990. In a `long shot' attempt to compare current global land-use with pre-agricultural societies (Williams 1989), using climatic models of radiation balance and biogeochemical cycles, it is estimated that recent tropical rainforest losses are a minor phenomenon (48 million ha), compared to the historical conversion of temperate and boreal forests in Europe and North America (653 million ha). WRI and WCMC estimate that 54 per cent of all forests remain compared to forest cover 8000 years ago (6220 million ha ± Bryant et al. 1997: 9). Sources of divergence between estimates include definitions of both past and present forest cover: Myers' estimate (1994) of pre-agricultural tropical forest cover (1400 million ha) does not differ much from Williams (1989) who estimates 1277 million ha; surprisingly, the major difference lies in the definition and estimate of contemporary tropical forests (Williams: 1229 million ha in the early 1980s; Myers: 800 million ha by the end of the decade)! Pressures on tropical forests are not uniform across ecological zones, as can be seen from the FRA 1990 data in Table 1.2.13 Rainforests, constituting 41 per cent of all tropical forest cover, still retain a forest cover of 76 per cent and a 0.6 per cent annual deforestation rate in the 1980s that is below the tropical forest average of 0.8. per cent. Very dry lowland forests also have a low deforestation rate (0.5 per cent), but have been under considerable conversion pressure in the past: only 11 per cent remain under forest. Upland forests face a generally higher current loss (1.1 per cent per year), which is critical in particular for dry forests (only 15 per cent remaining forest cover). In terms of specific concerns for the representative conservation of different types of forest ecosystems and their related biodiversity, upland forests and dry forests should thus

16

Table 1.2 Tropical forest area and forest cover by main ecological zones Ecological zones Rainforest Moist deciduous forests Dry deciduous forests Very dry zone Total lowland formations Moist upland forests Dry upland forests Total upland formations Forests in non-forest zones (oasis and irrigated plantations) Total tropical forests Note: * less than 1 Source: Steinlin (1994: 129)

Tropical forest area 1990 (million ha)

% of total tropical forest

% of area still under forest

% annual deforestation 1981±1990

718 587 179 60 1544 178 26 204 8

41 33 10 3 88 10 2 11 *

76 46 25 11 44 34 15 29 1

0.6 0.9 0.9 0.5 0.8 1.1 1.1 1.1 0.9

1 756

100

37

0.8

Table 1.3 Area transition matrix for the tropical zone, 1980±90

Land cover classes in 1980

Closed forest Open forest Long fallow Fragmented forest Shrubs and short fallow Other land cover Plantation Total 1990

Land cover classes in 1990 (million ha) Fragmented forest

Shrubs and short fallow

Other land cover

plantation Total 1980 (agricultural (million ha) and forest)

Closed forest

Open forest

Long fallow

1275.9 0.9 1.1 0.6 0.7

9.0 283.3 0.3 0.6 0.5

9.3 1.3 48.6 0.6 0.7

9.2 5.2 1.1 159.33 0.5

24.1 3.8 3.2 1.9 273.0

36.6 10.2 2.2 11.7 26.9

3.9 0.2 n.s. 0.4 0.3

1368.0 304.9 56.5 175.1 302.6

0.8 0.1 1280.1

0.7 n.s. 294.4

0.3 0.0 60.8

1.4 0.0 176.79

4.0 n.s. 310.0

837.3 0.1 925.0

0.5 15.7 21.0

845.0 15.9 3068.0

Source: FAO (1997:19)

17

18 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

have a higher priority than the lowland rainforests, a point that is sometimes blurred in the debate about conservation issues.14 For dry forests, an important human concern is also that more people tend to live in or near them and to be dependent on their products, compared to moist forests (Westoby 1989: 147). Net deforestation figures only allow for a partial interpretation of trends; hence the area transition matrix with gross changes from 1980 to 1990 in Table 1.3 gives us the opportunity to gain additional insights into the dynamics of deforestation, which marks a first step towards its explanation. The shaded areas in the diagonal represent the land area that has not been affected by changes between 1980 and 1990; the rows are to be interpreted as `losses to' and the columns as `gains from' other land-cover categories. For example, closed forests (first row), the land type with the highest net decline, has lost 36.6 million ha to other land cover (conversion), followed by 24.1 million ha to shrubs and short fallow. Open forests also lose 10.2 million ha to conversion (2nd row), but gain 9.3 million ha from closed forests (2nd column). It is interesting to see that shrubs and short fallow mainly gain from closed forests (column 5), and practically only lose areas to other land cover (row 5). This could give rise to a sequential hypothesis, which can be tested in case studies: shrublands would tend to constitute an intermediate stage between the degradation of closed forests and their subsequent conversion to alternative uses. For instance, it may be a representative of shifting agriculture which is eliminated with intensification, due to increasing population pressure and/or commercialization trends (see Chapter 6). Although this type of input±output structure can give us a hint about possible causal structures, it is not a substitute for proper time-series analysis. However, the problem is that the rather recent international interest in deforestation, coupled with a historical lack of instruments for the analysis of changes in vegetation cover (notably, remote sensing) means that such time series are either non-existent or unreliable, at least for the developing world. One means of circumventing this problem has been the use of cross-country data for the testing of deforestation theories: the implicit assumption is that inter-country deforestation differences can be explained by a set of explanatory variables within the framework of a globally valid regression model, to such an extent that the unexplained model residuals are randomly distributed (`white noise'). Obviously, the ultimate purpose is to yield some sort of time-series interpretation, i.e. to use statistically significant cross-country correlations to say something about the likely temporal impact of, for instance, economic development, policies and demography in a given place at a

Some Basic Concepts

19

given time. In recent years, this has become an increasingly popular way of analysing deforestation hypotheses.15 The advantage of this approach is that a critical mass of data allows a general `stylized picture' to emerge where country- and site-specific factors are eliminated. Yet at the same time, model homogeneity is often seen as the biggest drawback: deforestation dynamics may differ too much between countries to be describable through a single global model. In addition, FRA national deforestation data are themselves partly model-generated, which produces circularity in causation; FAO Production Yearbook data are simply inadequate for the analysis of landuse changes (see above). An alternative is thus the use of in-country cross-section data: the assumption of a uniform deforestation model within a country is less restrictive than international comparisons where different political and historical frameworks are involved. The cross-section method has been applied mostly in larger middle-income countries like Brazil, India and Mexico, where disaggregated satellite and/or land-survey data exist.16 Finally, the criticism is often made that regression models may establish a statistical correlation, but tend to say little about the direction of causality between an explanatory variable and the forest (deforestation agents, sequences, enabling factors). In a relatively new study area where causal relationships are complex and theoretically still not fully understood, it thus seems preferable to combine a cross-country approach with comparative historical case studies in order to establish a more profound knowledge base.

Historical aspects At what point in time should we start an account of the history of deforestation? Although no exact answer can be given, we know today that the clearing of forests has been practised since the earliest history of humankind. Human occupation of forests date back 25,000±40,000 years in Southeast Asia and the Pacific, 12,000 in North America, 10,000 in the Amazon, 3000±7000 in Europe and about 3000 years in Africa. In Europe, forests colonized deglaciated lands, but were subsequently eliminated by humans. In the two largest tropical forest regions today, the Amazon and the Zaire river basins, forests regenerated from relatively restricted refugia during the last 10,000±15,000 years. (WCMC 1992: 264; Tolba and El-Kholy 1992: ch.7). Forest alterations by human action probably became a dominant feature only during the last 5±7 millennia. Of course, not only does

20 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

human action modify natural forests in the sense of degradation and deforestation, but limited intervention can also augment the forest's genetic and species diversity. Fire was the first instrument to extend pastures and impede forest regeneration, but conversion increased with the introduction of sedentary agriculture, using `slash-and-burn' clearing techniques similar to those we know from the tropics today. In Central Europe, this process gained its first momentum with early population increases (5000 BC±3000 BC), but accelerated rapidly during the eleventh to thirteenth centuries as a result of migration and frontier expansion. From the sixteenth century onwards, trade, new crops and specialization patterns added new dimensions to the models of economic growth, land demand and forest conversion (Williams 1989). The demand for wood products for energetic and construction uses exacerbated deforestation, in particular in the vicinity of larger human settlements; ship-building in the Mediterranean is the classic example of wood-led deforestation. The sixteenth century also marked the beginning of an incremental national and, subsequently, global trade integration that affected both production and deforestation processes. Expanding trade delinked the costs from the benefits of deforestation: large gains from trade accrued to beneficiaries located far from the natural resource base, who thus had limited incentives for its sustainable use (McNeely 1993). This represents what Hardin has called the `double-C-double-P game': commonized costs, privatized profits (Hardin 1993: ch.23). Not only did commodities cross international borders, but millions of European out-migrants shifted population pressures from the Old World to the colonies, introducing new production and consumption patterns that demanded the conversion of forested lands (Westoby 1989). For instance, a main tropical, land-extensive export crop from the early colonization period is sugar (relieving previous harsh deforestation pressures in the Mediterranean), later followed by cotton, coffee, cocoa and beef (see Chapter 3 for historical perspectives for Latin America). The speed of global deforestation peaked in the twentieth century, with unprecedented population growth, rapid technological change and the spread of trade-based commodity production, as an integral element in the upsurge of a global capitalist system. Without denying the cyclical role of natural deforestation factors,17 it is clear that the cumulative rise in global deforestation over time is linked to the development of agriculture, technologies, trade and population growth (although the relative weight and interrelation of these explanatory factors may be debated; see below). In spite of a long-run

Some Basic Concepts

21

accelerating deforestation trend, regional cycles have also been postulated in the literature with civilizations that rise, deforest and fall ± inter alia because of their over-exploitation and degradation of local natural resources. Ponting (1991: ch.5) refers to the historical cases of Mesopotamia, the Central American Maya and different Mediterranean cultures where he seems to find similar patterns: with the rise of dynamic civilizations, population and consumption increases and the gradual appearance of a non-food producing apparatus of state, military and/ or clerical bureaucracy places increasing pressure on local farming systems to generate higher agricultural surpluses.18 This is met by both increasingly unsustainable agricultural practices (e.g. salinization from excessive irrigation) and forest conversion for agriculture on marginal lands ever less suitable for cultivation, hence promoting soil erosion and agricultural productivity decline. Per capita food supply falls, which promotes internal and external conflict over increasingly scarce natural resources, ultimately weakening the society to such an extent that it declines permanently in welfare or cannot resist the military power of neighbouring enemies.19 McNeely (1993) adds similar examples of civilizations facing natural resource and deforestation-led cycles: Angkor Wat (Cambodia), the Aztecs (Central America) and Carthage (North Africa). He suggests three historical paths of adjustment to natural resource crisis: technological change (as in Europe), a cyclical return to sustainable practices (as in Amazonia) or permanent decline of ecosystem productivity (as in North Africa). One may add that foreign trade is also part of the successful European adjustment to natural resource pressures, shifting emerging deforestation pressures induced by higher food and other primary product demand from Europe to overseas ± as, for example, in the historical case of sugar. Obviously, competing theories coexist over the historical role of forest loss in cultural decline; in Chapter 3, the specific case of the Mayas will be debated in greater detail. The historical adjustment of different civilizations to natural-resource limitations may also depend on interaction with other cultures. Hardin (1993: ch.7) describes the wasteful frontier behaviour of `cowboy economics' for the colonization of the underpopulated United States in the nineteenth century. However, Diamond (1997) considers that degradation may be a necessary condition for technological advance and for surplus production, which can be dedicated to innovation and technological diffusion. He argues that prehistoric populations in regions of ecological barriers (such as the north±south axis of the Americas) were prevented from spreading their advances (e.g. the

22 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

domesticated Andean llama to Mexico, or the Mexican toy wheel to the Andes) whereas those from more continuous regions (the east±west axis of Eurasia) quickly spread their innovations (e.g. metallurgy, writing, domesticated plants and animals). The probability of the different adjustment scenarios depends not only on social dynamism, diffusion and flexibility, but also on local climate, soils and ecology. As Westoby points out (1989: 49), excessive deforestation in the history of England and Wales proved to be reversible because of a mild climate and a fertile soil; this compares with the permanent damage from deforestation in the contemporary case of Spain. In more general terms, both deforestation and forest degradation are more likely to have a permanent impact on soil in tropical dry forests, woodlands and savannas than in either temperate/boreal forests or tropical moist forest lands (Hamilton 1991; 1997). On aggregate, the direction, strength and reversibility of historical deforestation impacts are determined simultaneously by factors from both the social and natural sciences.

Summing up The history of human forest interventions shows an exponential increase in deforestation over time, interrelated in a complex and variable manner with the processes of rises in population and consumption and changes in trade and technology . However, one also finds regional cyclical patterns of rising civilizations, cumulative deforestation, unsustainable agricultural practices and cultural decline. A positive correlation between the economic development of societies and the loss of their natural forests can be observed, but there tend to be discontinuities ± spurts and breaks ± in deforestation. Ecological, economic and social factors all intervene in this process. For instance, the reversibility of deforestation processes toward ecosystem regeneration depends much in time and degree on the specific ecological conditions. The nature of historical development and deforestation processes can also give us some hints about the patterns of causality that will be treated in the next chapter. In the current literature, we find both a `broad' definition of deforestation (including degradation processes) and a `narrow' one (only land-use changes). In this book, the narrow definition is preferred for its greater clarity and functionality, using FAO's Forest Resources Assessment (FRA) data as the best available source. Its applicability will be further discussed for the specific country case of Ecuador (Chapter 4). In

Some Basic Concepts

23

general, there is a lack of reliable time-series data on forest loss. In statistical analyses cross-country or -section data are thus sometimes used, but the diversity of deforestation processes puts limitations on that method. Over the last two decades, tropical forests have experienced a relatively rapid decline while other forest types have shown a slight increase. The latest FRA projections indicate a recent slow-down in the rapid tropical deforestation of the 1980s, but these are mainly based on lower population growth rates. In this sense, data on both forest stocks and changes over time are much more model-driven than is frequently believed. One should hence consult the applicable primary sources before making too substantial interpretations of the data for any one country. Fragmented forests, e.g. in Central America and Southeast Asia, are apparently eliminated faster than frontier forest areas, e.g. in the Amazon and Zaire, indicating that different dynamics are at work. Lowland rainforests are globally less threatened than dry forests and upland forests, although there are important geographical differences surrounding this general trend. There may exist a typical sequence in forest transformations from closed to open forests via shrublands to converted lands, which relates to an increasing degree of agricultural intensification. In other words, even within one country the extent and type of deforestation may vary substantially over time and space. In the next chapter, the different theoretical explanations of this diversity will be described; the rest of this book deals with an application of the theoretical framework at different empirical levels. Notes 1 Sunderlin and Resosudarmo (1996: 5) make this observation for Indonesia. 2 For example the UNRISD papers by Barraclough and Ghimire (1990: 7) and Dorner and Thiesenhusen (1992: 2). 3 FAO uses different definitions for developed countries: deforestation occurs below a 20 per cent limit in tree crown cover, instead of 10 per cent for developing countries (FAO 1997: 173±4). 4 Some researchers, such as Rudel (1993: 5±6), choose to apply a functionally divided definition, according to which `tropical deforestation occurs when loggers clear more than 40 per cent of the trees from a closed, primary forest, or when small farmers convert forests into fields or pastures'. It does not appear practical to mix the question of deforestation agency with quantitative criteria, in particular because different deforestation agents may be at work simultaneously. 5 See Bryant et al. (1997) for definitions and a global asssessment of `frontier forests'. 6 See FAO (1993: ch.II-III) for a methodological overview.

24 Deforestation: Facts and Theories 7 FAO Production Yearbook data on national forest cover also include scrub growth and areas which are intended to be used for reforestation in the near future; on the other hand, estimations exclude `forest used only for recreation purposes' (FAO 1996: viii, note 6). 8 For a critique of WRI data, see Lehmann (1992: 67±9) on Costa Rica and Chapter 4 on Ecuador. Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 103) mention that for Brazil the 1990 WRI deforestation estimate was more than triple the consensus rate. 9 E.g. Rudel and Roper (1997: 54) for a general critique of FAO data; see also the Ecuador empirical part below for a discussion of data problems for one specific country. 10 Because of the lack of national surveys, it is true that most of the FAO-FRA statistics are model-generated rather than based on actual deforestation measurement. However, regional deforestation reports are also included by FAO as an input into the modelling exercise, which at least provides additional empirical underpinning. 11 This compares forest change data from FAO (1997: table 5) and FAO (1993: table 4c). Apparently, the amount of plantations in tropical LDCs was overestimated originally (earlier 2.61 mn ha; now 1.83 mn ha). Note also that forest stock estimates do not differ much: in FAO (1993: table 4c), total 1990 forest area (natural and plantations) is 1800.086 mn ha; in FAO (1997: annex 3, table 3), the figure is marginally lower (1796.927 mn ha). According to FAO (Klaus Janz, pers.comm., 24 Sept. 1997), there are differences in internal data used in FAO (1997) which do not fully allow for comparison between the tables. 12 Again, it should be noted that, in terms of total tropical forest cover, the 1990±95 yearly loss (12.59 mn ha) is practically the same as for 1980±90 (12.80 mn ha), because tropical plantations are reduced from a net increase of 1.83 mn ha (1980±90) to 0.32 mn ha (1990±95). This drastic reduction is not commented on in the corresponding text (FAO 1997: table 5). 13 Disaggregated data on ecological zones were only available from the FAO (1993) assessment data, i.e. not in the recently revised version of FAO (1997); totals and averages are thus not comparable with Tables 1.1 and 1.3. 14 The classic example here is the prime public concern over Amazon deforestation, in spite of the fact that total biodiversity is higher in the remaining fragments of Atlantic forests of South America (see Chapter 3). Of course, public concern can also take into account CO2 fixation and other climate functions, which would favour a conservation priority for the Amazon. 15 Some of the most often cited studies of the cross-country/regression-model type are Kahn and McDonald (1995), Capistrano and Kiker (1995), Shafik (1994), Palo (1994), Cropper and Griffiths (1994) and Rudel and Roper (1997); Rudel and Roper (1996) use Boolean algebra (a qualitative method) instead of regression analysis. Kaimowitz and Angelsen (1997: section 5.4.) critically review assumptions, coverage and results of 27 cross-country models. 16 See, for example, Andersen (1997), Andersen et al. (1996); Kaimowitz and Angelsen (1997: section 4.3) provide an overview of the results. 17 A prominent deforestation factor is fire. In the wet tropics, it is almost always human-caused; in dry areas, it may or may not be linked to

Some Basic Concepts

25

Ä o or other climatic human intervention (e.g. droughts caused by El Nin fluctuations). 18 The deforestation impact here is not only a question of feeding a non-food producing elite, but also the rise of competitive land-use demands (such as urbanization and roads) and the higher demand for wood products (energy uses, ship-building, construction). 19 Westoby (1989: 64±6) describes a similar pattern for Mediterranean deforestation in the period from 1200 to 1600.

2

The Wealth of Theories

This chapter provides a short overview of the main theoretical approaches to deforestation. Because of the rapidly growing number of contributions to the field, emphasis will be on what is perceived as the six cornerstones in the debate: O the role of logging companies O the fuelwood trap O poverty and forest loss O the impact of population growth O tenure and access rules, and O extra-sectoral (non-forestry) policies. Based on different authors' views on these and a number of related topics, a tentative categorization of the literature into three distinct schools of thought is offered, namely the impoverishment, neoclassical and political ecology approaches. The deforestation predictions of these schools and their variable relevance in different geographical areas are discussed.

The logging debate One of the most heated issues in the deforestation debate concerns the role of timber industries in forest loss.1 Many conservationists argue that timber companies are largely to blame for deforestation in the tropics, so that the focus should be on trade and the international demand for tropical woods, making developed countries' excessive consumption the prime villain in deforestation. Hence there is a strong political undertone to the discussion about logging and deforestation. This argument ignores the fact that only about 6 per cent of total tropical non-coniferous roundwood production enters international 26

The Wealth of Theories 27

trade (Barbier et al. 1994b: ch.2). A large and rapidly growing share is used for subsistence and industrial production within tropical countries. Even recent environmental campaign contributions totally fail to recognize this fact, thus setting out from a distorted set of assumptions (e.g. Glastra 1999: x). Yet global timber consumption is also growing rapidly as a result of population and income growth. In the transition from low- to middle-income countries, the income elasticity of demand for industrial forest products is particularly high, i.e. wood consumption rises more than proportionally with per capita incomes (FAO 1997: 6). On the other hand, some subsistence wood uses (especially energy) tend to decline in importance when societies become richer. It is expected that high-production plantations, mostly in the temperate regions, will increase global timber supplies, in part substituting declining tropical timber supplies. Contrary to what one is led to believe from popular discourses, there are no signs of a future gap between total global timber supply and demand (IBRD 1995). Of course, there is no doubt that in the long run high-value tropical timber will become increasingly scarce. At the local level of economically backward tropical regions, timber will thus continually constitute a powerful pull factor for the (non-sustainable) exploitation of natural forests. As noted in the first chapter, the evaluation of logging impacts depends heavily on how `deforestation' is defined: according to the `broad' definition, logging may directly cause deforestation (a principal example is the high-grade logging of Southeast Asian dipterocarp forests ± Myers 1994). Our adoption of the FAO `narrow' definition means that selective logging would not directly generate deforestation, but forest degradation instead (which is not the primary concern here): selective logging that removes 10 per cent of timber may in the worst case damage up to 50 per cent of the remaining stock (WCMC 1992: 266), but it will not remove more than 90 per cent of tree cover, as required by the FAO criterion. For the highly selective harvesting of precious species such as mahogany, a recent detailed case study from Bolivia shows that overall physical forest impacts have been relatively mild (Rice et al. 1997). In the Brazilian Amazon, the gradual expansion of logging and shift towards a broader exploitation of previously non-commercialized species has also meant that more trees per hectare are harvested and ecological damage to the forest has risen (VerõÂssimo and Junior 1997). However, non-selective logging operations, such as the clear-felling of mixed tropical hardwoods for chips (used in paper and board production), which removes most of the biomass from the forest, may be held

28 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

directly responsible for deforestation. Of course, this depends on what might have happened to the forest otherwise.2 In their cross-country regression model, Capistrano and Kiker (1995) confirm the positive impact of log export values on forest depletion, but they had originally defined depletion in terms of logged-over forest area ± an evident tautology in assessing forest loss.3 On the other hand, if a `narrow' definition is applied, it is difficult to blame logging for direct deforestation impacts on a global scale. Some authors categorically reject the suggestion that the tropical timber trade should be significantly linked to deforestation when compared to root causes such as agricultural conversion and firewood collection (Burgess 1993) or public policies promoting deforestation (Repetto and Gillis 1988). Steinlin (1994) suggests that deforestation impacts from logging are concentrated in Southeast Asia, where the two largest log exporters in the world (Indonesia and Malaysia) are found.4 However, based on a simulation model, Barbier et al. (1995) conclude even for the case of Indonesia (responsible for about 85 per cent of Southeast Asia's annual deforestation) that selective logging is not a prime direct cause of deforestation, but rather causes forest modification and biomass reduction (ibid.: 413). Again, this view is challenged by other authors who consider the timber industry to be a leading actor in Indonesian deforestation, using a `broad' definition of the term.5 In elucidating the controversy, a useful distinction to make is between the direct and indirect effects of logging operations. Whereas selective logging is not a direct cause of (narrowly defined) deforestation, it may have an important role in opening up virgin forest areas to encroachment. The main causal relation here is the construction of access roads for log extraction, which at the same time makes the sale of agricultural products more profitable by reducing transport costs to markets (see below). A second factor is that logged-over secondary forests tend to be physically easier to clear than primary forest, although there may be exceptions.6 Thirdly, logging firms may provide employment opportunities that constitute a subsidy for colonization, especially in the establishment phase, when little cash income is generated onfarm.7 Finally, logging operations that last a sufficient time may attract semi-urban public investments in social infrastructure (health care, schools), which may be essential for the survival of new settlements. It should be noted that indirect deforestation impacts are linked to unsustainable logging, which in the tropics is the rule rather than the exception. By the end of the 1980s, a study by the International Tropical Timber Organization (ITTO) concluded that `the extent of tropical forest

The Wealth of Theories 29

that is being deliberately managed at an operational level for the sustainable production of timber is, on a world scale, negligible'. (Poore et al. 1989). Westoby (1989: 167) risks a quantification: less than 3 per cent of tropical moist forests are claimed to be sustainably managed, providing an upper limit for the percentage that actually is sustainably managed in practice. A `cut-and-run' type operation contains no incentive to impede subsequent encroachment: there is no concern for forest regeneration or management. The same is true for other types of resource mining, such as oil production and mineral mining in forested areas,8 in the sense that unambiguous interests in short-run extraction provide encroachment access as a neglected by-product. In addition, there is a connection between logging and natural deforestation causes: logged-over natural forests facing drought are more prone to fire risk and dispersion (WCMC 1992: 273), as occurred in Southeast Asia in 1997,9 and the same is true of forest plantations. Obviously, a specific assessment of causality should always take into account the precise sequence in and motivation for forest modifications. While the selective logging of valuable species may constitute the first step towards forest intervention, some logging operations may favour the pre-existence of transport infrastructure and local labour in their choice of production areas, so that the reverse causality applies. Likewise, logging companies and potential migrants (or owners of preclaimed forested lands) may lobby jointly in a strategic alliance for the construction of a road that provides the rationale for the implementation of a sequence of logging, deforestation and land conversion.10 In this situation, the relevant counterfactual question to ask (one that is equally difficult to answer) is whether, in the absence of logging, deforestation would not have occurred at all (i.e. a `strong causality'), or, alternatively, would have occurred at a different pace and/or in a different place (say, a `weak causality'). A more precise knowledge about the nature of causality links can only be obtained through comparative case studies. In summing up, only in exceptional cases does logging cause deforestation directly. Impacts depend on the type of logging (e.g. clearfelling for chips as opposed to selective logging) and the type of forest: in tropical dry forests, logging impacts are more serious and less reversible than in moist forests (Hamilton 1991: 21). Temperature may be an additional factor affecting the long-run impact of degradation on the soil fertility of the ecosystem. Chambers (1983: 39) mentions that for temperatures over 208C, bacteria work faster than the supply of dead vegetation, reducing the amount of humus and making it difficult to

30 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

sustain long-run fertility when biomass is removed and erosion processes are accelerated. Regarding the indirect impact of `opening up' virgin forests, the geographical region matters: in Asia and especially in Africa, almost no primary forests, and about half of the logged-over forests, are cleared by settlers (Barbier et al. 1994a: 1); in Latin America, there is seldom a systematic sequence of loggers followed by spontaneous colonization (FAO 1997: 13).

The `fuelwood trap' revisited In the aftermath of the two oil crises, a significant interest arose in the 1970s and throughout the 1980s regarding what was perceived to be the `poor man's energy crisis': the decline of forests in developing countries because of a growing gap between available tree biomass and its removal for people's energy needs. This was also one of the motivations for the renewed interest in community forestry, emphasizing important tree benefits to local people.11 The FAO estimates that today, global production of non-coniferous firewood is at 1536 million m3 and charcoal production at 138 million m3 (FAOSTAT data base 1997, 1995 figures). Whereas around 80 per cent of wood is used for industrial and 20 per cent for energy purposes in developed countries, in developing countries the figures are reversed: four-fifths is consumed as firewood and charcoal. Between 30 per cent and 40 per cent of the world's population rely on firewood for cooking, and, especially in African countries (e.g. Ethiopia and Mozambique), household energy consumption outside larger cities depends almost exclusively on wood sources. With the further impetus from rising oil prices in the 1970s, firewood consumption in developing countries increased in the period from 1977 to 1988 by almost 30 per cent (Tolba and El-Kholy 1992: 165/6). The `fuelwood gap theory' suggests that population growth and unsustainable wood uses cause an ever-increasing imbalance between firewood demand and supply, which then triggers deforestation ± a view which in the 1980s was also adopted by the World Bank (see Anderson and Fishwick 1984; Anderson 1987). A similar approach is taken in the construction of the `fuelwood trap' (Munslow 1988). Figure 2.1 is an attempt to explain in simplified terms the logic of the trap. It is in the form of a `vicious circle' affecting the peasant's farming system, initiated by exogenous impacts, for instance demographic changes or conversion of forests by external agents, causing initial forest loss.

The Wealth of Theories 31

Cross-sectoral impacts (exogenous)

Deforestation (=‘decline in woody biomass’)

Loss of other forest uses: · food · medicine · construction

Reduced firewood consumption

Longer firewood collection time

Decline in nutrition

Labour opportunity costs

Declining welfare Increased poverty

Figure 2.1 The fuelwood trap and peasant immiseration

Deforestation, defined in this framework `broadly' as a decline in woody biomass, has three types of impact. First, traditional non-energy forest extraction (e.g. of fruits, game, medicinal plants, fodder, construction poles) is reduced. In terms of firewood there is, secondly, a reduction in quantities collected (implying less cooking options and thus a nutritional decline) and, thirdly, a higher collection time from the more distant sources (triggering a labour time cost, which is often borne by women). The combined impact on households is reduced welfare, which is modified by other direct, cross-sectoral impacts. Yet if the net outcome is increased poverty, this would create additional pressures to cash in or consume forest capital by deforestation (see next section), thus closing the `fuelwood-trap' cycle. Programmes to break the circle thus highlight interventions that restrict firewood demand (e.g. improved cooking stoves) and/or augment supply (plantations, natural forest management), combined with general efforts towards poverty alleviation. Critics of the model claim that it is too deterministic, in the sense that it underestimates the flexibility of farming systems to respond to

32 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

external shocks, e.g. in terms of own tree-planting, labour-time and fuel substitution. It also fails to address explicitly the question of competing land uses. Its geographical relevance would thus be restricted to areas of extreme biomass shortages and high population densities, as perhaps in certain parts of the Andes, the Himalayas and the Sahel. There may also be a different logic to firewood production (primarily for subsistence), compared to charcoal (mostly for urban sale). Finally, `loss of woody biomass' may cause degradation rather than outright deforestation. One line of studies combines the `fuelwood trap' with assumptions about tenure and access to resources: open access to state-owned forests or to poorly managed forest commons tend to enable the over-harvesting of firewood, supposedly often leading to deforestation. This, for example, is the approach adopted by the Brokensha et al. (1983) study on Kenya, although other authors find different results for the same country.12 Pure economic models for charcoal production in Tanzania (Hofstad 1997) and firewood in Nepal (Amacher et al. 1993) and India (Heltberg et al. 1997) conclude that open access and excessive harvesting can cause deforestation, over and above what would have been the result of agricultural clearing: increasing wood scarcity over time increases transport costs and urban prices, which promotes both exploitation in more remote areas and substitution by alternative fuels.13 In fact, most empirical case studies take a modified view of the relation between firewood and forest loss. Eckholm et al. (1984) conclude in their overview that agricultural land conversion is the most powerful cause of deforestation, although firewood collection can be a direct cause of deforestation in stages of extreme wood scarcity or when it is led by urban demand rather than subsistence needs. The findings of Leach and Mearns (1988) in Africa confirm a `rural squeeze' around firewood, poverty and resource degradation, but not a direct deforestation impact. A Nicaragua study by van Buren (1990) shows that large landowners allow peasants' firewood cutting to ease large-scale land conversion, making it a by-product rather than an independent deforestation source. In Nepal, a classic scene for the firewood-cum-deforestation debate, the pioneer work of Eckholm (1976) envisaged a panorama of increasing Himalayan deforestation, soil erosion and environmental degradation, led by population growth, agricultural expansion and firewood demand.14 This is challenged inter alia by Bajracharya (1983), who considers firewood to be highly exaggerated as a cause of deforestation. Instead, he draws attention to the nexus of population growth, migration and areal expansion, and productivity declines in agriculture. In

The Wealth of Theories 33

their recent overview of the literature, Soussan et al. (1995) emphasize the differential forest-use patterns in the Himalayas and in the Terai lowlands: in the latter, the good agricultural soil potentials have meant increasing demographic and deforestation pressures; in the mountains, population is now more stable, forest conversion options have basically been exhausted, and little deforestation occurs. Firewood demand can lead to forest degradation, but only in the case of the significant (though illegal) supplies for Katmandu does it lead to deforestation. Box 2.1 Scale determinants of firewood consumption Factors favouring wood extraction O penetrating road network O close or large urban area of poor population O poor, dense rural population O industrial or cottage-industry wood uses O low energy efficiency O open-access forests and inefficient policies and control measures

Factors disfavouring wood extraction O poor or distant roads O small or relatively wealthy urban population O better-off, low-density rural population O subsidized fossil fuels O energy-efficient technologies O effective tenure regimes and implemented government policies penalize overexploitation

Box 2.1 is a gross list of common underlying elements in `high' versus `low' firewood-consumption scenarios, focusing on geophysical, demographic, socioeconomic and policy variables; most of these will be taken up in the rest of this chapter. In terms of impacts, for firewood collection to cause narrowly defined deforestation, an almost complete removal of forest cover has to occur. Just as for logging, the deforestation impact depends on the type of forest and the mode of intervention. In particular, charcoal supplies to urban centres may provide sufficient economic incentives for deforestation, although the process may be intertwined with agricultural conversion. In dry forests, woodlands and savanna, repeated fuelwood harvesting may actually lead to the disappearance of forest cover because of water competition and slower plant regrowth; in tropical moist forest, this would only occur if the

34 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

harvesting method contained a deliberate plan for forest conversion (Hamilton 1997). On the whole, it is likely that only in exceptional cases of indiscriminate harvesting for high urban demand in fragile forest environments will firewood be an independent cause of outright deforestation.

Impoverishment and agricultural frontier expansion As described in the previous section, one school of thought explains smallholders' deforestation through the `vicious circles' of auto-reinforcing poverty and limited natural resources-related choices. This is the tradition of an interlocking, circular causation explaining cumulative under-development and impoverishment, including immiserization-led deforestation (Figure 2.1.), that goes back to Myrdal (1957). It is also adopted in the Brundtland report: `Those who are poor and hungry will often destroy their immediate environment in order to survive: they will cut down forests; their livestock will overgraze lands; they will overuse marginal lands; and in growing numbers they will crowd into the cities' (Brundtland 1987: 28). The alleged mechanics between poverty and deforestation is vividly illustrated by the words of Eckholm et al. (1984: 6): `The poor are not ignorant of the processes of deforestation or blind to its effect. They cut because they must.' Nevertheless, I would argue that poverty as a static (or cyclically regenerating) condition is in itself insufficient to explain the dynamic process of deforestation. Indeed, as pointed out by, for example, Barraclough and Ghimire (1990: 15), BaleÂe (1992) and Sponsel (1992), many traditional forest-dwelling people have apparently lived in harmony with their forests for millennia, although by modern material living standards they must be regarded as extremely poor. Poverty is, at best, an enabling condition that, combined with one or several change factors such as population growth, export-crop expansion or decline in productivity or the agricultural terms of trade, can `set off' the supposed vicious circle. A rise in poverty is a potential push factor in smallholders' deforestation, including labour expulsion to the agricultural frontier. Theory suggests that the poor may be forced to adopt higher temporal discount rates (more myopic resource attitudes) because of risk aversion, lacking access to capital and shorter production horizons, which run counter to conservation options (Lumley 1997). Within the subsistence-led rural economy, a fall in agricultural productivity (or in output prices) will cause peasants to increase production and deforestation, because they

The Wealth of Theories 35

need to generate a fixed value to survive and have no alternative income sources to switch to. This is sometimes called the `full-belly' economy, or `target-revenue' behaviour,15 which runs directly counter to neoclassical assumptions. Poverty is often also combined with inequality in the explanation of environmental degradation: `environmental destruction associated with the production system of smallholding farmers is a consequence of their impoverishment, either absolute or relative to other social classes' (Painter 1995a: 8). This view claims that the dualism between an expanding capitalist system of accumulation and land concentration, and a subsistence system that is increasingly marginalized creates interrelated vicious circles that simultaneously produce environmental degradation (Durham 1995: 253) or deforestation (Paulson 1995: 156±9; Zimmerer 1993). Many scholars have adapted the impoverishment vision, for instance in regard to the cases mentioned above of firewood over-harvesting16 or logging plus subsequent land clearing.17 The expansion of subsistence farming, inevitably linked to population growth, is a channel of deforestation pressures which other authors see as pivotal.18 This includes the gradual change from rotational to sedentary agriculture, or from `shifting' to `shifted' cultivators. The latter do not permit sufficient fallow periods for secondary forest regrowth,19 a change which is also related to population and other land pressures. As a rule of thumb, Myers (1980, cited in WCMC 1992: 265) suggests a population density of five inhabitants per square kilometre of tropical moist forest as the upper limit for a sustainable shifting cultivation system. Other researchers argue that the expansion of trade and landextensive export crops is a more powerful explanation for deforestation than the demand for new land by a growing lumpenproletariat.20 This would mean that causal attention is shifted in developing countries from a Malthusian perspective towards a crowding out led by international trade, multinationals and excessive Northern consumption: while . . . the environmental destruction associated with [smallholders'] production systems has received the most attention, much more land has been degraded by the activities of wealthy individual and corporate interests. (Painter 1995a: 8) A prime candidate here is cattle-ranching, with particular deforestation impacts in both South and Central America; the latter contains the extensive `hamburger connection' debate (see Chapter 3).

36 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

A strong theoretical point of criticism vis-aÁ-vis the impoverishment theorists is their indiscriminate use of the term `poverty': a main conceptual question is whether all types of poverty necessarily lead to environmental degradation. Reardon and Vosti (1995) make the important point that poverty in an environmental framework should be defined in functional instead of welfare terms, i.e. focusing on agents' resource endowment and asset constraints. A poor set of choices, e.g. the lack of means for minimum investments in land improvements, may induce the adaption of land-extensive methods that `mine' natural resources. However, in other cases, access to credit may enable landdegrading activities, for instance the purchase of chainsaws and cattle. Conversely, certain types of poor (say, informal vendors in third-world cities) may have no direct bearing on forests. The correlation between poverty and deforestation can thus be either positive, negative or zero. In Reardon and Vosti's framework, `welfare poverty' is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition for environmental degradation; all depends on the constraints that poverty puts on human interaction with the natural resource base. Several empirical investigations also cast serious doubt on the general relevance of immiserization-led deforestation. At the macroeconomic level, in a comparative study of Thailand, Ivory Coast and Mexico, Reed (1992: 154±7) found there to be an extremely complex relationship between poverty and deforestation, including the reverse case of massive deforestation alleviating poverty for the rural landless (Thailand). Micro studies of frontier settlers and their economic background and motives show an equally diverse picture. Sunderlin and RodrõÂguez (1996: 13) found that almost 90 per cent of immigrant farmers in Olancho, Honduras, were improving their living standards, compared to their place of origin. Jones (1990) shows that Central American frontier farmers are accepting high risks in return for economic opportunity, often building up a working capital through the reiterated occupation, improvement and sale of frontier land. Rudel (1993) also concludes that poverty does not tend to be a decisive motive for high-risk frontier deforestation, which is rather led by pull factors. A basic reason is the significant outlays that colonists need while establishing new farms which are unproductive in the short run: Under these conditions, only colonists with financial reserves will venture unassisted into a frontier region. Because the immiserization model does not fully acknowledge the difficult circumstances facing colonists in rain-forest regions, it does not seem plausible. People

The Wealth of Theories 37

who have just lost their land or who have grown up without land do not have the resources to undertake trailblazing. (Rudel 1993: 24) Consequently, the general relationship between impoverishment and deforestation is complex, with impacts that go both ways and are best analysed from a functional, asset-oriented perspective, i.e. an explicit account of poverty-created constraints on different agents' production strategies and resource management decisions.

More people, less forest? Without any doubt, the most controversial issue in the deforestation debate is the question of population growth and associated demographic change. On the one hand, the neo-Malthusian perspective envisages a planet with finite resources and dwindling natural habitats, infringed by an ever-increasing number of humans, a world view that was reinforced in the 1970s UN Environment Conference in Stockholm and the Club of Rome's `Limits to Growth' (Sayer 1995: 5). At the other end of the spectrum, neo-Boserupian technology optimists reject population-led deforestation, arguing that social relations determine entirely how an increasing population copes with its natural resource base. Three different sub-questions can be distinguished: Is population growth correlated with forest area loss? If so, is there a direct causal link between the two? And, if so, is it an inevitable link? Relatively few observers would dispute the question of correlation. Taking a historical, global view, the acceleration of deforestation coincides largely with the long-term transition to exponential population growth. Westoby (1989: vii) notes that `usually where there are a lot of people, there are few forests; and where there are many forests, there are few people'; however, he rejects a straightforward causal relation between the two. Bedoya (1991a: 34) recognizes that, comparing the Amazon countries, the ones with the highest population density have also been deforested the most. Sunderlin and Resosudarmo (1996: 9±10) confirm the same relationship for Indonesian province-level cross-sectional data. Similarly, Collins and Painter (1986: 2) observe for Central America the obvious correlation between a very high population growth rate in recent decades and accelerating deforestation. Labour-absorption optimists suggest that higher population densities make it possible to adopt labour-intensive methods of land-improvement and environmental protection, thus escaping a Malthusian `carryingcapacity' dilemma (Blaikie and Brookfield 1987). Conversely, Bedoya

38 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

(1991a) finds for the Peruvian Amazon that labour scarcity caused by men's seasonal migration to the coca fields induces women to adopt methods of environmental degradation. The logic behind these arguments is the double role of human beings as consumers and producers or, in Mao Zedong's words, `with each mouth, there comes a pair of hands'. This is also reflected in the extremely optimistic view of Boserup (1965) that not only has agriculture a high labour-absorption capacity, but that the transition from low to high population density may be a necessary condition for technological change. With agricultural intensification, it is hence not only possible to produce, but also to protect more: in the transition between rural development stages, `more labour power can be a condition for a more sustainable agriculture' (Chambers 1994: 3). Chambers sets out a four-stage population model for sustainability: the low-density stage is sustainable, the medium-density stage is environmentally degrading, the high-density stage reaches a new sustainability equilibrium, whereas the fourth stage of over-population (`immiserization and out-migration') exceeds the biological absorption limits (ibid. 5). In terms of empirical case studies, this means that scenarios have been identified of `more people, less erosion' (Tiffen et al. 1994 on Kenya), and even of `more people, more trees' (Kollmair 1996 on Nepal). It is not possible to enter here into a detailed discussion of the Boserup hypothesis and the related theory of Chambers about stage-led agricultural sustainability. However, in interpreting results, there is often a conceptual confusion between `environmental degradation' and `deforestation': environmental protection might well rise with population density, as may tree-planting on farmland, but the area under forest (particularly, under natural forest) tends to decline. In other words, a systematic case of `more people, more forest' still has to be identified by deforestation researchers. There is much more consensus on the simple quantitative correlation between population and deforestation than on the causal links between them. Among conservationists, it has become fashionable to claim that `the most significant links between population and environment are those of consumption and pollution by people in the rich countries' (WWF and IUCN 1996: 15). Although no generalized relation is recognized, it is acknowledged that `population growth . . . may contribute to forest destruction, but not always' (Barraclough and Ghimire 1990: 15). On the other hand, both Steinlin (1994) and Ponting (1991) see population and consumption growth as approximately equal in global deforestation importance. Finally, in certain case studies

The Wealth of Theories 39

population growth is identified as the dominating driving force of impoverishment and forest loss.21 The pessimistic `immiserization' view of population absorption goes back at least to Myrdal and his `Asian drama', which states that technological change in South Asia is obstructed by institutional deadlock and that high population growth impedes economic growth ± i.e. the opposite of the Boserup scenario (Myrdal 1968: 1463). Rudel (1993) points out that (steady) population growth and impoverishment cannot fully explain the discontinuities in deforestation over time, i.e. the existence of major `spurts' of encroachment on to large frontier forest tracts. Conversely, forest loss is better explained by (lagged) population growth in countries dominated by fragmented forests (Rudel and Roper 1996; 1997). Rowe et al. (1992: 39/40) suggest that population growth is only significant in countries with already elevated densities. These hypotheses would all imply that the deforestation role of population growth differed over development stages, a notion that a priori indeed has much appeal. What is the precise causality between population and deforestation? An attempt to formalize a functional relation of human environmental impacts is the IPAT equation of Ehrlich and Ehrlich (1990): Impact ˆ Population  Affluence  Technology <ˆˆ> I ˆ PAT where I is an environmental stress variable, P is the number of people, A represents per capita resource consumption and T is an index of the environmental disruptiveness of production technologies, measured per unit of output. In other words, one supposes there to be a multiplicative impact of population, consumption and technology on the environment, including forests.22 Whereas the equation is normally accepted as a statistical identity, it has been severely criticized by anthropologists as a reductionist misrepresentation of socio-environmental processes (Durham 1995: 250±2). Notwithstanding the difficulties in quantifying such a relation, it still conceptualizes basic human impacts on the environment. Another economic angle would be to look at the probable partial impacts of population growth on the markets for factors of production (land, labour, capital) and output goods: 1 labour provision: higher labour supply causes lower real wages and lower forest conversion costs 2 demand for agricultural goods: higher foodstuff demand raises prices and production incentives

40 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

3

rural land markets: higher agricultural-soil demand raises prices and conversion incentives. Of course, these partial population-growth impacts imply a ceteris paribus assumption that may not hold: there can be derived effects on technologies, institutions and trade patterns, some of which have a stabilizing effect. However, it is noteworthy that, other things being equal, all three partial impacts are likely to work towards higher deforestation rates.23 An important differentiation concerns the aggregation level: the steadily rising mobility of goods (trade) and labour (migration) means that a population increase in one place can cause a deforestation impact somewhere else, e.g. because food is imported from elsewhere (a different region or country). In fact, empirically one can confirm the expected closer population±deforestation relation for higher aggregation levels (Palo 1994: 48±9). In conclusion, there is ample evidence of a correlation between population growth and deforestation rates (alternatively, population density and low forest cover), especially in rural areas. Because migration and trade tend to shift the impacts of population and consumption on deforestation across regions, correlation is likely to be closer at higher aggregation levels. It may also vary with different development stages, population density levels, and remaining forest cover. In any case, the causal relationship is likely to be complex and closely intertwined with other social variables. This also means that the link is neither linear nor deterministic but depends on labour absorption, technological change and consumption patterns. On the other hand, returning to the question posed in this section's title, at a certain aggregation level and over a certain time horizon, one would indeed expect the presence of more people to coincide with less forest.

Land tenure and access rules How does the type of access to land, to forest-product extraction and to forest conversion for agriculture relate to patterns of deforestation? Economists often accuse `open-access' regimes of the lion's share of the responsibility for deforestation: inadequate tenure arrangements can lead to market failures and provide incentives for forest over-exploitation and frontier-land degradation (Southgate 1990). Tenure insecurity promotes forest mining, discouraging long-term sustainable timber management (Burgess and Barbier 1998). Yet, if one defines tenure more broadly as `a bundle of rights' (Dorner and Thiesenhusen 1992: 1) and property rights as `a claim to a benefit' (Singh 1994: 3), there is a great variety of

The Wealth of Theories 41

dimensions and social arrangements to consider. In Africa, for instance, five categories of land rights can be distinguished: to own or inherit, to plant, to dispose of, to use and to exclude (Leach and Mearns 1988: 84±94). Also, open access may not cause deforestation independently, but rather motivate clearing whenever this gives the squatter future rights to an expected rise in land rents (Angelsen 1996: 13±14). In the case of migrants' forest colonization, tenure aspects regarding the `sending area' may influence the migration process (these will not be treated here),24 but in the receiving area, forest-clearing may be a precondition for the de facto establishment and post facto legalization of land rights. As colonization involves the privatization of state forest land, tree removal is a means of `homesteading' in Asia and especially in Latin America, where land rights may be a reward for deforestation (Mahar 1989); paradoxically, tree-planting can be a customary way of establishing land tenure in Africa (Leach and Mearns 1988: 84; Dorner and Thiesenhusen 1992: 3). Perhaps a common point here is the modification of the natural ecosystem: in Kalimantan, Indonesia, planting rubber trees is reported by Sunderlin and Resosudarmo (1996: 7) to be the most efficient means of establishing tenure. The prolonged tenure insecurity that abounds in many developing countries gives an incentive for the accelerated `mining' of forest products on occupied lands, and a disincentive to sustainable use and land improvements. Access to trees and wood resources may not fully coincide with land tenure, particularly when wood is abundant: large landowners often give access to peasants to graze animals and collect firewood and other non-timber products. Access to timber is more likely to be sold. For the labour-intensive, hard process of clearing land, landlords may also lease forested land for some years to peasants or landless labourers, occasionally even to circumvent the legal prohibition on clearing forest. For instance, in eastern Thailand landlords leased forest land to squatters with the intention of illegally clearing land for sugar-cane expansion (the pa boi system), buying them off in case of conviction (Scholz, in Dorner and Thiesenhusen 1992: 21). Whenever high risks or large capital outlays for forest conversion are involved, sharecropping arrangements may be popular. Changing tenure arrangements and access rules may thus occur over the deforestation cycle, governed by differential benefit types, degrees of resource scarcity and colonization actors: land trade may concentrate ownership over time.25 It is noteworthy that shifting cultivators ± in many cases forest-dwelling ethnic groups ± have traditionally been precluded from legalized forest tenure by an intentional state strategy towards forest colonization.

42 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

This produces frequent clashes with immigrant farmers who tend to be in a better position to secure land titles. The much less benign forest attitudes of squatters are well documented and may be rooted in inadequate technologies, lack of cultural ties to the forest and a market-oriented rather than subsistence-led production model.26 However, indigenous populations sometimes gradually adjust to a squatter production model because encroachment jeopardizes their land-extensive shifting cultivation strategies (Bedoya 1991a: 16), or else they opt to legalize their own land claims through deforestation (Rudel 1993). Government tenure and colonization policies thus tend deliberately to favour deforesting activities over sustainable forest uses. About 80 per cent of all tropical forests are state property (Rowe et al. 1992: 37). This is generally the tenure form that is most severely exposed to degradation and, if the land can be claimed for private property, to deforestation, sometimes regardless of any formal protection status it may have.27 State enforcement of forest tenure and access rules tend to be less efficient and more costly (Leach and Mearns 1988: 92 on Africa), and nationalization can be disastrous for local management incentives (Bajracharya 1983 on Nepal). Of course, this is part of a much larger discussion about the management efficiency of common pool resources (CPR).28 The catalytical question is whether Hardin's classic `tragedy of the commons' (1968) comes to apply generally to both state and communal forest management types. Views on CPR efficiency are as diverse as existing tenure regimes. Communal tenure and sanction is seen by some as `the ideal mechanism for the ``enforcement'' . . . of rights within fairly small and defined communities' (Leach and Mearns 1988: 93), especially for the conservation of forests fulfilling ecological functions (water and soil protection) benefiting the community (Kervin 1982). Richards (1997) finds mixed evidence for forest CPR management in Latin America, depending on the types of pressure and institutions involved; favourable state policies are a precondition for successful community-based forest management. On the pessimistic side, Singh's ample review (1994) mostly reconfirms Hardin's view, pointing to frequent inequalities in CPR access and widespread over-exploitation and degradation. Brokensha et al. (1983: 7) for Kenya and Hyde and Seve (1991) for Malawi argue that forest privatization avoided firewood over-harvesting and promoted afforestation. From a neoclassical point of view, relative forest-product scarcity will decide whether the efficiency benefits of private over communal property rights exceed the costs of establishing and enforcing private tenure (Hyde et al. 1996: 228±9).

The Wealth of Theories 43

Various ongoing research efforts are trying to determine what factors influence the emergence and relative efficiency of different institutions for forest management. For instance, as summarized by Ostrom (1999), the success of self-organized, local management institutions is ceteris paribus more likely to succeed O when the size of forests is not too large (easing monitoring) O when the state of forest resources is intermediate (not too scarce and/or deteriorated to be neglected; not too abundant to be left to open access) O when resource information is available and the flow of forest benefits is significant and predictable O when users have a common understanding and trust each other O when they have a high degree of autonomy and prior organisational experience, and O when their inter-temporal discount rates are low (non-myopic preferences). Consequently, the evaluation of CPR versus private tenure efficiency not only varies with country studied, but also with forest benefit criteria (e.g. wood v. services), scale (local v. regional/national) and forest type (natural v. planted). Beyond these sources of variation, CPRs differ individually in institutional efficiency, for instance depending on community leader(s) and on how well-defined property rights are.29 In any case, tenure and access arrangements are likely to be dynamic; they may change vis-aÁ-vis growing scarcities of forest products over time. The evidence is too diverse for inclusive generalizations, but the observed gradual reduction of state responsibilities in tropical forest management, and incipient changes in colonization and in tenurial policies that reduce `open access', allow for a slightly more optimistic outlook on the forest tenure framework in developing countries.

Policy factors Distorted incentives serving vested `resource mining' interests are another candidate for explaining deforestation, featuring policy-led but irrational land-use change: `Rather than correcting the failure of the market, government intervention has often aggravated the existing incentives for excessive forest exploitation' (Rowe et al. 1992: 37). Without denying the general deforestation relevance of forestry sector policies (for instance, regarding timber extraction, reforestation protected area management), the following brief resume concentrates on extrasectoral policies that tend to have the most significant impacts on

44 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

forests: public road-building, settlement schemes, credit and fiscal incentives, and macroeconomic effects. `It should come as no surprise that resource destruction follows road access as surely as night follows day' (Bromley, cited in Dorner and Thiesenhusen 1992: 3). In modifying this provocative statement, one can say that road construction almost always facilitates tropical deforestation (whether resource-destructive or not). Overwhelming empirical evidence outlines roads as the single most important frontier expansion factor; they crucially reduce transport costs, raise land prices and make feasible the extraction of forest, cattle and agricultural products in a fringe around the road (Schneider 1995). Feeder and penetration roads can be built directly to promote settlement and product trade, but are often established for other purposes (such as logging and mining), producing roadside deforestation as a side effect.30 Deforestation may occur already in the planning stage, where settlers or rent-seeking speculators make land claims that anticipate road construction, trade options and higher land prices (PichoÂn 1997: 71; Wunder 1995). This is definitely the most likely outcome once roads have been completed (e.g. Jones 1990; Kaimowitz 1996; Rudel and Roper 1997); conversely, road abandonment or blocking may jeopardize entire frontier settlements (Shoemaker 1981; Rudel 1993: 17). Road construction may also be part of a government-planned settlement strategy (Collins and Painter 1986: 19±21). Once settlement is established, improving existing roads instead of extending road networks can stimulate trade and local incomes at a lower rate of deforestation (Andersen et al. 1996: 100). The best documented cases of directed settlement are in Central America, Brazil31 and Indonesia, although many other countries have similar experiences.32 Dorner and Thiesenhusen (1992: 20) note, on the basis of the Nepal example, that colonization programmes in many countries have played the role of a social `escape valve', in order to `assuage social discontent among the poor' (Reid:1992: 144), hence circumventing land-reform needs in countries with very unequal land distribution.33 Geopolitics can also stimulate settlement programmes in sparsely populated regions. Nevertheless, they are also a response to population growth and development options in countries with an unequally distributed population. The classic case is Indonesia's official transmigration programme from Java and Bali to the outer islands, although spontaneous migration in the same direction might by now be equal in size.34 A more subtle, although potentially powerful frontier expansion incentive is linked to credit schemes and fiscal tools (such as subsidies

The Wealth of Theories 45

and tax exemptions). This factor has especially been discussed for the Brazilian Amazon. A number of authors in the 1980s pointed to the negative real returns to deforestation of cattle-ranching, a land use supposedly made financially profitable only by fiscal incentives promoting rent-seeking and land-speculation.35 This view has been vigorously contested in the recent literature, the argument being that Amazon cattle-ranching is now widely profitable in its own right, independent of subsidies.36 This conclusion is shared by Kaimowitz (1996) for the corresponding cattle subsidies±deforestation debate in Central America.37 Sometimes, the argument is made that general agricultural incentives in tropical countries are decisive as a bias for deforestation (Rowe et al. 1992: 37±9). This is hardly a fair critique, given the overall low public spending in frontier areas (rather indicating state absence), not to speak of national import-substitution policies that historically have discriminated heavily against agriculture. In terms of social optimality considerations, agricultural incentives may be justified by positive income and development impacts, i.e. their economic success might sometimes outweigh the public's deforestation concerns (Andersen et al. 1996: 104; Jones 1990: 120). Macroeconomic policies are not aimed at agricultural frontier expansion, but many observers believe that their indirect impacts on forests may be significant ± although also contradictory, complex and hard to document. A basic hypothesis is that `[p]oor economic performance, combined with high external debts, pushes countries to exploit forest resources quickly for short-term gains' (Rowe et al. 1992: 40). In broader terms, economic crisis drives marginalized people towards the frontier and forces countries to promote foreign exchange-generating primary export sectors, some of which are land-using (agriculture) or tree-consuming (timber), e.g. through currency devaluation and trade liberalization. This argument is applied both to the causes of the crisis (foreign debt)38 and to the remedies for it (structural adjustment policies).39 Analyses include case studies, macroeconomic models and crosscountry regression models. In each case, the evidence is rather mixed: economic austerity can accelerate deforestation, but in certain fields it can also reduce it, for instance because ambitious development projects like roads and dams tend to lack funding (Young 1995: 19), because fiscal discipline helps to avoid future balance-of-payment problems and devaluations (Wiebelt 1995), or because timber concessions are made for longer periods and stumpage prices are increased, which discourages destructive forest use (Young and Bishop 1995: 11±12). There are huge country variations in macroeconomic impacts

46 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

on deforestation; this strongly suggests a case-by-case approach (see Chapter 5 on Ecuador). On the whole, government policies aimed at agricultural frontier expansion normally result from social, productive and geopolitical motives. They may be important enabling factors in deforestation, especially in terms of `open access' rules, tenure establishment and infrastructural investments. Policies might be less important for on-farm deforestation and fragment elimination than for the opening of frontier forests. They may also play a particular role in early stages of colonization, whereas deforestation tends to develop an autonomous economic logic later on. This is much in line with Moran's hypothesis that colonization is a stepwise learning-by-doing process of adjustment, the profitability of which should not be judged exclusively by its early stages (Moran 1989). Consequently, there may also be true trade-offs between socioeconomic gains from deforestation and ecological±cultural costs. Even so, governments can chose between intensification strategies (improving existing access, lands and yields) and further extensification (frontier expansion), e.g. in terms of improving existing roads rather than building new ones. Macroeconomic changes and policies can be significant forest determinants, but their impact can differ widely between countries. Although recent research does not give government policies the same decisive deforestation role as in the 1980s debate, there are many options for revising policies causing excessive forest loss.

Towards different schools of deforestation Attempts to systematize deforestation theories often distinguish between `direct' and `underlying' explanatory factors, i.e. what is the immediate purpose of clearing forest, and what are the factors driving this purpose? This hierarchical distinction can sometimes be difficult to maintain in applied analyses: for example, is a government settlement project for frontier expansion a direct or an underlying cause? That is, is this an independent motive, or is it led by the wish to control territories, increase agricultural production and diminish social pressures, which again is led by growing population growth, unequal land distribution, and unequal exchange in foreign trade? The distinction can generally tempt the analyst (as well as the conservationist lobbyist) to blame deforestation on remote factors (macroeconomics, trade, population growth), without having to establish their exact link with the immediate ones (subsistence agriculture, export crops, wood extraction).

The Wealth of Theories 47

As is frequently observed in social sciences, processes are complex and difficult to discern, making it impossible to assign precise paired links. This is especially true if one looks at high aggregation levels and longer time periods. For instance, in a historical process, trade-led agricultural booms can be the rationale for opening up forests on new agricultural frontiers, but trade-induced wealth can later create the basis for sustained population growth (which turns out to be an autonomous driving force behind the elimination of remaining forest fragments) and may provide the funding for road construction (which opens up new frontier forest areas). For a lower-level case-study analysis, an additional distinction between `weak' and `strong' causality is proposed, i.e. between factors that are sine qua non conditions for a specific deforestation process to happen at a given time and elements that indirectly enable and shape the process in timing, place and extent. For instance, poverty is in most cases likely to be an enabling condition, not a direct cause of forest loss, because it must always work in conjunction with other dynamic factors, and its forest-loss impacts can go both ways, depending on the specific setting. Similarly, it was argued above that open-access tenure regimes can cause frontier deforestation as part of a process of land-rent appropriation, but they do not cause forest loss on their own. Six key issues in the deforestation debate have been highlighted in this chapter: logging, firewood cutting, agriculture and population growth, poverty, tenure and access rules, and government policies. The first two sections reviewed causes inside the forestry sector. For narrowly defined deforestation, it seems clear that logging and firewood-cutting are only exceptionally direct causes; clearing for alternative land uses is a much more widespread cause. Logging may have an important indirect role, though, in opening up forest areas in certain regions. This picture would indicate that deforestation should generally be viewed as a land use-determined investment with an expected future benefit to multiple recipients, rather than an isolated, once-and-for-all harvesting of timber rents. With the weak evidence for logging as a globally decisive factor in deforestation and the predominant role of extra-sectoral factors, one might be surprised that logging still receives the bulk of policy attention. In a recent paper `Combating Deforestation', prepared by the World Resources Institute for the Rio‡5 group, the vast majority of policy recommendations concerned the timber exploitation and management framework (WRI 1997). Similarly, in their joint forest policy paper, WWF and IUCN conclude that `commercial timber harvesting is now the

48 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

greatest single threat to the forests richest in wild plants and animals' (WWF and IUCN 1996: 10), indicating that the detrimental role of logging is even increasing. Perhaps an explanation is to be found in the political sphere, as expressed by Jeffrey Sayer, the Director General of the Centre for International Forestry Research (CIFOR), in an interview on the conservationist movement's attitude towards the tropical timber trade: I think that its negative effect has been greatly exaggerated by lobbying groups who saw it as a convenient stalking horse . . . . The major problem has always been agriculture expansion and it was just politically easier to target logging when one was campaigning for tropical forests ± you couldn't target poor farmers. (Sayer 1993: 9) Some of the main similarities in assumptions, causes and line of reasoning used to explain deforestation turn out to be interrelated. For simplicity's sake, they can be grouped under the following three approaches or `schools of thought' regarding deforestation (summarized in Table 2.1).40 In the `impoverishment approach', smallholders are the principal agents of deforestation. Their clearing activity is often linked to population growth, in a gradual push process of rural labour surplus and Malthusian pressures (lack of technological progress, low labour-absorption, finite resources), resulting in immiserization, land degradation and deterministic labour expulsion to the agricultural frontier. The process can be exacerbated by external shocks, such as competing land demands from the state or from urban entrepreneurs, which endanger traditional balances in peoples' multiple forest use. This can set off Myrdal-type vicious circles, like the `fuelwood trap', i.e. self-perpetuating, deterministic patterns of impoverishment, deforestation and resource degradation, because of the limited options available to smallholders to secure their survival: `People do not move into forests from choice, but from lack of it' (Tolba and El-Kholy 1992: 163). Higher farm prices and intensification strategies would induce peasants to produce and deforestate less, because alleviated poverty reduces the push towards forest conversion and degradation. This approach has been very popular since the 1970s, and its logic is also embedded in first-generation Integrated Conservation and Development Projects (ICDPs).41 The `neoclassical approach' uses various types of agent to describe deforestation. Squatters generally react to pull factors, such as land rents accruing from a combination of open access and expected future

The Wealth of Theories 49 Table 2.1 Three deforestation schools Questions

`Impoverishment' school

`Neoclassical' school

`Political-ecology' school

What main, single `The growing factor is number of poor' responsible for deforestation?

`Open-access property rights'

`Capitalist investors crowd out peasants'

Who is the principal deforestation agent?

`Smallholders'

`Various agents'

`Capitalist entrepreneurs'

What is driving the dynamics of deforestation?

`A gradual push with `Optimising agents `Capitalist pull, deterministic, react to pull land expulsion vicious circles' inventives' and small-holder push'

What are the impacts of demographics and labour absorption?

`Absorption is low; labour abundance boosts deforestation'

`Labour mobility is `General labour high and labour scarcity at frontier supply very elastic' causes deforestation'

What are the effects of a rise in the peasant's farm output prices?

`Causes lower farm production and less deforestation'

`Causes higher farm production and more deforestation'

`Causes lower farm production and less deforestation'

What are the most promising policy options to effectively enhance deforestation?

`Alleviate poverty, stimulate the rural economy, agricultural intensification, close resource gaps (food, energy), promote population policies'

`Establish private and secure property rights, eliminate policies providing distortive deforestation incentives, correct market failures'

`Strengthen community-based management, secure smallholders' land rights, eliminate frontier expansion policies, reduce Northern consumption'

benefits, e.g. from road construction or increasing prices for farm products. Though they tend to be small-scale and (moderately) poor, their prime motive is not mere survival but basic capital accumulation. Regarding farmers' on-farm deforestation, farming systems are viewed as more flexible in absorbing shocks; they may also generate local technological changes that facilitate labour-absorption. Labour is sectorally mobile so that alternative income sources exist, stressing substitution options and elastic labour supply. Directly opposed to the `impoverishment' framework, increasing agricultural prices and agricultural intensification

50 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

thus induce higher production incentives and more deforestation, as off-farm labour is deliberately reduced. However, deforestation is not necessarily seen as an evil matter; market forces will prevent forest loss in excess of the socially optimal level, an approach that goes back to the È nen and his pessimistic vision of the fate of classical work of von Thu natural forests.42 However, according to this view, the main condition for socially optimal land use is secure, access-regulating forest property rights (preferably, privatization) and adequate policy incentives. This approach, which is mainly (though not exclusively) supported by economists, has only recently become more commonly accepted in the tropical deforestation debate.43 A third line of reasoning could be called the `political-ecology approach', reflecting the fact that it is favoured by political scientists and ecologists (although equally popular among anthropologists). There are probably several sub-variants under this heading, such as `deep ecology', `ecological economics' and other variants; several analysts also stress political-economy elements. Here too, poverty-led push deforestation by smallholders is a central instrument in understanding forest loss, but its root cause is a crowding out by large capitalist entrepreneurs investing in export crops and cattle-ranching. These react to pull incentives from the world market, which again are due to growing (and shifting) consumption in the rich Northern countries, thus adding a `green' dimension to the dependency school tradition. Growing global and national inequalities in access to national resources are thus at the heart of the deforestation process in this structuralist explanation, highlighting the `greedy' rather than the `needy' in the overall impact assessment. Expulsion-led deforestation involves clashes between market and subsistence systems, between simple and extended reproduction, between state and non-state societies, and between indigenous and Westernized production and consumption modes. On the institutional side, policies can be decisive in providing `perverse' incentives for forest clearing. Rather than labour abundance, labour scarcity at the agricultural frontier impedes land improvements and causes degradation; higher population densities are thus a prerequisite for sustainable agriculture. The expanding literature on deforestation from the mid-1980s until today has been dominated by this approach.44 Are all these theoretical approaches equally relevant? Are there regional differences in applicability? Are the approaches mutually exclusive? Or are they compatible, to an extent where they can be applied in an eclectic manner? It seems obvious that some theories have more relevance than others under specific circumstances. For instance, the

The Wealth of Theories 51

`political-ecology' school has been much focused on Latin America (see next chapter) and other areas where there is widespread inequality. The `impoverishment' approach is particularly relevant for areas with a limited (or degraded) natural resource base and biomass production dominated by subsistence smallholders living under relatively high population densities, such as the Sahel, the Himalayas, India and the Andean highlands. By definition, the `neoclassical' approach, with its emphasis on pull factors, is limited to areas where there is actually a significant market orientation. This characterization already suggests part of the answer to the question of the alleged exclusiveness of the approaches. Naturally, different behaviours and explanations can coexist within the same country or region. Also, some features may be combined under certain circumstances. For example, the `political-ecology' approach can merge behavioural models of impoverished smallholders and `neoclassical' entrepreneurs, and add specific elements related to the encounter of their production and social systems. There is thus scope for some eclecticism. Nevertheless, in other respects the focus and policy predictions of the different approaches on how to curb deforestation are incompatible. The political-ecology perspective generally stresses the land-degradation processes induced by deforestation and the prominent role that both socalled `market pressures' and capitalist state policies play here. Communal institutions and common property rights are seen as the most adequate tenure mode. However, much of the deforestation dynamics is claimed to originate from Northern countries' excessive consumption and to materialize through the process of trade integration and the expansion of the global capitalist economy, causing expulsion to the agricultural frontier. The impoverishment approach emphasizes the need for rural poverty alleviation and technical solutions reducing resource gaps (e.g. in energy consumption) on both the demand and supply sides, perhaps combined with population policies. Agricultural intensification strategies and increases in farm-gate prices (e.g. by squeezing middlemen) would, viewed from an impoverishment angle, reduce deforestation. Conversely, in the neoclassical vision this will increase deforestation, because incentives to clear the forest are raised. This distinction between push and pull behaviour is vitally important for the design of conservation and sustainable-use strategies. For most economists, it would indeed take a very special set of circumstances (or agent rationality) to accept the notion of higher prices inducing lower supply of a certain commodity.

52 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

From a neoclassical viewpoint, forest conservation policies are in general only necessary when market failures need correction. This is the case when deforestation implies negative social externalities (nonmarketed costs, e.g. watershed degradation), which should be internalized as widely as possible. For instance, if biodiversity in a certain piece of forest produces a global value, compensation mechanisms should be devised for the local resource manager to internalize that benefit. Nevertheless, `open-access' state tenure or indirect deforestation subsidies are more responsible for excessive deforestation than market forces. If the tenure and policy environment is adequate, deforestation will only occur up to the nationally optimal point. A laissez-faire scenario would thus often provide a positive outcome ± a premise that is indeed challenged from both the impoverishment and the political ecology viewpoints. In `ecological economics', one would underline both the undetermined future value of biodiversity and the irreversibility of its loss, providing arguments against the sufficiency of market forces and for a set of regulations according to a `precautionary principle'. Notes 1 Typically, small-scale timber production for domestic use (such as construction poles and fencing) is not regarded a serious cause of deforestation. We will return to this assumption in the case study (Chapter 7). 2 In the case of chip production in Papua New Guinea, Westoby (1989: 154±5) mentions that the price paid for timber standings was so low that it was only profitable in conjunction with alternative uses of the converted land. In other words, chips were not an independent economic motive for clear felling. Nevertheless, the situation may have changed recently, e.g. vis-aÁ-vis the remarkable economic success of Chilean chip exports to the Japanese market, which is still based substantially on natural forests in Chile's temperate regions. 3 Capistrano and Kiker (1995: 25) define `forest depletion' ± their independent variable ± as the area of broadleaved forest logged each year, while `logging', as a dependent variable, is specified by a log export value index. It is hardly surprising that the latter is significant at the 1 per cent level in explaining the former! 4 In 1990, the value of Indonesian exports of forest products was around 3600 million US$, followed by Malaysia (3120 million US$ and Brazil (1470 million US$); see Steinlin (1994: 132). 5 See Sunderlin and Resosudarmo (1996) for an overview of the Indonesian deforestation debate. 6 For instance, selective logging producing a large number of overthrown trees may reduce accessibility, and dense secondary forest may entail more work after clearing to keep out weeds and regrowth. In general, the relation between logging and the ease of clearing depends on both the forest ecosystem and the type of human intervention.

The Wealth of Theories 53 7 Witte (1992) confirms this for the case of Zaire: logging companies' employees tend to stay as settlers, increasingly supplementing their salaries with commercial farm activities. 8 See e.g. Thomson and Dudley (1989) on oil companies' forest impacts in the Amazon. Äo droughts of 1983 and have 9 Major fires in Borneo occurred during the El Nin reoccured even more drastically in September 1997. Agricultural slash-andburn practices and agricultural conversion motives are principal enabling factors. Selective logging produces dry debris on the ground, which increases the risk and spread of fire. 10 Rudel (1993: ch.2) explores different modes of organization and cooperation between deforestation agents. 11 Just as we focused on industrial uses in the last section (on timber), this section will deal only with local firewood uses. There exist, however, important industrial uses for charcoal (e.g. in China, Brazil) which is likely to have a deforestation impact in specific regions. 12 Dewees (1991), cited in Townson (1994: 14±16), states that charcoal supplies for urban demand stem from the clearance of forests, bush and savanna rangelands for agricultural purposes. 13 Heltberg et al. (1997) ignore agricultural conversion as an indirect provider of firewood, focusing instead on substitution for other energy sources. Hofstad (1997) also `assumes away' agricultural conversion motives in his analysis of supplies to Dar es Salaam, arguing that supplies are insufficient to meet rising urban charcoal demands; instead, forest lands are supposedly managed exclusively for charcoal, with a regeneration cycle of no less than 67 years (ibid. 24). Amacher et al. (1993) recognize the dominance of agriculture in forest conversion, but implicitly assume that firewood demand can contribute to forest loss. 14 See Guthman (1997) for a discussion of the historiography of Eckholm's theory and of suggested political currents and discourses related to it. 15 In his model, Angelsen (1996) distinguishes between `full-belly' and `Chayanovian' economies, both of which share the mentioned feature; the `target revenue' concept was, for example, applied to oil countries maintaining a fixed foreign-exchange inflow under differing world market oil prices. 16 For instance, Eckholm et al. (1984: 28) state that `poverty is seen as the cause of deforestation, because only poverty leads a person to make charcoal'; Leach and Mearns (1988: 76) confirm the general existence of a `rural squeeze' in Africa. 17 Witte (1992) attributes forest-clearing by lumberjacks in Zaire to the insufficient salaries paid by logging companies. 18 See Ponting (1991) on historical cases; Bajracharya (1983) on Nepal; see also the population section below. 19 Myers (1994: 33); Barbier et al. (1994; 1995). Sunderlin and Resosudarmo (1996: 5) argue that there is a continuum of agents between `shifting' and `shifted' cultivators. 20 See Westoby (1989: 44±5, 161) for a generalized picture, or Barraclough and Ghimire (1990: 15±16), stating that `[t]he expansion of large-scale commercial agriculture has been an important factor behind deforestation nearly

54 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36 37 38

everywhere'. Important case studies include the poverty impact of cotton and beef exports on small-scale producers in Honduras (Stonich 1992; 1993), the rapid expansion of soyabean exports from southern Brazil, Paraguay and Bolivia (for Bolivia, see Kaimowitz et al. 1996) or cocaleaf production for cocaine production from Peru (Dourojeanni, in Bedoya 1991a: 3). See, for example, Bajracharya (1983: 233) on Nepali deforestation. Population-led deforestation responses may concern higher firewood and timber demand, but are more likely to materialize through cultivated area extensions and/or fallow reduction, both of which lead to net forest loss. Effects 2 and 3 are straightforward (clearing land for agriculture); low labour costs (effect 1) tend to favour deforestation because it is a highly labourintensive activity. Dorner and Thiesenhusen (1992: 9±12) discuss this dimension. This pattern is often seen in Central America (Jones 1990: 126; Collins and Painter 1986). Ethnicities' roles in differential deforestation patterns have been documented quantitatively by Bedoya (1991a: 16) and Rudel (1993: 114). See Section 2B for references on firewood open access, over-exploitation and forest degradation. Ostrom (1990) gives an introduction to the CPR debate; besides forests, fisheries and water resources are the most prominent CPRs. Singh (1994: 6) distinguishes between common pool resources (CPRs) and common property rights (CPrR), the latter being a subgroup of the former with well-defined rights and specific rules, regulations and conventions. Even when roads are built privately, the necessary public permission for their construction in state forests would still justify their treatment here as policy factors. The cases of Brazil and Central America will be reviewed more closely in the next chapter. Barraclough and Ghimire (1990: 19) also report officially backed settlement schemes from India, Malaysia, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Thailand and all Latin America. For Central America, Jones (1990: 126) states that settlement programmes often highlight social objectives, favouring stable land titles in the hands of small-scale farmers; in many cases, however, land `trafficking' and turnover pressures cannot be resisted in the long run, resulting in higher land concentration. Sunderlin and Resosudarmo (1996: 7±9) give an overview. Repetto and Gillis (1988), Schmink and Wood (1987), Browder (1985), Hecht (1986), Mahar (1989). Young (1995), Schneider (1995), Andersen (1996), Andersen et al. (1996). Kaimowitz (1996: 35±9) concludes that Nicaragua is the only Central American country where cattle-ranching may have been reduced due to diminished credit subsidies for cattle. Kahn and McDonald (1995) find debt to be a significant explanatory variable for cross-country deforestation; Capistrano and Kiker (1995) find it to be insignificant in a similar study. Angelsen and Culas (1996) fail to find any significant relation, either at the global level or for sub-samples.

The Wealth of Theories 55 39 A comparative study by WWF of Mexico, Ivory Coast and Thailand found mixed deforestation impacts from SAPs (Reed 1992). Cruz and Repetto (1992: 6) confirm SAP-caused, poverty-led migration to the agricultural frontier in the Philippines; in Bolivia, this was not the case, but here SAPs stimulated timber exports and forest conversion for soya-bean production (Kaimowitz et al. 1995). 40 The three main categories that have been set up are inspired by Browder (1995); some differences in behavioural assumptions and model outputs between `impoverishment' and `neoclassics' are well summarized in Angelsen (1996). 41 For examples of this approach, see the work of Myrdal (1957; 1968), Eckholm (1976), Bajracharya (1983), the Brundtland report (Brundtland 1987), Eckholm et al. (1984), Leach and Mearns (1988), and Tolba and El-Kholy (1992). È nen's The Isolated 42 The Prussian economist and landholder Johann von Thu State, published in 1875 but written in the first half of the century, is the future vision of an experimental economy with increased specialization, where land uses have reached their final steady state. His outlook is that all natural forests have disappeared, some of them having been replaced by plantations. Even the prospects for plantation forestry are bleak, because the annual increment of trees cannot match the financial interest rate of about 3 per cent, which makes alternative uses (grain production) more È nen 1966: 107, 118±19). attractive (von Thu 43 A good overall representative is Hyde et al. (1996). For other elements, see Amacher et al. (1993), Reardon and Vosti (1995), Southgate (1990), Southgate and Whitaker (1992), Andersen et al. (1996), Schneider (1995); vis-aÁ-vis squatter behaviour; see Jones (1990), Rudel (1993). 44 See e.g. Schmink and Wood (1987), Blaikie and Brookfield (1987), MartõÂnezAlier (1991), Stonich (1992, 1993), Collins and Painter (1986), Painter (1995), Bedoya (1991a), BaleÂe (1992), Paulson (1995), Durham (1995), Zimmerer (1993), Guthman (1997).

3

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

In this concluding chapter to the first part, we leave the global level and explore how Latin American resource endowment and development paths are likely to have affected forest size and management over time. It relates the historical evidence to Latin American thinking on the environment, dominated by dependency theory and the politicalecology school. The current relevance of these approaches is discussed. Finally, a resume of the region's two most prominent deforestation debates (Central America and Brazil) is presented.

Resource endowment and the environmental agenda In order to understand the specific characteristics of deforestation processes in Latin America, it may be useful to start by laying out the general natural resource endowment and management features that can be said to distinguish the continent from other developing regions, such as Africa and Asia: 1 a relative abundance of non-renewable resources 2 a relative abundance of highly productive (but vulnerable) ecosystems 3 low average human population density 4 a relatively high asset inequality, including skewed land distribution 5 pronounced dualism in natural-resource management systems. Regarding the first two points, it should be pointed out that Latin America has only 8 per cent of the world's population, but 12 per cent of its cropland, 24 per cent of forests, 14 per cent of proved oil reserves, 23 per cent of its hydroelectrical potential, and more than one third of strategic mineral reserves such as copper, lithium and bauxite (Altieri and Masera 1993: 96±8). Biologically productive ecosystems are 56

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

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abundant, but also highly vulnerable to degradation: only 12.3 per cent of arable land in Latin America is free from production constraints; 20±30 per cent is on steep slopes and 17±32 per cent is subject to drought (ibid.: 100). This means that ecosystem productiveness in many areas must depend greatly on adequate land use if ecological degradation is to be avoided. In other words, Latin America has historically been well endowed with both renewable and non-renewable natural resources in comparison with its population size. Currently, the average population density per sq. km is 23.4 in Latin America and the Caribbean, compared to 47.0 in all low- and middle-income countries (figures are much higher for comparable sub-regions, for instance 242.2 persons per km2 in South Asia).1 Within the Americas, population is distributed unequally, with high-density urban concentration along coastlines (partly an inheritance of Spanish mercantilism) and rural concentration in the Inter-Andean valleys, along rivers, the temperate plains of Argentina and Uruguay, and parts of the Atlantic and Caribbean coasts. Simultaneously, industrial production has been geographically extremely concentrated in Latin America.2 In the social sphere, the continent is characterized by a markedly unequal distribution of incomes and assets. This applies especially to rural areas, where the best agricultural lands tend to be concentrated in the hands of a small but powerful landowner class. Whereas the latifundia system in Latin America tends to use highly land-extensive production systems, minifundia lands are simultaneously often subject to labour-intensive over-utilization, resulting in degradation and erosion (Sunkel 1980: 28). This skewed distribution and use of existing farm land is often seen as a prime factor in smallholder expulsion to the frontier and a cause of deforestation in itself (e.g. Dorner and Thiesenhusen 1992; Stonich 1992), although in the terminology of the previous chapter, it should rather be called an `enabling factor'. Inequality is also rooted in the specific historical antagonism between indigenous and colonial resource-management systems. Clashes between technologies, tenure systems, production and consumption patterns in Latin America are unrivalled by other previously colonized continents in duration and extent. The Spanish colonialism which dominated the region promoted economies based unilaterally on natural-resource extraction for foreign consumption, a development pattern that has been vividly portrayed as the `open veins' of Latin America (Galeano 1973). This pattern gave a special impetus to commerce and urbanization, whereas the encouragement of rural development was

58 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

largely confined to export crop areas. In modern times, the urban bias and under-investment in agriculture was significantly reinforced during the import substitution phase of the 1960s and 1970s. Even throughout most of the twentieth century, increasing demand for domestic food crops has been largely satisfied through agricultural area expansion rather than intensification (Sunkel 1980: 32), thus exacerbating deforestation pressures: to feed a growing population, new frontiers had to be conquered (see Chapter 4 for the example of Ecuador). In this historical process of limited rural technological progress, indigenous knowledge and management systems were generally considered backward and seldom integrated. Conversely, the marginalized indigenous populations of the region were largely excluded from `human capital' investments and the other benefits that would have facilitated the adjustment of their proper natural-resource management systems to increased land scarcity. Indeed, the human costs of gradual Latin American frontier expansion have been borne mostly by indigenous, forest-dwelling people living as shifting cultivators, hunters and gatherers with relatively low population densities on originally large but continuously eroded territories who proved unable to defend their traditional, predominantly collective tenurial rights and came to provide `open access' lands for the expansion of market-led national economies. A second social group are sedentary small-scale farmers who have gradually been deprived of access to the most fertile soils and often are said to have few other options than to settle on marginal agricultural lands which they tend to `consume' by nutrient mining: gradual degradation, abandonment, or conversion to highly extensive, low-productive land uses are the results. Hence, the `political ecology' school, which is strongly represented in Latin America (see Chapter 2), concludes that the social battles of the rural poor to maintain control over traditionally managed lands against the `market pressures' of an expanding export-oriented capitalist system tend to coincide with the aims of defending sustainable land uses. In other words, class struggle and environmental objectives are complementary in the general concept of `the ecology of the poor' (MartõÂnezAlier 1991). The specific combination of natural resource richness and social dualism can help explain why Latin American business interests and government planners historically have not been bothered much by deforestation, and ecological thought remained marginal until the last two decades: the exhaustive exploitation of natural resources was seen

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

59

as an integrated element in progress and development. Although this paradigm has recently been questioned by domestic environmentalist discourses, it is still deeply rooted in Latin American thinking (Budowski 1992). Of course, this may well reflect that, historically, the ideology of `making idle land productive' has largely been rational from a developmentalist viewpoint (see discussion in Chapter 9). The nineteenth century saw the rise of incipient environmental interests, mostly promoted by foreign natural scientists. In the 1920s and 1930s a first perception of pressing environmental problems worked towards the adoption of natural resource legislation and the creation of forest agencies, notably in Mexico and Brazil (Costa 1983: 54). Box 3.1 outlines the origins of Mexican forest-management strategies by the end of the nineteenth century. A striking feature is the differing scarcity-led attitudes towards highland and lowland forest: while the former was to be protected, as its decline triggered environmental and productive costs, the latter had to be exploited indiscriminately, because of its perceived unlimited abundance and development potentials. In the postwar period, economic growth was the primary policy goal in Latin America: for mainstream developmentalists and dependency theorists alike, natural resources were confined to a material input to this process. The emerging global ecological discourses, from the Stockholm UN conference in 1972 onwards, were met with deep scepticism from both left and right in Latin America. They seemed to constitute yet another obstacle positioned by the North to imperil the continent's legitimate development aspirations (Dean 1992). Throughout the late 1970s and 1980s, although environmental problems were no longer ignored, all too often their diagnosis constituted a mere appendix to the dependency-theory world view. Common denominators here are the preferential focus on urban and industrial issues in the identification of environmental problems, trade dependency as the key explanatory factor, and a vision of limited room for manoeuvre in domestic policy responses to trade fluctuations. This is most drastic in the Marxist, deterministic version of environmental dependency thinking of, for example, the Argentinian Luis Vitale (1990): A basic point is the critique of multinationals which bring nuclear plants and highly contaminating industries into our countries. Not only do they plunder our minerals and take over our industries, they also poison our environment. (ibid.:128±9). . . . Together with international monopolist capital, the creole elites and bourgeois

60 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

Box 3.1 Dual forest-use strategies in late 19th-century Mexico From 1876 to 1910, under the dictatorship of Porfirio DõÂaz, Mexico followed a number of aggressive resource-extraction policies aimed at integrating the tropical lowlands into the capitalist economy. This included both infrastructural investments (construction of roads and railways), a set of economic incentives (mainly subsidies to large-scale timber operations) and a new legal framework (Ley de ColonizacioÂn) that allowed the privatization of `idle lands' (terrenos baldõÂos). In fact, the latter were being used extensively by the indigenous Mayas, rather than being left truly `idle'. Foreign capital interests, in particular US timber firms, participated in this process, not as lead actors but on an equal basis with national capital. The broader government strategy was to attract foreign capital and to replace the `indolent' Mayan natives with immigrant farmers in order to increase timber exports, extend the state's territorial control and introduce modern technology for the transformation of `backward' subsistence agriculture into `modern' surplus production. A significant increase in timber exports was only achieved much later, by the middle of the twentieth century, but important steps towards developmentalist modernization were taken by the Porfirio administration. In forest-policy terms, there is an interesting contrast in the historical perceptions of the highlands and the lowlands. In the then already densely populated temperate highlands, many detrimental impacts of deforestation and soil mismanagement (erosion, drought, species extinction, timber shortages) had become perfectly clear, and were met by surprisingly far-sighted (though poorly implemented) forest-policy laws for that region. On the other hand, the tropical lowland forests were supposed to contain virtually inexhaustible riches, so physical infrastructure and a supportive legal-administrative framework were created to promote tropical colonization. Source: Konrad (1992).

national states of Latin America will further deepen the environmental crisis. Capitalist logic means profit maximization, the purpose of which is not exactly the preservation of ecosystems. (ibid.: 120±1, my translation from German)

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61

More moderate, though no less systemic, is the structuralist version of dependency theory, for example, in the view of analysts from ECLAC.3 Unlike the Marxist version, they see ecological crisis primarily not as a direct impact of multinationals' actions, but as a product of a tradederived `transnational ascendant style of development' (Sunkel 1981) that is based on dependent urban growth and the over-exploitation of natural resources for export to Northern development centres. Hence, a `more selective participation in the international system' is thought to alleviate environmental problems ± sometimes without discussing one single environmental factor in detail (Tomassini 1980)! Export crops deplete soils because of the `weak capacity of the periphery to transfer its higher production costs at the international level' (Prebisch 1980: 83). Hence, `[t]he environmental problems which have gained relatively recent notoriety . . . stem from the very dynamism of the system, both in the centres and in the periphery' (ibid.: 69). Structuralists thus have tended to give us an equally pessimistic message about the scope for the nation state's environmental policy-making, but their analysis of specific environmental problems seems just as generalized and superficial as for the Marxist version. Nevertheless, at the more practical level the 1970s was also the decade of the emergence of Latin American environmentalists into national policy-making, e.g. in terms of the boom in the planning and implementation of national parks in both Central and South America.4 In the 1980s, this was strengthened through the availability of external funding for the environment, for example, in terms of debt-for-nature swaps and donorsupported environmental NGOs that were able both to implement specific field projects and to influence national public opinion.5

Spanish versus indigenous land use Just as the dependency paradigm has left a significant mark on the Latin American environmental debate, the general argument is frequently made that Spanish colonization left an ecologically disastrous heritage to the continent. MacLeod (1992: 32) presents this doctrine, not without a touch of irony: Into this Eden [of pre-Columbian Amerindia] came the grasping, exploitative, ruthless European invaders, the early capitalists of the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, accompanied by their devastating pandemics from Eurasia, and their flocks of large, destructive domesticated animals. Even the weeds which they brought with them, in the

62 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

guts of their cattle and equines, were imperialistic, and drove out native grasses. Pre-Columbian and Spanish immigrant land-use practices have been compared in various case studies, although the lack of precise data makes it difficult to draw unambiguous conclusions from the analyses of pre-Hispanic societies. Yet the focus on wasteful Spanish management practices and exotic introductions that many authors have chosen to stress ignores the low intensity of colonial deforestation activities in the first couple of centuries. Spanish resource-extraction was focused on minerals, whereas agricultural products generally had little importance initially. The deforestation impact of mining, and some derived cattle and cash-crop agriculture ± however wasteful in nature ± is bound to have been limited to `point impacts', i.e. highly localized effects on forests. At the same time, it is often overlooked that the deforestation impact of the indigenous people must have been greatly reduced by drastic depopulation. Matras (1973: 21) estimates that native population in Latin America rose from 13 million in 1000 AD to 40 million in 1500 AD ± though some scholars in the pre-Hispanic population controversy defend a figure of 53 million6 ± but then fell to 14 million by 1600 and 7 million by 1650, mainly because of the spread of European diseases. Only in 1850±1900 did the human population pass the pre-conquest level (63 million in 1900). It is obvious that a reduction of around 80 per cent must have reduced food demand to a significant extent and led to the abandonment of remote settlements and cultivated areas, followed by forest regeneration in areas that were suitable for tree regrowth. Based on recent archaeological research, there is some evidence that deforestation was followed by over-exploitation of soils already in preColumbian times. The classical example is Mayan urbanism, which reached its peak in the centuries up to AD 800, but then seemed to have experienced a decline that, at least in part, was determined by ecological factors. Although the Mayas initially settled near the most fertile soils available, these soils were also extremely vulnerable to erosion once forest cover had been removed; about 75 per cent of the YucataÂn Peninsula's forests were modified to some extent (McNeely 1993: 9). With growing population and an increasing demand for agricultural surpluses to maintain an advanced and demanding state apparatus, it seems that agriculture was both intensified to excess, and extended to more marginal hillside areas of even greater erosion risk. Reduced soil fertility hampered agriculture and food production, which

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63

is supposed to have lead to out-migration and a decrease in population. There is evidence that nutritional standards declined, causing disease, and growing conflicts between the various city states may have been fuelled by food shortages (Ponting 1992: 92±6). With the collapse of the Mayan civilizations, the abandoned forests of YucataÂn reached a gradual but complete recovery over the next 500 years, until the arrival of the Spaniards in 1492. The very nature of these historical analyses implies that the evidence is hard to come by, which obviously leaves room for specific debates. Notably, Graham and Pendergast (1992) deduce from archaeological studies in Belize that local Mayan forest clearing and soil degradation did occur, but only on a small, local scale. Clearing was a ritual process in which the felling of selected species was prohibited, both for their religious functions and for certain essential use values; thus the land was not entirely denuded.7 On the other hand, Abrams et al. (1996) conclude from a study of the classic CopaÂn state (today in Honduras) that over-population and soil degradation through hillside deforestation, shortening of fallow periods and soil erosion were vital elements in the more complex nexus of warfare, disease, trade disruption and outmigration that is associated with the decline of Mayan civilizations. The authors suggest that the ecological collapse occurred in two stages: first, the downfall of the urban centre in the CopaÂn pocket (850±1000 AD); then, after an intermediate process of decentralization, the decline of a more rural-based society cultivating more marginal soils (1000±1300 AD), leading to the complete abandonment of settlement in the CopaÂn valley for the next 500 years. A similar degradation cycle is believed to have been at work among the Aztecs in Mexico, although their activities in the highlands may have caused more permanent ecological damage than was the case in the YucataÂn lowlands (McNeely 1993: 9). Indigenous populations in western and central Peru seem to have cleared some 200,000 km2 of forest, principally for camelid pastures; they avoided the natural regeneration of the forest through the repeated use of fire (Williams 1989: 182). Extensive deforestation seemed to have occurred in the Andean valleys, for example around present-day Quito and Bogota (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 86). In the history of the Brazilian Atlantic forests, the population densities of the Tupi Indians, practising slashand-burn shifting cultivation, seem to have reached levels that no longer allowed complete forest regeneration, which may suggest that a large part of the Atlantic forests, in particular those with soils suitable for agriculture, had already been significantly and repeatedly modified

64 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

by the time the Portuguese arrived (Dean 1995: ch.2). Once colonial traders initiated the exploitation of dye-wood, also called Brazil wood (Haematoxylum brasiletto), the indigenous population served as suppliers, but to minimize the work of cutting trees they used fire, which would frequently spread, destroying large forest tracts and in the long run severely diminishing both forested areas and Brazil-wood supplies (Costa 1983: 51). The urban concept of the Mayas and the Incas was different from the present-day one, in the sense that agricultural activities were normally preserved, along with the development of handicraft and trade, creating what have been termed `agrarian cities'.8 This means that a more direct relation between consumption demands and resource production constraints was maintained. For instance, some authors maintain the hypothesis that the Incas adopted agricultural systems highlighting food security and rather localized autarchic structures, where the number of transport trails was apparently limited, partly for military security reasons, and inter-regional trade was restricted to a number of strategic Äo 1994: 21). products such as salt, cotton and skins (Patin In pre-Columbian times, the Amazon Basin had a much larger Amerindian population than today. However, a benign human modification of ecosystems can in fact promote the generation and preservation of biodiversity, especially at the sub-species and variety levels.9 Sponsel (1992) reviews studies of four native Amazonian tribes, the Desana (Colombia), Yanomami (Venezuela/Brazil), Bara (Peru) and Kayapo (Mato Grosso, Brazil), that practice hunting and gathering, combined to a varying extent with slash-and-burn agri- and horticulture. Their resource-management systems have a set of common features: 1 migratory settlement and rotational hunting practices 2 low population densities; low productive weight attached to agriculture 3 ample extraction of forest products for multiple uses 4 ritual prohibitions of faunal consumption and human reproduction. Because of these impact-limiting features, BaleÂe (1992) claims that Amerindian resource management in the Amazon, both historically and today, is sustainable per se, whereas corresponding Western production methods in less than three decades of modern `development' have caused ecological disaster. His hypothesis is that stateless societies like the migratory Amazon tribes with their simple reproduction patterns generally achieve a more sustainable use of forest resources than state societies (pre-colonial Mayan and Incaic states, the colonies and the post-colonial nation states). A less radical view is that indigenous

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degradation impacts in general are smaller in scale and more gradual, although indigenous people can be decisively affected by Western land pressures and cultural impacts (Sponsel 1992: 244). Many indigenous groups demand participation in market-based development, but if this process is too rapid and traditional land rights are lost simultaneously, cultural disruption with detrimental ecological impacts will be inevitable (Colchester 1989). It should be noted that features 1 and 2 above, implying the spread of human impact over large land areas, is a decisive precondition for sustainable rainforest use. Among the Wayampi Amerindians of French Guiana, widely available land resources subject to traditional subsistence often enable a scenario of `living in abundance' off the generous supplies of the natural ecosystem, rather than creating a sophisticated, scarcity-adapted management regime (Grenand and Grenand 1996). Even an unambiguously wasteful use of natural resources and a lack of thorough resource knowledge and applied management criteria can prove to be perfectly `sustainable', in the sense that no resource degradation occurs, as long as there is an abundant supply of land and food, limited population pressure and a rapid regeneration of natural resources. For example, this has been shown in a case study of the Machiguenga of the Peruvian Amazon (Johnson 1989), but has also been observed more generally: It would be over-romantic, indeed plain wrong, to suggest that all these forest peoples, in addition to their other virtues, are archetypical conservationists, living in perfect harmony with nature. They will often take what they want from the forest with sublime disregard for any principle of conservation. They may fell a whole tree to get a single meal of fruit, or kill a bird for the transient pleasure of putting its plumes in their hair. That the forest is not devastated by such treatment is simply because their numbers are so small and the areas over which they wander are so vast. (Attenborough 1990) Hence, the general image of `the ecologically noble savage' is too romantic, based on particular assumptions and not transferable to land-scarcity situations (Redford 1990). In the words of Herman Daly, resourcemanagement criteria differ between `full-world' and `empty-world' scenarios.10 Irrespective of the conclusion one arrives at about the sustainability and ecological consciousness of pre-Columbian societies, deforestation and environmental degradation changed their character with the arrival

66 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

of the Spaniards. Box 3.2 exemplifies this qualitative shift through the case of the introduction of sheep into Central Mexico, and suggests four different functional components vis-aÁ-vis what was called `antagonism in natural-resource management' at the beginning of this chapter: first, a lack of knowledge about land-use practices adequate for the new physical environment; secondly, a short planning horizon and extractionist Box 3.2 Mexico

Introduction of sheep into sixteenth-century semi-arid

In the period 1560±80, immigrant farmers introduced sheep as an exotic species into the Valle del Mezquital of Central Mexico, thus rapidly substituting diversified indigenous agricultural systems for intensive pastoralism. However, the soils were not suited at all to this type of land use, which caused the rapid degradation of the ecosystem's biomass production. Instead of reversing the trend, Spanish farmers continuously used fire to yield short-term regeneration of pastures. This practice made environmental damage permanent by promoting severe soil erosion and drought. During the twenty years of sheep production, only the first seven marked a peak in the sheep economy, the remainder being part of the process of decline. The ecology of the region had changed permanently, being a low-productivity area during the next 350 years that ironically was known among farmers as being `only good for sheep', a characterization that was initially false but which became true subsequently. Why did Spanish farmers adopt a production system that was completely inadequate for the given resource base? On the one hand, the Spanish were ignorant of the specific ecological characteristics of the area and unwilling to learn from indigenous farmers who possessed this knowledge. On the other hand, the Spanish conquest marked a gradual shift in consumption patterns that favoured livestock production: meat consumption, woollen clothes and tallow candles were not only consumed by the Spanish themselves, they also became increasingly popular among the natives. The shift towards an extremely myopic resource-management horizon was thus a result of shifts in both production and consumption patterns. Source: Melville (1992).

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67

`mining' attitude towards the land; thirdly, new consumption patterns that encouraged the introduction of exotic species11 and therefore new production priorities (cattle is the prime example); and, fourthly, open access to indigenous lands secured by colonial military superiority and political control. It is obvious that native depopulation and deculturalization created a break with pre-Columbian ecological knowledge that has largely not been recovered. This historical qualitative change has thus also affected the type of resource-management policies and practices that we see in Latin America today (see Chapter 4 for the case of Ecuador). Nevertheless, problems relating to the changing knowledge-technology-consumption-tenure nexus are not limited to the initial Spanish colonization of mainly highland areas: they may have more to do with `colonization' in general. Mestizo or indigenous internal migration from temperate highlands to the tropical lowlands today continues to produce clashes with the new environment. The line of reasoning tends to be quite similar: open access to indigenous lands, lack of knowledge about lowland ecosystems, inadequate farming technologies focused on short-run commercial returns, and a preference for unsuitable highland crops (such as corn and grains) in food consumption.12 As Bedoya (1991a: 4) concludes on migrants to the Peruvian Amazon and their perceptions: `The highland peasants view the rain forest as a place where they will always be able to satiate their ``hunger for land''.'

Deforestation in the neotropics As described in the first section of this chapter, Latin America still disposes of relatively rich endowments of renewable natural resources, including tropical forests. About half of the world's remaining stock is located in the Americas. In addition, neotropical forests are in general richer in plant and animal species than the tropical forests of Africa and Asia (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 85). However, the extent of tropical forest conservation in different parts of the Americas is highly variable. On the one hand, the extensive forests of the Amazon and Orinoco river basins have experienced relatively little conversion in recent times. For the Amazon region, however, forests have come under pressure during the last three decades (see below). On the other hand, forest cover in most of the Caribbean and in certain parts of Central America has been severely diminished, and continues to be reduced. Table 3.1 shows that only about 17 per cent of the Caribbean land area is still covered by forests (for Haiti, the

68 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

Table 3.1 Tropical forest cover in Latin America according to FAO and WCMC estimates Country/Region Total land area (thousand ha)

Remaining extent of forest for 1990 according to FAO (1993) (thousand ha)1

Remaining area of tropical forest as mapped in Harcourt and Sayer (1996) (thousand ha)

Date of forest cover data shown in Harcourt and Sayer (1996)3

Remaining area of tropical forest as a percentage of land area From FAO (1993)

From Harcourt and Sayer (1996)

CENTRAL AMERICA Belize Costa Rica El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico Nicaragua Panama TOTAL

2280 5106 2072 10,843 11,189 190,869 11,875 7599 241,833

1996 1428 123 4225 4605 44,812 6013 3117 66,319

1839 1504 155 4824 5273 44,8122 5745 31172 67,271

1992 1988 1981 1992 1990 1990 1990 1990 �

SOUTH AMERICA Bolivia Brazil Colombia Ecuador French Guiana Guyana Paraguay Peru Surinam Venezuela

108,439 41,967 845,651 532,244 103,870 54,046 27,684 11,919 8815 7997 20,841 18,416 397,300 60,640 128,006 67,434 14,366 14,768 88,205 45,457

45,142 341,530 51,093 14,237 8149 18,302 47,488 67,4342 13,328 54,268

1992 1993 1985 1987 1979 1992 1985 1990 1978 1982

38.7 62.9 52.0 43.0 90.7 93.6 15.3 52.72 94.6 51.5

41.6 40.4 49.2 51.4 92.4 87.8 12.0 52.7 92.8 61.5

618,234

�

57.8

44.6

TOTAL

1,385,602 800,312

87.5 28.0 5.9 39.0 41.2 23.52 50.6 41.02 27.4

80.7 29.5 7.5 44.5 47.1 23.5 48.4 41.0 27.8

Notes: 1 FAO's figure given here includes the areas of forest within the tropical rain forest zone, the moist deciduous forest zone and the hill and montane zone 2 As it has not been possible to obtain country-specific forest area figures from the maps in Harcourt and Sayer (1996), the forest area given by FAO (1993) has been used here 3 Where known, this is the actual date of the forest data, rather than the publication date of the source map Sources: Harcourt and Sayer (1996); FAO (1993)

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figure is barely 0.8 per cent ± FAO 1993). In South America, those coastal areas that were originally covered by tropical forests have been deforested more extensively than forests in the interior of the continent. Coastal forests still to be found today are also the ecosystems that are most severely threatened ± remains of the previously continuous Brazilian Atlantic forests, the Choco forests on the Pacific coast, and Colombia's and Venezuela's Caribbean coasts. Easy geographical access, trade expansion and proximity to international markets are the main, interrelated explanatory factors of this unequal pattern of deforestation.13 Conversely, difficult access may be the single most efficient protection against forest loss. The early expansion of sugar production in the Caribbean is a good historical example, with easy access and short distances to the colonial centres. Box 3.3. describes the unique example of one of the Guayanas (Surinam), the three countries which have preserved by far the largest forest cover among Latin American countries (between 87 per cent and 94 per cent ± table 3.1), although by now there are continuous pressures from Asian logging companies for extensive concessions. It is argued that a combination of poor trade access, meagre agricultural soil potentials and low population densities meant that the forests were left largely untouched. Historical management of the timber resource was extremely wasteful but limited in scale, implying that it did not have any long-term detrimental bearing on the fate of Surinam's forests. However, in the twentieth century the general picture seems to have changed somewhat. Pressures on the large interior forests of South America have increasingly come too from the proximity to growing cities and domestic markets, indicating that population increases and domestic economic growth have set off more independent dynamics of development in Latin America. Deforestation in southern Brazil and in the southern Amazonian states (close to the conglomerates of Rio de Janeiro and SaÄo Paulo) and conversion of the selva alta of the Eastern Andean flanks towards the Amazon (closeness to densely populated highlands in Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia) are all examples of pressures that mainly derive from labour surpluses in densely populated areas and the incentives from growing internal markets for agricultural and cattle products.14 Chapter 4 will outline this shift in historical causes of deforestation in the case of Ecuador. The balance between internal and external factors is also one of the points that will be examined more closely in the following two sections, which deal with the two most extensive case studies in the Latin American deforestation debate: Central America and Brazil.

70 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

Box 3.3 Surinam: forest conservation without management An example of `no trade ± no deforestation' is the historical development of the forests of Surinam from the seventeenth century up to the present day. In pre-colonial times, pressures on forests were restricted to an occasional timber trade, mainly in snakewood. The plantation economy (mainly sugar) was introduced from 1667 to 1775, in the early colonial period, but only in the most accessible areas, near the coast. Nearby timber estates produced timber and firewood for the plantations by simple clear-felling. Both thus drew on forest resources, but to a very limited extent, because the plantation economy never took off in growth terms. A combination of poor soils, difficult access, disease and political unrest explains why there was no large-scale substitution of natural forests for plantations in the interior of the country. In turn, lack of prosperity limited population expansion and economic development dynamics. From 1775±1900, plantations even experienced a further decline, culminating in the abolition of slavery, its traditional labour-supply system. Only after 1950 did Dutch capital start to stimulate timber expansion in Surinam, but high transport costs impeded large-scale expansion. In the last couple of years, Asian timber firms with a dubious environmental reputation have made an attempt to obtain logging licences for large-scale clearings, but there is ample resistance on behalf of conservationist groups. Paradoxically, throughout the history of Surinam, there were no notable attempts to introduce principles of sustainable forest management. The ongoing use of wood was extremely wasteful and destructive, yet the forests remained more or less intact because of the limited incentives for alternative large-scale uses of forested lands. Sources: Boomgaard (1992); Sizer and Rice (1995), Wilson (1984).

Key features: Central American deforestation Central America is one of the regions of the world that has experienced the most rapid loss of forest cover. The process has accelerated over the last four decades: about 60 per cent of forested land in 1960 was reduced

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to an estimated 38.5 per cent in 1995, implying that more than a third of forests have been lost in this comparatively short period.15 In a country like El Salvador, little more than 100,000 hectares of forests remain, indicating that the forest frontier for agricultural conversion is basically closed. At the other extreme, Belize retains a forest cover of more than 80 per cent (Table 3.1). Historically, pre-Hispanic cultures in the region faced their own longterm deforestation cycles (see discussion above). The first colonial attack on Central America's forest was launched by British extractors of logwood. It was used for dyes in the expanding textile industry, a business that continued from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries. Simultaneously, mahogany and Spanish cedar logs were extracted for timber processing by primitive techniques, but this was only commercially viable in easily accessible areas along the coasts and rivers. The trade was dominated by European interests until the mid-nineteenth century, when US timber firms gradually increased their influence. On balance, careless but highly selective timber exploitation on the isthmus in most historical cases caused forest degradation rather than deforestation (Tucker 1992). Clearly, the prime overall motive for forest loss in Central America has been the expansion of agriculture and cattle-ranching. As noted by Collins and Painter (1986: 2), the period of high deforestation rates coincides with the significant acceleration of population growth in the region in recent decades, which may indicate that a Malthusian approach would be relevant.16 Although population pressures and `impoverishment' are likely to have played their part in their explanations for deforestation, most authors focus on the waves of expansion of commercial activities, led by incentives deriving from the world market. `Political-ecology' approaches dominate the scene: The causes of deforestation . . . are all features of a specific style of development that unfolded during the late 1800s and took off during the latter half of this century . . . which characterize the so-called agroexport models. These may be summed up in three words: marketization, modernization and marginalization. (Utting 1993: 15) The classic case in the region is banana production, which developed as an export sector from the 1870s onwards but emerged on a larger scale in the 1920s and 1930s, when the US-based United Fruit Company came to own about 4 per cent of the total land area in Honduras, Guatemala, Panama and Costa Rica (although part of this huge landholding was

72 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

held as a reserve for future plantations and hence not deforested; HernaÂndez and Witter 1996). Banana production needs flat, lowland soils with a high nutrient content and balanced humidity. In other words, bananas compete for the best soils, and their expansion thus crowded out local food crops, often expelling smallholders, who then chose to try their luck on the agricultural frontier. By the mid-twentieth century, growing problems with the Panama disease led United Fruit to abandon most of the original plantations on the Atlantic coast, which were transferred to the Pacific lowlands. On balance this caused renewed deforestation pressures, as much of the originally cleared land was converted to pasture rather than left for forest regeneration. Susan Stonich (1992; 1993) attributes recent deforestation and landdegradation trends in Honduras to the expansion of land-extensive large-scale export industries, mainly beef and cotton. Because industrial entrepreneurs have better access to credit, technology and markets, sometimes combined with ill-defined land rights and forced land occupation, land concentration is rising rapidly as part of a general process of social differentiation. As the population of peasants increases simultaneously, many of these are seeking new opportunities by colonizing forest areas. Because of the pronounced land concentration in the most densely populated rural areas of Latin America, frontier colonization early aroused the interest of nation states as a `social escape valve' (see Chapter 2). In the era of the US-backed `Alliance for Progress', settlement projects, colonization institutes and (partial) land reform received ample political attention in an attempt to counteract existing trends of `Cubanization'. However, spontaneous settlement generally continued to dominate over publicly planned projects in Central America, with legal support and infrastructure investments as the main public subsidy at the frontier; there have been no Indonesian-style major `transmigration' programmes. In his comparison of Central American directed-settlement schemes, Jones (1990) concludes that most projects have been successes in terms of national economic integration and higher food production, though only being partially effective in reaching geopolitical and social goals.17 Most colonized lands were originally state-owned, and formalized landtitling is contingent on forest-clearing (Kaimowitz 1996: 46). Prolonged tenure insecurity is widespread. Except in Costa Rica, average frontier land-titling rates may be as low as 20 per cent (Jones 1990: 126), though in many cases this reflects a deliberate, though inefficient, strategy to pursue social settlement objectives: by prolonging titling procedures, it

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should become more difficult to resell plots to large landowners, so that `speculative' behaviour is discouraged. In practice, pioneer squatters, with their predominantly small allocated lots (5±10 ha), find innovative approaches to circumvent these regulations, so that they `improve' the land (by clearing, pastureplanting and fencing), establish preliminary rights and then find ways and means to transfer the land to large proprietors who dispose of more capital; the latter is often a requirement for cattle-ranching on a reasonable scale. Deforested lands normally sell for more than forested areas (Kaimowitz 1996: 44), providing a capital gain to the squatter. This leads to the characterization that `[s]mall farm settlers are perceived as highly mobile, speculative and uninterested in long-term gains' (Collins and Painter 1986: 1). Cattle is, on balance, the prime sector responsible for Latin American deforestation, in the sense that it represents, on the one hand, the end use of most deforestation cycles and, on the other, a state of low ecosystem productivity.18 As Kaimowitz mentions (1996: 2), cattle as a commodity possesses a number of favourable properties, such as low labour requirements, limited risks, transportability, low dependence on external inputs and biological flexibility. In addition, it may be a convenient store of value in many rural areas which lack access to financial services (Sunderlin and RodrõÂguez 1996: 12). In the 1960s and 1970s, the period of considerable pasture expansion, domestic beef consumption in Central America stagnated. Production increases, facilitated by lending programmes from international development banks, were destined for North American export markets, mainly the USA. This led Norman Myers (1981) to suggest a `hamburger connection' between US meat demand and Central American (mainly Costa Rican) deforestation, a notion that was followed by other conservationist authors in calculating the hectares of rainforest that had to be sacrificed for the average burger intake by North American consumers, under flamboyant headings such as `our steak in the jungle' (Uhl and Parker 1986). Obviously, the `hamburger connection' literature had much relevance in the 1960s and 1970s: Central American beef exports increased from 9 million US$ in 1961 to 290 million US$ in 1979 (Kaimowitz 1996: 25). However, real world-market prices for meat declined sharply up to 199019 and had a marked negative impact on exports in the 1980s. In some countries, like Costa Rica, rising domestic meat consumption provided a partial compensation for export decline, a sort of `domestic jungleburger' (Lehmann 1992: 62), though cash-crop expansion was

74 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

generally the main deforestation factor in the 1980s. In qualitative terms, the hamburger literature has rightly been critized for its neglect of accompanying domestic policy factors (e.g. credit subsidies to largescale ranchers, distributional aspects), thus placing itself `among the last bastions of a simplistic version of dependency theory' (Edelman 1995: 47).

Key features: Brazilian deforestation Brazil represents about half of South America in terms of both area and population. It contains by far the greatest extent of the world's tropical forests, which are concentrated in two biomes, the Amazon basin and the Atlantic forests.20 Their degree of natural habitat conversion to anthropic systems differs widely: it is estimated that, by the beginning of this decade, 90 per cent of the Amazon forest was still intact, while the corresponding share for the Atlantic forest was only in the range of 9±12 per cent.21 Most Brazilians live along the Atlantic coastline, and commercial activities are concentrated in this part of the country. The main explanations for this pattern are the historically better access for settlers, and the fact that the Atlantic Ocean was the main means of transporting goods in a colonial trade-oriented country; another key is that soils here are on average more suitable for permanent agriculture. Quantitative estimates on recent Brazilian forest size and deforestation have differed greatly according to the source, due to different ways of measurement and methodologies.22 The FAO's most recent estimate of total forest area (1995 figure) is 5.51 million sq. km (FAO 1997: 189); this compares with the much lower WCMC map estimate of 3.42 million km2 (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: table 25.2), apparently due to different sources and forest definitions. Annual deforestation in 1990±95 is estimated by the FAO to have been 25,540 km2, more than double the amount of forest lost by any other single country (Indonesia is second with 10,840 km2, see Table 1.1). Nevertheless, due to its large remaining forest stock, this corresponds to the relatively low rate of 0.5 per cent yearly forest loss. As in Central America, the first colonial intervention into the Brazilian Atlantic forests was also focused on natural dyes, in this case extracted from the Brazil tree (Haematoxylum brasiletto), which seemingly gave its name to the country (see above). However, major forest conversion only occurred later on with the sugar boom. Brazil dominated the world market for sugar-cane during the seventeenth century, with plantations situated mainly in the northeast (Pernambuco and

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Bahia states) and near Rio de Janeiro. Conversion used a slash-and-burn method, in which the cultivated land was abandoned for virgin soil after a couple of decades (Costa 1983). These farming techniques had a lasting devastation effect on the fragile dry ecosystems of the northeast (ibid.: 51; Westoby 1989: 110; Galeano 1973). An additional stress on the forests stemmed from the firewood demand of the sugar-cane industry. The next trade cycle with an impact on the Atlantic forests was led by coffee. Originally introduced into northern Brazil in the eighteenth century, large-scale cultivation was initiated in the south (Paraiba do Sul) in the early nineteenth century. Newly burnt forests were thought to provide particularly fertile soils, so that plantations frequently shifted to virgin forest land when erosion had taken place (Costa 1983: 53). This technique maximized the turnover of (abundant) forest land, but minimized the use of (scarce) financial capital and labour; the latter inputs would alternatively have been needed for the application of soil conservation methods (Dean 1992: 180±9). In Rio de Janeiro State, whereas sugar had caused the deforestation of tropical flatlands, coffee now shifted pressures to the cooler hills. However, the growing urban population, with its demand for food crops and for multiple wood products (firewood for cooking and brick factories, charcoal, construction poles, ship-building, mangrove bark for hidetanning), caused an independent pressure on the surrounding Atlantic forest (Brown 1992). This qualifies somewhat the hypothesis of Costa (1983: 55) that Brazilian deforestation is generally to be explained by successive trade cycles; Costa distinguished seven historical trade cycles which shared some deforestation impact: brazil wood, sugar-cane, livestock, gold, coffee, rubber and steel. However, in the early nineteenth century urban expansion and the derived pressures from a growing population developed their own deforestation dynamics. In the international debate, Brazil is often taken as an example of a country in which population growth is not a deforestation factor (Westoby 1989: 112; Costa 1983: 55; Barraclough and Ghimire 1990: 16); rather, blame is laid on different socioeconomic structures, such as policy and land inequality. Initially, it is worth remembering that; in pre-Columbian times, Brazil was sparsely populated, compared, for example, to the Andean zone, and thus had more room for demographic expansion. In recent Amazon deforestation, it is obvious that labour surpluses in the northeast and south of Brazil have played a role in shaping the stream of migration (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 229±30). Empirical analyses of cross-sectional data on current deforestation

76 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

patterns in the Amazon also confirm a statistical correlation between municipal population growth and rates of forest loss (Andersen et al. 1996: ch.8). It would seem correct to say that demographic changes have been influenced extensively by patterns of growth in the Brazilian economy, implying that demography did have an impact on deforestation (e.g. the migration of surplus labour from the impoverished Northeast), but that historically this impact has been conditioned to a large extent by trade cycles. Historically, the huge Amazon forests were first penetrated by expeditions of bandeirantes hunting down Indians for slave labour in the south. Hence different Amazon forest products, such as cacao, cinnamon, cloves and resins, also became known gradually (Kengen 1992: 181). However, it was not until the 1890s that the Amazon gained a notable but short-lived economic importance through the rubber boom. This bonanza ended abruptly in the 1920s, when tree seeds were smuggled out of Brazil and rubber plantations were successfully established in Southeast Asia. Though the boom induced some migration to western Amazonia for rubber tapping (the seringueiros), it only caused `point' deforestation in limited areas. Whereas the conversion of the southern and northern Atlantic forests was almost completed by the end of the nineteenth century (Brown and Brown 1992: 122), the Amazon forests were thus not significantly affected until the 1970s (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 237±9). The motives of the Brazilian military regime in the mid-1960s in initiating ambitious development plans for the Amazon basin were geopolitical (securing Brazilian claims on vast, sparsely populated territories), social (absorbing labour surpluses from a rapidly growing population on unequally distributed lands) and developmentalist (increasing mineral extraction and livestock and agricultural production). Two main policy inputs helped to provide access to the Amazon. First and foremost, road construction was crucial; for instance, the opening and gradual improvement of the BeleÂm±BrasõÂlia highway (BR-101) from 1960 to 1974 was a landmark in the colonization of the eastern Amazon (Fearnside 1989: 214). Secondly, especially in the 1980s, more focused government-directed development schemes played a much larger role than in Central America, for example with the design of fifteen growth poles under the POLOAMAZONIA Programme. Hydroelectrical projects in the Amazon are another source of forest loss through the flooding of previously forested areas, but so far the extent is limited to less than 1.5 per cent of the total converted area. Box 3.4 analyses one of the first and most important cases, the Grande CarajaÂs Programme in ParaÂ, that, in

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

Box 3.4

The Grande CarajaÂs programme, Brazil

The Grande CarajaÂs Programme in the eastern Amazon (Para State) is the largest mining project in a rainforest region within Brazil's most ambitious development programme, administering an area of 850,000 sq.km. Since the mid-1960s, rich mineral deposits have been discovered in this region, including iron-ore, manganese, gold, bauxite and nickel. Investments in the Serra dos CarajaÂs iron-ore mine totalled 3.4 billion US$, about a third of which was foreign capital (Japan, the World Bank and the European Coal and Steel Community). Foreign investors had a main strategic interest in the provision of cheap and high-quality iron-ore supplies: in 1991, 32.6 million tonnes of ore were produced. In a deforestation assessment of the programme, it is important to distinguish between the direct effects related to pig-iron production and the derived impacts in the larger zone of influence. Regarding the direct component, the mining parastatal Companhia Vale do Rio Doce (CVRD), which paid 45 per cent of the total investments, has developed pioneering environmental safeguards, such as green belts and ecological zoning for the mine and workers' settlement zone. However, huge problems affect the regional environment: a 890±km railway to the seaport of SaÄo Luis has opened up the area to deforesting squatters and cattle-ranchers, and native Amerindians have been displaced in spite of a landdemarcation project. Energy for large-scale pig-iron production is initially supplied from charcoal produced by native forest-felling. By law, the area should then be gradually reforested with eucalyptus plantations to take over the energy supply function, a scheme that seems too costly to be implemented. Foreign investors have focused only on the (mitigated) direct impacts, rejecting responsibility for the (uncontrolled) derived effects. In practice, given the low current world market prices for pig iron, CarajaÂs thus produces a low-cost, low-value product on a huge scale. This can only be regarded as profitable by neglecting the derived ecological impacts and by assigning a zero value to the forest loss involved. Sources: Treece (1989); Romano (1992); IUCN-NC (1996); Young (1995).

77

78 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

spite of a seemingly careful plan of environmental mitigation, is causing massive deforestation, mainly because of uncontrolled migration from the impoverished northeast of Brazil to now accessible zones outside the actual area of the project. Another major development project with good intentions but disastrous deforestation and indigenous expulsion impacts was the POLONOROESTE Programme with the BR 364 highway, focused on à nia State, which received intensified agricultural development in Rondo a stream of migrants, mainly from the south of Brazil. This programme was financed by the World Bank. Foreign capital thus often facilitated projects that `opened up' new agricultural frontiers. However, in spite of experiences like CarajaÂs, transnationals and international development banks cannot reasonably be identified as lead actors in Amazon deforestation; the political process was pushed mainly by domestic interests (Hurrell 1991; Hecht and Cockburn 1989: 108). The timber trade ± also a business with weighty international interests ± had little deforestation impact in the Brazilian case, compared, for instance, to Southeast Asian forests. Transport distances were too high, and the density of currently commercialized species in the forest has been too low for large-scale deforestation. Even when firewood and charcoal uses are included, the average share of timber removed through agropastoral expansion has been calculated at less than 20 per cent on à nia as low as 6 per cent (May and Reis 1993: 30); the average, for Rondo rest is normally burnt on the spot (Kengen 1992: 181). Loggers annually have removed less than 0.01 per cent of all the standing timber in the Amazon forests (Westoby 1989: 111). Yet, depletion of timber stocks in southern Brazil and rising domestic demand have over the last decade led to a gradual expansion in log extraction from the Amazon, both from the traditional eastern production zone (Para State) and from new areas of timber exploitation in the southern and western Amazon (e.g. Mato Grosso State). At the same time, a broader market acceptance of previously non-commercialized timber species has increased the average volume extracted per hectare of forest, thus aggravating the ecological impact of logging operations. This also provides new challenges for policy regulation (VerõÂssimo and Junior 1997). Timber firms may also have an indirect impact in providing access, for example through road construction into virgin forests (see Chapter 2). There is evidence of this impact in some areas of the western Amazon states (Fearnside 1989: 295). However, one may still agree with Westoby (1989: 111) that seeing logging as the main cause of deforestation in Brazil `is a myth, given currency by those who would like a readily identifiable villain'.

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Even more accentuated than in the Central American case is the trend towards a two-tier process of tenure during colonization: small landless peasants (posseiros) clear and claim the land, plant annual crops for a few years and `improve' the plot before selling it off to large entrepreneurs with access to capital for specialization, mainly in cattle-ranching. Plot sizes tend to be much larger than in Central America, due to the perceived abundance of Amazonian land, which is normally allocated by the government at a zero price.23 Unlike what was the case in Central American colonization, social safeguards had little weight in Brazilian land-allocation rules that favoured land concentration (Binswanger 1991: 822±3), although they are still not as skewed in the Amazon as in other rural areas of Brazil (Schneider 1995). Commercial orientation even of the smaller farms is much more accentuated than in Central America. Tenure security in the Amazon frontier regions is also much higher: in 1985, 87 per cent of all occupied land in the northern region and Mato Grosso was held by tenured owners (May and Reis 1993: 19). The role of cattle in Amazonian deforestation is also at least as prominent as in Central America (Hecht 1986; 1989; Mattos and Uhl 1994; Loker 1996), but there is no notable export `hamburger connection': the presence of foot-and-mouth disease has frustrated exports of chilled beef to the US, Japan and partially to the EU, most of the meat being destined for domestic consumption (Hecht 1989: 229, Fearnside 1989: 291). The cattle-ranching potential of the soil after clearing has often been restricted to only a decade, after which nutrients are exhausted or other degradation has advanced. Land degradation includes, as a prime cause, the decline of phosphates in the soil, supplemented by erosion, soil compactation and invasion by inedible weeds (Fearnside 1989: 291). Abandoned lands in the Amazon increased from 40,000 km2 in 1975 to 850,000 km2 in 1985 (May and Reis 1993: 13). However, much effort has recently been put into pasture research in order to delay land degradation and make Amazon cattle-ranching more sustainable (SerraÄo and Toledo 1990). As a third factor, along with road-building and settlement schemes, the Brazilian government promoted Amazon deforestation in the 1970s and 1980s through a whole range of financial incentives. A main instrument has been tax credits used by the Superintendency for the Development of Amazonia (SUDAM), which benefited cattle-ranching, especially in the eastern Amazon. Another measure was subsidized rural credit, which was available throughout most of the Amazon. Agricultural income as such in Brazil was also virtually exempted from

80 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

taxation ± of course, a fiscal tool that was not specifically designed for the Amazon.24 Fiscal incentives were particularly strong in the 1970s and 1980s; they were partially phased out following the fiscal crisis of the late 1980s (Fearnside 1989). Consequently, during the last half of the 1980s, a number of authors argued that cattle-ranching produced negative economic returns and was only made financially feasible by policy-created rents (roads and other infrastructural investments, fiscal incentives) that provided `perverse' incentives for deforestation. Together with free access to the land and the then high rates of inflation in Brazil, Amazon cattle-ranching thus provided an artificial tax and inflation shelter for financial speculators, representing a social misuse of natural resources (Browder 1985; Gillis and Repetto 1988; Schmink and Wood 1987; Mahar 1989). Bearing in mind the unequal land distribution in migrant-sending regions (southern and northeastern Brazil), which was further exacerbated during this period by new large-scale and profitable export crops such as soyabeans, Brazil was seen as a showcase of deforestation led by `policy failures' favouring the elite (Rowe et al. 1992: 38±9; Westoby 1989: 111±13; Dorner and Thiesenhusen 1992). To begin with, it is worth stressing that the common explanation of deforestation through mere speculation processes ± also a very popular scapegoat in the Central American case25 ± is misleading. Analytically, speculation can be seen as a seeking of rents that speculating agents expect to be created, either by market forces or by public intervention. In the former case, speculation can actually be an economically beneficial process in helping to adjust to a new equilibrium between supply and demand, though social side-effects may prove to be undesirable. If rents are created by the government, they may be capitalized as onceand-for-all gains (e.g. through expected road construction or credit subsidies); here, policy intervention rather than the process of speculation is the cause of deforestation. What is essential to keep in mind is that a scenario where `even lands whose productivity was declining were increasing in value because of this speculation' (Hecht, cited in Collins and Painter 1986: 18) is not possible in the long run. Financial land values must maintain a relation to the incomes that can be derived from their possession ± they are not continuously delinked from the real economy. In fact, as Andersen et al. show (1996: 100), land prices increased at a much faster rate in the south of Brazil up to 1982, creating a huge gap between the south and the north. The price gap fluctuated during the following decade (1983±92), according to different economic factors. In other words, speculation

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may be a channel for short-run adjustment (as above), but it is not a cause of deforestation in its own right. Is deforestation in the Amazon an anti-economic, irrational process serving only vested interests? Already by the end of the 1980s, it was pointed out that although subsidies were important in the eastern Amazon, they were not a root cause of deforestation in the entire region (Hecht 1989). Schneider (1995) shows that small and medium farms in the region have been economically rather successful, even over longer periods of time, in spite of the fact that they had only very limited access to subsidies. Recent policy reforms have severely reduced agricultural incentives and introduced ecological-economic zoning requirements (Motta 1993), yet without eliminating the profitability of deforestation. There is also evidence that Amazonian squatters' incomes in the 1980s compared favourably with both minimum urban wages and other comparable labour returns in other parts of Brazil (Young 1995: 12). An ex post evaluation of colonization in the Amazon thus may indicate that many of the settlement efforts proved to be economically rational for individual migrant farmers (Almeida and Campari 1995). The stage hypothesis of Moran (1989) might be highly relevant here, indicating that frontier settlement is a gradual learning-by-doing adjustment process; its profitability should thus not be judged exclusively on the basis of the first stages of settlement. Even at the regional and national development levels, the argument has been sustained empirically from detailed cross-sectional data-analysis that agricultural credit subsidies have a strong economic growth effect while minimizing deforestation (Andersen 1997: 34±5), inter alia because they enable farmers to shift to perennial crops that represent a profitable and rather sustainable land use, but demand initial capital outlays with financial mediation. A generally rational policy strategy may thus be to promote the process of agricultural intensification in a strategic way (improve existing roads, agricultural credits). According to Andersen et al. (1996: ch.8), however, this does involve continued Amazon deforestation, simply because its national development impact is far superior to the income and non-monetary benefits that Brazil can derive from the standing natural forests. Obviously, this refined developmentalist conclusion is highly controversial to many conservationists who have always found `[t]he roots of deforestation and other anti-economical land use patterns' to be `ignorance, injustice and greed' (Brown and Brown 1992: 131±3). On the other hand, if the findings were confirmed by consolidated valuation studies in the field, they would support the present Brazilian president, who

82 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

already a couple of decades ago had noted optimistically `a relative advantage of the Brazilian development process: the existence of plentiful virgin land which can be developed' (Cardoso 1980: 124).

Latin American deforestation: its distinctive attributes In this chapter, it has been argued that Latin America's plentiful naturalresource endowment per inhabitant, coupled with inherent social notions of marked asset inequality and antagonistic resource-management structures, have been conducive to a particular pattern of deforestation. They have also meant that deforestation has traditionally incurred only insignificant costs for the dominant development interests, which explains why it has not become an issue of major political concern: frontier expansion was (and still is widely) seen as equivalent to progress. Discussing what deforestation processes represent rational land-use patterns, under what criteria and assumptions they may be seen as rational, and to whom benefits and costs from this process accrue thus continues to be very relevant. The continent's colonial heritage encouraged extraction strategies possessing four distinct characteristics: O ecologically uninformed land-use technologies O new consumption patterns causing ecological degradation O short time-horizons in resource exploitation O the continuous generation of open access to virgin agropastoral land. Cattle, the prime deforesting sector in Latin America, potentially unites all these four notions: the introduction of an exotic, heavy-hoofed species to fragile lands, frequent meat consumption as a land-consuming `Westernized' habit, the objective of rapid investment returns in a commercial production system, and the adoption of highly land-extensive pastoral systems. MacLeod (1992: 31) sees the introduction of cattle as the main resource-management change brought about by the Spanish conquest in terms of land use. However, the `qualitatively' worse colonial management practices were, well into the nineteenth century, `point impacts' that are bound to have been more than offset by the `quantitative' impact of drastic population decline which reduced subsistence-led pressures on forests during the first three centuries after the conquest. Whereas the former is much emphasized in the literature, the latter tends to be forgotten. Indigenous societies practising permanent agriculture had caused significant deforestation long before the conquest, e.g. the elimination of dry forests in the interior Andes through the repeated use of fire. In

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

83

some cases, such as the Mayas, deforestation was followed by land degradation and stage-led productivity decline. In other cases, such as most of the Amazonian Amerindians, migratory hunters, gatherers and shifting cultivators with low population densities seemed to have had little forest-destructive impact. Sometimes they explicitly developed cautionary management strategies to avoid forest degradation, e.g. by protecting game for hunting or by limiting clear-felling to avoid weed and insect problems on garden plots. But often they also simply seemed to lack the capacity for extensive forest clearing, or warfare and disease reduced their numbers to a level that was compatible with nature's continuous provision of an abundance of rapidly renewable resources. In sum, important trade cycles with primary commodities such as sugar, coffee, cotton and beef shaped the geography of the region's forests, mainly after 1800. Easily accessible areas near colonial markets, such as the Caribbean, suffered the most rapid forest conversion; vast interior forests, like those in the Amazon, were largely preserved until the mid-twentieth century. The timber trade always had more of a degradation than a deforestation impact, though in recent times logging operations have indirectly acted as access providers for subsequent squatter occupation in some regions. Infrastructure, in particular road construction, is the single most important deforestation factor: if there is good access, one can almost be sure that the forest will be substituted by any convenient alternative land use, depending on locally prevailing market incentives. In terms of the three different theoretical approaches outlined in Chapter 2, `political ecology' is without doubt that which is applied most in Latin American deforestation analyses, many of which are viewed from an anthropological angle. Obviously, this emphasis is due to the high asset inequality in the region and the continuous trend of peasants being crowded out of the best agricultural lands by capitalist farmers responding to market incentives. This process, which tends to be supported by the capitalist state, may be implemented through either market forces or violent coercion, depending on how well-defined and secure specific land rights are. In many cases, the long-term marginalization of indigenous knowledge systems and the subversion of local community-based resource-management regimes lead to a gradual `cultural erosion' which endangers the sustainability of native resource use. Yet we also noted that the `neoclassical' core concept of scarcity versus abundance, and its key deforestation criterion of `open access' to forest lands, can be a powerful explanation of why, when and how deforestation occurs. What conservationists call `wasteful resource use' and `bad

84 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

management practices' will continue to be applied as long as land is considered abundant, especially at the agricultural frontier. As noted by Schneider (1995: 16) for the Amazon, this is a perfectly rational response for the individual agent: `Whether a farmer, rancher, or forester intends to remain geographically stable or not, economic forces will probably force him to adapt to a land-surplus economic environment.' This resource-degrading frontier logic of `cowboy economics' ± fouling the nest and moving on ± has been an inherent and lasting feature in Latin American styles of resource management. In many cases, `bad management' has not been permanently damaging to forest cover because the scale of operation was limited to selective intervention. The relative scarcity of resources and the perception of scarcity by different types of agent frequently formed the decisive background to the development of legal frameworks and the impact of different resource-management practices. Of course, one may add critically that `open access' and `land surplus' in a Latin American context may constitute economic terms with a harsh political-ecology flavour. As noted above, the expulsion of migratory indigenous forest-dwellers from their sparsely populated lands has often been a precondition of the `land abundance' or `idle territories' subsequently perceived by different forest-colonizing agents. Finally, a third approach was described in Chapter 2: `impoverishment' deforestation caused by vicious circles, resulting from the limits of population absorption in areas densely populated by small-scale farmers who lack the resources to break the technological deadlock. In general, this approach is probably less relevant in Latin America than in the Asian and African context. This can already be seen from the fact that most Latin American farms on colonization frontiers are commercial rather than subsistence-oriented, thus stressing the role of pull rather than push factors. However, in some of the densely populated and/or environmentally degraded areas, e.g. the Inter-Andean valleys, the Brazilian Northeast or parts of Central America and the Caribbean islands, this approach might be partially applicable to explain the elimination of forest fragments through pressures on subsistenceoriented farms. Whereas historically, trade has been the predominant factor in shaping both the economy and derived patterns of deforestation, rapid population growth and stronger national economies and markets in the last three decades have brought a new source of dynamics into the deforestation picture. Dependency theory, in Latin America still a prevalent ideological approach, attributes environmental degradation

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

85

either to transnational companies' interventions (the Marxist version) or to the development style created by North±South relations (the structuralist version). This appears increasingly anachronistic in explaining processes of deforestation, as it severely underestimates the forces of domestic capitalism and internal development strategies. The debate surrounding the applicability of the `hamburger connection' hypothesis, a mixed cocktail of Southern dependency thinking and Northern conservationism, illustrated the contemporary inapplicability of pure dependency theory. Obviously, the validity of this general verdict always depends on the period and sub-region being examined, as we can see from the comparison of the Central American and Brazilian case studies, both recently experienced deforestation processes led mainly by cattle-ranching ± an `export hamburger connection' in Central America and a `domestic hamburger' link in Brazil. In both cases, domestic policies promoted frontier settlement by means of road construction, agricultural and credit subsidies and, especially in Brazil, directed settlement programmes. Equally, multilateral credits for road-building, mineral extraction, cattle-ranching, agricultural development and hydroelectrical projects played a facilitating role in both regions. However, there are also numerous differences. Central America consists of small, open economies under heavy US market and political influence, many of which face high population densities and a rapidly exhausting stock of remaining forest land. Hence frontier deforestation processes dominated by small-scale pioneers were found ± to a certain extent subsistence-oriented ± with a number of social land-allocation objectives pursued by governments, and with remnants of semi-feudal labour and tenure relations. By contrast, Brazil has a large and relatively inwardoriented economy, currently with notable economic strength and autonomy. The country still disposes of large, sparsely populated forest areas in the Amazon. Its current forest-conversion policies thus have much more the flavour of full-blown domestic capitalism ± the allocation of large plots with few social safeguards, dominated by private property tenure, and with a highly commercial orientation by all frontier farmers. Of course, international capital interests have had their role to play, but to date they have not been a dominant force in Amazon deforestation. Notes 1 World Bank (1997: 215); population figures refer to mid-1995. 2 Seven states and provinces in three countries (Buenos Aires, Santa FeÂ, Guanabara, Rio de Janeiro, SaÄo Paulo, Mexico City and Monterrey) accounted

86 Deforestation: Facts and Theories

3

4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11 12

13 14 15

16 17 18

together for 75 per cent of industrial production in Latin America by the end of the 1970s (Sunkel 1980: 32±3). ECLAC, the Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (Spanish: CEPAL). A thematic volume of the CEPAL Review (number 12, December 1980) gives a good overview of the structuralist thinking of the time on environmental issues in Latin America. Amend and Amend (1995) provide an overview of South America's protected areas, as does Barborak (1992) for Central America. See Meyer (1993) for the case of FundacioÂn Natura and other environmental NGOs in Ecuador. See Denevan (1976: 3,291) for an overview and discussion of estimates, and Chapter 4 on the case of Ecuador. However, one may ask if this creation of isolated `tree islands' in agricultural areas would have any lasting soil preservation impact. Vitale (1990: 62±4); Graham and Pendergast (1992). One hypothesis is that megaherbivores were exterminated when homo sapiens arrived, decreasing interspecies biodiversity, but gene-culture coevolution produced higher intraspecific biodiversity (see Wilson 1992). See Daly (1992). His criterion for distinction between the two scenarios on a global scale is the share of human appropriation of the net product of photosynthesis, which is said currently to be around 40 per cent across the planet. Dean (1992: 6) mentions other introduced exotics that crowded out native species, such as trout, wild boar, house sparrows, red deer and rock pigeons. Local patterns of adaption can be quite different. For instance, Jones (1990) finds rather innovative technology-adaption patterns by highland farmers moving to lowland areas in Central America, but a more conservative approach in terms of food staple choice, maintaining a focus on beans and corn, which are difficult to adapt to the humid tropics. Rudel and Roper (1996) describe a similar picture of access and trade as determinants of regional deforestation trends in all three developing continents. A notable exception is deforestation caused by coca-leaf production for cocaine exports, mainly in Peru and Bolivia. The 1960 figure is from Utting (1993: 6), 1995 forest area from FAO (1997: 189) and land area from FAO (1993: table 1c), excluding Mexico but including Belize. Utting's 1990 figure, based on regional reports, is slightly lower (36 per cent of forest cover); his figures exclude Belize. If Mexico is included, as in Table 3.1, the total forest cover in 1990 is only 28 per cent. During the 1960s and 1970s, population growth rates in most Central American countries were around 3 per cent (Kaimowitz 1996: 30). There is some contradiction between Jones' phrasing in Jones (1990: 120) and further on in the same chapter (ibid.126) on the degree of and criteria for settlement success. See Downing et al. (eds, 1992) for an overview of the Latin American cattlecum-deforestation debate, and Kaimowitz (1996) specifically for Central America.

Latin American Patterns of Deforestation

87

19 In constant 1985 US dollars, from $3.59 in 1970 to $2.65 in 1980 and $1.80 in 1990 (Trejos 1992, cited in Kaimowitz 1996: 26). 20 A third but minor forest formation is the Araucaria (Parana pine) forest in the south, which is supplemented by other woody, open vegetation formations, such as the cerrado (savanna with shrubs) and caatinga (steppe with thorny trees and bushes). 21 Brown and Brown (1992: 121) report a share of 12 per cent, but Harcourt and Sayer (1996: 235) estimate 9.2 per cent (1992 figure). 22 These include the distinction between open and closed forest formations, the correction for clouds in the interpretation of satellite images, assumptions concerning converted areas regarding original forest versus scrub, and natural grassland cover in land surveys ± see Andersen (1997) for a discussion. 23 It is illustrative that establishments under 100 hectares are categorized as `small'. `Large' holdings (over 500 ha) constitute 74 per cent of all the occupied land in Amazonia (North region and Mato Grosso) ± see May and Reis (1993: 19). 24 See Binswanger (1991) for a full overview of fiscal policies encouraging Brazilian deforestation. 25 For instance, Collins and Painter (1986), Jones (1990) and Kaimowitz (1996).

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Part II

Ecuadorean Deforestation

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4

A Closer Look

The first part of this book reviewed general theories and evidence of deforestation, presenting a debate that has drawn attention from both academics, politicians and development practitioners. As already mentioned, resource endowments, population and the colonial heritage have had a decisive impact on deforestation patterns in Latin America. From this overview of historical and current deforestation patterns in different parts of the world, we now turn to the more specific causes of deforestation, taking a closer look at Ecuador ± a microcosm of diversity. The purpose in this chapter is to explain the varied estimates of forest cover and identify the historical processes of changes in that cover over time.

Ecuador: a microcosm of diversity Ecuador has several interesting features for a case study of deforestation. One is its mega-diversity of climate and life zones and, since human presence, the different patterns of land use and specialization. Like its neighbouring countries, the rugged topography of Ecuador has proved an obstacle in the establishment of a nation-wide infrastructure and communication long into the twentieth century. Hence, the economic development of Ecuador has been highly segmented and regionalized. A traditional dichotomy and rivalry still exists between the agribusiness liberal interests in the coastal region and the administrative centre in the highlands, with cattle-ranching haciendas dominated by the conservatives. Compared to the general Latin American picture of pronounced wealth in both renewable and non-renewable natural resources (see Chapter 3), Ecuador's position is slightly different. It is not a particularly 91

92 Ecuadorean Deforestation

mineral-rich country, with the notable exception of oil and minor gold deposits. In agricultural terms, there are relatively rich, though poorly managed water resources (BenalcaÂzar 1989: 44±52; Southgate and Whitaker 1992: ch.8; 1994). The evaluation of agricultural soils depends to a certain extent on the criteria applied. As BenalcaÂzar mentions (1989: 63±9, 231), only 6.8 per cent of Ecuador's land surface is arable, compared to 10 per cent on a world scale. Land-use restrictions are due to a variety of factors, such as slope, fertility and physical qualities. Average perhectare crop yields are generally below those of Andean neighbours and most South American countries. BenalcaÂzar thus argues that Ecuador has no comparative advantage in agriculture (ibid.: 64), but this verdict seems exaggerated, considering that agricultural productivity is not just determined by nature; lagging yields in Ecuador are also the result of insufficient investments in `human capital', i.e. in agricultural research, extension and general education levels (Whitaker and Alzamora 1990). Though one of the smallest nations in South America, mainland Ecuador contains three geophysically distinct regions: the western plains of the Pacific coast (la Costa), the Andean highlands (la Sierra) and the eastern Amazon lowlands (el Oriente).1 The very varied topography and climate have produced an enormous diversity of ecosystems and life zones: according to the Holdridge system (Holdridge 1967), no less than 25 out of about 100 existing life zones on our planet can be identified inside a country with a territory barely larger than Great Britain (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 260). Two of Norman Myers' ten global `hot spots' for species biodiversity can be found in Ecuador: the western forests that originally formed an unbroken southern extension of the Colombian Choco (Pacific coastal forests), and the eastern flanks of the Andes towards the Amazon (Myers 1988). The former area is among the three most diverse and at the same time most threatened hot spot zones in the world (ibid.: 192). Endemism is extraordinarily high: of 55 endemic bird areas of South America, Ecuador has 11, several of which are among the most important (ICBP, 1992: 28, 45±6). A second rationale for using Ecuador in a case-study analysis is its high rate of deforestation compared to most other South American countries: the likely range is between 1.5 per cent and 2 per cent yearly, depending on the source cited (see below). According to the latest estimate by the FAO of a 1.6 per cent yearly loss Ecuador now faces the second highest deforestation rate in South America after Paraguay. The specific dynamics and timing of forest loss differ in the country's sub-regions, but the fact that forests have subsequently come under pressure in all three regions of mainland Ecuador, regardless of climatic zone or

Ecuador: A Closer Look 93

geophysical characteristics, speaks for a closer historical investigation of national development patterns and their prospective relation to processes of deforestation. The productive structure of the country includes an industrial sector that is oriented towards the home market and has risen through industrialization by import substitution that was promoted particularly in the 1960s and 1970s. However, in terms of foreign-exchange receipts, the backbone of the economy has always been primary commodity exports. Historically, this has been dominated by agricultural sectors (cocoa, bananas, and recently shrimp-farming), but since the 1970s oil extracted from the Amazon region has become the dominant export commodity. By mid-1995, the country's population had reached 11.5 million; earlier population growth rates of around 3 per cent from 1950 to the mid 1970s have since declined to 2.5 per cent for 1980±90 and 2.2 per cent for 1990±5. GNP per capita was 1390 US$ in 1995 (World Bank 1997: 214±20). The Costa region, which has the country's largest city, port and industrial centre, Guayaquil, disposes of the best agricultural soils (especially in the Guayas river basin) and is today the production centre for important commercial crops destined predominantly for export (such as bananas and cocoa) or for domestic consumption (such as rice, beans, sugar-cane and fruit). Economic activity and human settlement in la Costa have been concentrated around the major ports of Manta, Esmeraldas and especially Guayaquil. Originally, the southern part of the coastal plains was covered by forests; this region has now been converted almost entirely to agricultural use. The northern segment is still partially covered by moist forests (the province of Esmeraldas, the western part of Imbabura and the northwestern section of Pichincha), but these are also the forests that are disappearing most rapidly. Its accessibility for timber extraction is currently playing its part in this process: although this coastal region disposes of only 13 per cent of forest cover, it produces 48 per cent of commercial timber resources (Sierra 1996: 20). The Sierra region, which contains the Ecuadorean capital Quito, comprises the eastern and western Andean Cordilleras (with several peaks higher than 5000 m.a.s.l.), the flanks towards the coast and the Amazon respectively and the Inter-Andean Valley. The latter lies at an altitude of about 2700 m.a.s.l., though it is somewhat lower in the southern part and contains fertile agricultural soils of new (north) and old (south) volcanic origin. It has been densely populated since pre-Columbian times, under the pre-Incaic period (for instance, the Quitu, Shyri and Äari people) and the brief Ecuadorean Inca rule under Atahualpa. The Can

94 Ecuadorean Deforestation

highlands were also the traditional economic centre, from the Spanish conquest in 1535 until the early Republican period. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, its leading position has been rivalled by emerging agroexport interests in Guayaquil. On the agricultural lands traditionally divided between large latifundios and small minifundios, there is significant production of food crops, some commercial crops and, especially in the latifundios, extensive cattle-ranching. Larger portions of native Andean forests have been preserved on the less accessible eastern and western flanks of the Cordilleras, in isolated high-altitude zones and in areas with less fertility and thus a lower agricultural conversion potential. The Oriente, Ecuador's Amazon region, extends from the eastern Andean slopes to the plains of the Amazon Basin. The region was largely isolated from the rest of the country until three decades ago. Up to this point, there had only been sporadic efforts to integrate the Oriente into the national economy, which were related to oil exploration and to pioneer agriculture on the fertile soils of the high Amazon forests, at the foothills of the Andes. The moist lowland forest areas on the edge of the Amazon basin are extremely wet, with generally nutrient-poor soils. With the oil boom of the 1970s, the region experienced significant changes related to the sequence of road-building, squatter immigration, agricultural colonization and, to a more limited extent, timber extraction (see next chapter). Because of the region's low altitude and its subtropical to tropical climatic zones, its agricultural production resembles conditions in the coastal strip. Products shared by the two regions include sugarcane, oil palm and coffee, but there are also more regionally confined products of the Oriente, such as tea, rubber and Amazon-specific fruit.

How much forest, how much loss? As in most developing countries, there has been no consistent, regular monitoring of forest stocks deforestation trends over the last decades. As we shall see in the following, a number of occasional studies with distinct deforestation definitions, study methodologies and assumptions exist. Unfortunately, they give us insufficient details and insights into what would be the `true' amount of forest cover and its change over time. The main problem is that the differences in methodology, even for comparable source types, are too large to allow precise quantification. Table 4.1 provides an overview of the different estimates, their geographical and forest coverage, and the type of source that has been applied.

95 Table 4.1 National and international estimates of Ecuadorean forest cover, and its change over time Annual Relative deforest. decline3 (in ha)

Period

1995

189,000

�1.6%

11,962,000

1990

238,000

�1.8%

FAO (1994) 12,483,000 SaÂnchez & Toro WRI (1992) 14,773,000 WRI (1994) 11,962,000 (FAO) FAO (1996) 15,600,000

1987

�

�

1990±95 Model estimate 1980±90 Model estimate � Satellite Image

Author

Forest cover (in ha)

FAO (1997)

11,137,000

FAO (1993)

Harcourt & 14,237,000 Sayer (1996)

Year

1980 1990 1994

1987

SUFOREN 8,070,000 1984 (1991)* ITTO & 15,642,000 1962 INEFAN 12,405,000 1985 (1993) 11,437,000 1988 INEFAN 11,578,0005 19955 (1995) Amelung & � � Diehl (1992)6 Cabarle et al. 26,200,000 `original' (1989)7 17,500,000 1958 7,270,000 1988 Sierra (1996)* 546,180 `original' 489,6281 1983 337,4011 1993 Own 15,417,465 1994±5 estimate

340,000 340,000 136,0001 �6,6663

�2.3% �2.3% �1.2%1 �0.1%3

1980±5 1980±5 1985±90 1979±94

Source type

? ? FAO Agency reporting

Coverage notes All forests All forests All forests

All forests All forests

�

�

120,000

�1.3%1

140,739 330,000

�1.0%1 �2.7%1

Prod.forests ‡ other categ.2 � Maps from Closed 1977±87 broadleaf forests 1965±84 Inventories Only 7 provinces4 1962±85 Various All forests 1985±8

106,000

�0.8%5

1965±955 ?

All forests

306,000

�

All forests

341,000

�2.9%1

1980±88 Model estimate 1958±88 ?

All forests

15,223

�2.0%

1983±93 Remote sensing

Only NW region

�

�

� Satellite & survey

All forests

Notes: 1 Own calculations using figures indicated in the specific source 2 Production forests ‡ other wooded land ‡ intended reforestation  recreation forests 3 Negative figure indicates net reforestation, rounded up to one decimal point 4 Esmeraldas, Pichincha, Morona-Santiago, Napo, Pastaza, Sucumbios, ZamoraChinchipe

5 Calculated from indicated figures; years are not stated explicitly

6 Cited in Sierra (1996: table 1)

7 Data reproduced in Harcourt and Sayer (1996: 265)

* Regional estimates

96 Ecuadorean Deforestation

The most recent FAO-FRA update (in FAO 1997: 189) reports a total forest stock of 12,082,000 ha in 1990 and a corresponding figure of 11,137,000 ha in 1995. This means that annual deforestation would have been 189,000 ha during 1990±95, or a yearly forest-loss rate of 1.6 per cent. This compares to earlier estimates from the 1990 FAO-FRA (FAO 1993), with a slightly lower figure for 1990 total forest area (11,962,000 ha) and an average annual deforestation of 238,000 ha during 1980±90, corresponding to a deforestation rate of 1.8 per cent. Of this total, 142,300 ha (59.8 per cent) corresponds to tropical rainforests (mainly in the northern coastal provinces and the Amazon), 34,100 ha (14.3 per cent) to dry deciduous forests (mainly in the southern coastal provinces) and 61,700 ha (25.9 per cent) to hill and montane areas (mainly in the Sierra and the Andean flanks). These figures therefore seem to indicate that there has been a marginal slowdown in Ecuadorean deforestation in the present decade. However, as we saw in Chapter 1, the FAO-FRA figures are not only based on primary data (national forest inventories, satellite images, pre-existing maps), but also on a statistical model to intra- and extrapolate trends, using forest stocks and population densities as the main explanatory variables. In the case of Ecuador, FRA primary data has been based on two surveys, from 1963 and 1987 respectively (FAO 1997a). The 1987 data extrapolated by FAO comes from a map elaborated by R. SaÂnchez and B. Toro for the Ecuadorean Centre for the Integrated Survey of Natural Resources through Remote Sensing (CLIRSEN), based on satellite images.2 The decline in deforestation from 238,000 ha to 189,000 or from 1.8 per cent to 1.6 per cent observed by the FAO in the 1990s reflects primarily the declining population growth rates in Ecuador (from 2.5 per cent in the 1980s to 2.2 per cent in the early 1990s ± see above), which induce a lower model-predicted deforestation rate. It is important to stress that there is no new direct forest-cover measurement to sustain a deforestation slow-down.3 Alternative national estimates of deforestation exist for the 1980s, some higher and some lower than the FAO's 238,000 ha per year. For instance, the World Resources Institute (WRI 1992) estimated that annual deforestation during 1980±85 was 340,000 ha (2.3 per cent). Apparently, these figures draw on other data which may equally be based on remote-sensing analysis.4 In more recent yearbooks (e.g. WRI 1994: 307), this estimate has been directly juxtaposed to the FAO-FRA figure of 238,000 ha for 1981±90. Consequently, for the WRI estimates for 1980±90 and 1980±5 to remain consistent, annual deforestation should have dropped from 340,000 ha in 1980±5 to a mere 136,000 ha

Ecuador: A Closer Look 97

in 1985±90. Although some reduction may have occurred, a decrease of this magnitude is very unlikely.5 Another popular source for international deforestation data is the FAO's own Production Yearbook, which gives general estimates on landuse changes (e.g. FAO 1996). However, the information given here is simply inadequate, being an uncritical reproduction of forestry agencies' own subjective report figures. `Forest cover' includes scrub growth and areas that are intended for reforestation `in the foreseeable future'; on the other hand, estimations exclude `forests used only for recreational purposes' (FAO 1996: viii, note 6). The awkward overall result for Ecuador is that deforestation simply does not seem to exist: forest and woodland area should have increased from 15.5 million ha in 1979 to 15.6 million ha in 1994 (ibid.: 8)! It takes only basic knowledge of the country and its land-use trends to discard this scenario. In the Conservation Atlas for the Americas (Harcourt and Sayer 1996), produced by the WCMC and associates, estimates of forest cover are available for Ecuador's closed broadleaf forest cover (the Atlas excludes dry deciduous forests), based on various maps collected between 1977 and 1987. The WCMC estimate is 14,237,000 ha; the corresponding FRA model estimate for 1990 (subtracting dry deciduous forests) is 11,771,000 ha (ibid.: 264). Unfortunately, the Atlas does not provide us with its own change estimates, so at present these figures cannot challenge the FRA figures in terms of documenting deforestation over time. Furthermore, the combination of regional map estimates dating from an entire decade which was characterized by high deforestation (1977±87) must be considered a weakness. A number of national survey estimates go further back in time in the analysis of forest-cover change. SUFOREN (1991), the then Ecuadorean forestry agency, indicates an average yearly deforestation of only 120,000 ha from 1965±84, of which 12,000 ha would have occurred in the northwestern province of Esmeraldas, 9500 ha in Pichincha province (where Quito is located) and 98,500 ha in the four Amazon provinces. However, these estimates only refer to the main colonization frontiers (7 out of the then 13 Ecuadorean provinces);6 they do not include the more gradual forest-cover removal in the better established agricultural zones of the southern provinces of the Costa (e.g. ManabõÂ, the Guayas river basin) and in most of the Sierra (the Inter-Andean Valley and the slopes of the Andes). The consultancy team from a joint project by the International Tropical Timber Association (ITTO) and the current forestry agency, the Ecuadorean Institute for Forestry, Natural Areas and Wildlife (INEFAN),

98 Ecuadorean Deforestation

reviewed the evidence from three different surveys (1962, 1985, 1988, see ITTO and INEFAN 1993: 3±5). They concluded that forest cover declined from 15,642,000 ha in 1962 to 12,405,000 ha in 1985 and 11,473,000 ha in 1988. Consequently, annual deforestation is calculated to be 140,739 ha during 1962±85 and 330,000 ha for 1985±8. According to the authors, the sudden upsurge in the last three years is explained by an increment in colonization in the Oriente. However, it is much more likely that methodological differences between the 1985 and 1988 surveys explain the quantitative discrepancy.7 It should come as no surprise that official Ecuadorean deforestation estimates are just as contradictory as those adopted by international organizations. Compared to the 1965±84 figure of 120,000 ha in SUFOREN (1991), SUFOREN officials reported a yearly figure of 200,000 ha in the late 1980s, and the Ministry of Agriculture (MAG) a total of 182,800 ha.8 The INEFAN document for the Tropical Forestry Action Plan (TFAP) reports an average annual deforestation of 106,000 ha for the 1965±95 period, but without indicating any sources for this figure (INEFAN 1995: 14). Cabarle et al. (1989) also produced historical estimates of what Ecuador's `original' forest cover might have been before any profound anthropogenic impacts occurred. Their figure of about 26 million hectares would indicate that only a minor share of the country's land area (about 6 per cent) was not covered by some type of forest. This would typically include swamps, snow-capped volcanoes and natural pastures. Even most high-altitude paÂramo grasslands may originally result from hunter-gatherers' repeated use of fire that suppressed woody vegetation, particularly Polylepis trees which may grow at altitudes as high as 4000 m.a.s.l. (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 261). However, this may already have impeded forests from colonizing high-elevation areas following deglaciation, implying that certain areas never were forest-covered because of human impacts (Stuart White, pers.comm.). Cabarle et al. also suggest that 17,500,000 ha of forest remained by the end of the 1950s. However, the given forest figure for 1988 (about 7 million ha) is too low compared to other estimates, since it would indicate very drastic deforestation over the entire period from 1958 to 1988 (341,000 ha; 2.9 per cent yearly), a view which is not shared by other studies. Also Sierra (1996) estimates an `original' forest cover, but only for the case study of the northwestern forests (Esmeraldas and the western part of Imbabura and Pichincha provinces). He believes that this forest cover of 546,000 ha had been largely preserved until the 1960s. Human interventions in the area took off in the 1970s and accelerated in the

Ecuador: A Closer Look 99

1980s. Based on remote-sensing data, a yearly forest loss of about 15,000 ha (corresponding to a 2 per cent yearly loss) is estimated for the 1983± 93 period.

New forest-cover estimates In conclusion, it seems fair to say that there is considerable confusion over the amount of forest stocks, both historically and today. Estimates for current forest cover in Table 4.1 range from between 11.1 and 15.6 million ha, a difference of 4.5 million ha. At the bottom of the table, I offer a more recent estimate of my own, based on new maps from CLIRSEN. The Geographical Information Systems (GIS) registration and interpretation have been implemented on behalf of the Centre for Research on the Cultural and Biological Diversity of Andean Rainforests (DIVA), under the Danish Environmental Research Programme. The unpublished quantitative results have kindly been made available by DIVA.9 CLIRSEN's most recent forest map (see Figure 4.1) has the advantage of using advanced satellite imagery techniques with a higher resolution (1: 250,000). For the highlands, the GIS-based quantification by DIVA also takes into account the recent detailed forest inventories of PROBONA (Programme for Native Andean Forests in Ecuador). At least for the highlands, we can be positive that the figures and maps contain properly consolidated knowledge. It is notable that the estimated total forest cover for 1994±5 (15,417,465 ha) is, to an almost worrying extent, larger than all previous estimates.10 There are several explanations for this difference. First and foremost, the new satellite imagery map is drawn at a 1:250,000 scale, providing much more detail than the CLIRSEN 1987 1:1,000,000 map of SaÂnchez and Toro, not to speak of the 1:5,000,000 map used for the 1963 FAO estimate (FAO 1994: 233). This is an important error-reduction factor, not only for forest cover but, surprisingly, even for the total land area of Ecuador! The new GIS data estimate land area at 255,273 ha11 which, for several reasons, is lower than other estimates.12 Indeed, this underlines the crudeness of the data we are dealing with. Higher resolution makes it possible both to detect a large additional number of fragmented forest patches, and to calculate in a reasonably exact manner their borders and size. As can be seen from a comparison with earlier maps, this is especially important for the Sierra: a large number of forest patches can be found in Figure 4.1, especially in the southern highlands; on earlier maps, these areas had been assumed to be

100

yy y y

0

Miles

100

0

Km

160

Ibarra

Quito

3

Latacunga

Ambato

Riobamba

4

Guayaquil

1

Cuenca

2

Loja

Macara

Highland study areas Cloud cover Forest cover Major roads Major towns

Figure 4.1 Forest cover in Ecuador, 1994±5

Ecuador: A Closer Look 101

already completely deforested. Even in the northwestern forests of the Esmeraldas region, it can be observed that the earlier maps used by the WCMC and others tended to over-estimate the extent of previous deforestation. In other words, the general trend indicates that the older the satellite or aerial photographic estimates, the higher the scale used and the more the country's forest cover has been underestimated.13 A second methodological factor is human nature, in the sense that there may have been individual differences in CLIRSEN's and others' interpretation of satellite data in the elaboration of the 1987 and 1994±5 maps. For instance, areas where clouds hide the land area from the satellite image (marked as C in Table 4.2) may have been excluded completely from previous calculations, leading to serious errors when large, potentially forested areas happen to be covered by clouds at the time the image was produced. In our case, clouded zones were present particularly in the northwest. Unlike some studies, it has not been assumed that forest cover in clouded areas is zero, but rather that it is forested to an extent which is equal to the (non-clouded) remainder of the geographical region. As can be seen in Table 4.2, this correction alone yields more than 400,000 extra hectares in the national forest estimate. However, there may also have occurred some over-estimations in the new 1994±5 map. At first sight, the coastal forest areas near Babahoyo (north of Guayaquil) and in the Salinas±Machalilla area (dry forests in the southwest) seem too large, compared to what one can observe by crossing this area of highly degraded and open or fragmented forest. Satellite-image interpretation for this part of the map was carried out by CLIRSEN's Guayaquil office.14 It is an open question whether `other wooded lands' (including scrub) have been equally differentiated from `forests' in the different studies. In the 1987 map, CLIRSEN had registered 2,220,000 ha of `forest fallows' (then about one-fifth the size of the forest area).15 Hence, it is likely that the new CLIRSEN estimate includes some dry coastal areas that are to be characterized as scrub or other wooded land types which do not satisfy the FAO criterion of at least 10 per cent tree crown cover. Taking a conservative approach, it may thus be necessary to reduce the coastal forest estimate by 20 per cent. This leads to a reduction of 2.68 million ha, meaning that forest cover in the Costa is about 33 per cent rather than 42 per cent. At the national level, the `best guess' of current forest cover (1994±5) would thus be a figure of 14.75 million ha (see Table 4.2), corresponding to a forest cover of 57.8 per cent rather than 60.4 per cent.

102 Table 4.2 Forest cover in Ecuador's three main regions Land area Forest area (ha) excl. clouding (ha)

Forest area incl. clouding (ha)1

Region

Forest cover (%)

Costa

Clouded (C) 0 10 30 40 60 80 100 TOTAL

621,300 3,559,400 40,800 281,500 776,300 94,900 15,900 2,632,100 8,022,200

� 0 4080 84,450 310,520 56,940 12,720 2,632,100 3,105,310

240443 0 4080 84,450 310,520 56,940 12,720 2,632,100 3,345,753 (2676602)3

Oriente

Clouded (C) 0 30 40 60 80 100 TOTAL

20,600 1,118,100 231,100 20,600 112,400 6200 7,387,700 8,896,700

� 0 69,330 8240 67,440 4960 7,387,700 7,537,670

17,448 0 69,330 8240 67,440 4960 7,387,700 7,555,118

84.9

Sierra4

Clouded (C) 0 30 40 60 80 100 TOTAL

202,600 3,627,800 386,800 104,700 69,700 19,400 4,197,400 8,608,400

� 0 116,040 41,880 41,820 15,520 4,197,400 4,412,660

103,933 0 116,040 41,880 41,820 15,520 4,197,400 4,516,593

52.5

15,417,465 (14,748,315)3

60.4 (57.8)3

Ecuador5

GRAND TOTAL

25,527,300 15,055,640

Forest area/ total land area (%)2

41.7 (33.4)3

Notes: 1 Includes clouded area forest estimate for each region, based on forest percentages in each region's non-clouded areas: Costa 3105310/8022200 ˆ 38.7%; Oriente 7537670/889670 ˆ 84.7%; Sierra 4412660/8608400 ˆ 51.3%. 2 Forest area includes forest estimates in clouded zones 3 In parenthesis: conservative estimates, corrected for possible overestimation of coastal forests by 20% 4 Defined as all areas with an elevation of at least 1200 m.a.s.l.; includes Cutucu Å and Cordillera del Condor in the Amazon region 5 Excludes GalaÂpagos Islands Source: DIVA programme, based on CLIRSEN satellite imagery map (scale 1: 250,000), combined with land survey estimates

Ecuador: A Closer Look 103

However, besides methodological differences, we can also observe real trends from the comparison of the new map with previous ones, e.g. the WCMC map (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 262±3), based on data from 1977±1987. In the Oriente, there is a systematic picture of the widening of deforested belts on either side of the MeÂndez±Macas±Puyo, Puyo± Lago Agrio and more recent Tena±Coca roads: new strings of colonization having been established as close as possible to the existing motorways. Obviously, this confirms the continuity of the trends towards deforestation observed in earlier analyses. Even if this new map leads to forest-cover estimates being adjusted upwards, this does not necessarily mean that deforestation has been lower: both current and historical estimates would have to be revised to determine the flow outcome. On the whole, however, an important result seems to have been left unchallenged by the different modifications: there is more forest in Ecuador than earlier believed. This finding is the result of the availability of more sophisticated technical-analytical tools (high-resolution and satellite imagery), the combining of different data sources at the same point in time (satellite imagery as a base, on-site forest inventories as a check) and, probably, use of more skilled personnel in data interpretation. Table 4.2 also provides an outline of the regional picture. In absolute terms, the Oriente holds the largest forest area (7,555,118 ha) and the largest extent of forest cover (84.9 per cent). However, what is more surprising is that the Costa (3,345,753 ha; 2,676,602 in the `conservative' version) and the Sierra (4,516,593 ha) together account for almost the same forest cover as the Amazon. It should be remembered that the altitude-based regional delimitation in Table 4.2 differs from the conventional province-based distinction of main regions that is usually applied in Ecuador. Note that in Table 4.2, all areas above 1200 m.a.s.l. are considered part of the Sierra. First, this includes much of the flanks of the Andes which by some authors are counted as lowlands. Secondly, it means that two mountainous areas in the Amazon region (Cordillera del Condor and CutucuÂ) are included. On the whole, however, the new results underline the importance of forest fragments in total forest cover, especially in the coastal lowlands and the highlands, which at the same time with their high endemism are vital for biodiversity conservation. If there is no general consensus on the likely amount of forest cover, it should come as no surprise that the extent of its change over time is equally disputed. As can be appreciated from Table 4.1. national deforestation estimates range from 0.8 per cent (106,000 ha) to 2.9 per cent (341,000

104 Ecuadorean Deforestation

ha) even for comparable periods!16 A complementary, indirect approach to the quantification of deforestation would be to look at the change in agropastoral land use, thus providing a basic check on the validity of deforestation data. Survey data from the Ministry of Agriculture (MAG) and the National Institute of Statistics and Censuses (INEC) have been produced on a somewhat more regular basis than forest-cover data. Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 19) reproduce the results; we have added some further calculations in Table 4.3. Initially, the most striking feature is the dramatic increase in pastures, which almost tripled from 1972±3 to 1988±9.17 Total cropland only expanded slightly during this period, but there was a shift from typical Table 4.3 Agropastoral land-use trends in Ecuador 1972±3 to 1988±9 (in thousand hectares) Land use Land planted with major highland crops3 Land planted with major tropical crops4 O in Costa O in Oriente Total cropland Pasture O 10 Sierrra provinces O 5 Costa provinces O 5 Oriente provinces Net change in total land use Yearly change

1972±31 1984±51 1988±92 Change 1972± Change 1972± 3 to 1984±5 3 to 1988±9 503

249

325

�254

�178

1090

1364

1393

274

303

1060 30 1593

1304 60 1613

1258 135 1718

244 30 20

198 105 125

2241 1024

4406 1917

6021 2349

2165 893

3780 1325

833

2005

2792

1172

1959

384

484

880

100

496

�

�

�

2185

3905

�

�

�

182

244

Notes: 1 MAG annual surveys 2 INEC annual surveys 3 Major highland crops: barley, legumes, potatoes, soft corn, wheat, temperate vegetables and fruits 4 Major tropical crops: bananas, cocoa, cassava, coffee, rice, plantains, soybeans, cotton, sugar-cane, hard corn, oil palm, manila hemp, peanuts, castor oil, lowland fruit and vegetables Source: Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 19) and own calculations

Ecuador: A Closer Look 105

highland crops to tropical crops. This indicates a growing specialization in the Sierra on cattle-ranching and in the Costa on commercial crops. Indeed, the Ecuadorean version of the `green revolution' also included a shift in the main staple crop in highland consumption from maize to high-yielding varieties (HYVs) of rice produced in the lowlands.18 However, we are most interested here in the net amount of additional land used for agropastoral purposes at the national level, which is calculated in the last two columns. The totals of 2,185,000 ha (until 1984±5) and 3,905,000 ha (until 1988±9) must be divided by the respective number of years, yielding an annual net increase in agropastoral land use of 244,063 ha and 182,083 ha respectively. To what extent are these figures indicative of deforestation? Obviously, they are not very precise measures: on the one hand, although forests clearly constitute the main `reservoir' of agricultural land, other land categories are also converted to agropastoral uses, such as shrubland, natural pastures or paÂramo; on the other hand, deforestation with nonagropastoral end-uses (road-building and other infrastructure, urbanization, oil, mining and industrial land uses) are not included. It may suffice here to say that the exercise provides a useful check on the wildly diverging deforestation estimates given above: obviously, for the 1970s and 1980s as a whole, an annual deforestation of 100,000 ha is too low a figure, while 340,000 ha appears to be too high. Can any trends be observed over the decades in the amount and share of converted forest? From Table 4.1, i.e. the comparison of both international and national estimates, and Table 4.3, i.e. the check provided by agropastoral land-use estimates, we can discern an approximate trend of relatively low deforestation levels in the 1960s, a peak in forest loss more or less from the mid-1970s to the mid-1980s, then a slowing-down at the end of the 1980s and beginning of the 1990s, but not to a level as low as in the 1960s. This trend seems to be supported by regional evaluations of deforestation. Schmidt19 estimated in 1990 that deforestation in the Amazon region ± the major `hot spot' for current land-clearing ± had declined throughout the 1980s to about 60,000 ha per year; in the light of the other figures presented here, this may be an underestimate. Major development of the Amazon region only started with the rise in oil production in the early 1970s in the northern Oriente provinces; immigration and settlement commenced in the 1970s and peaked during 1979±81 (PichoÂn 1997: 70±3). The same pattern is apparently found in the southern Amazon provinces: forest-clearing experienced a spurt in the 1975± 80 period.20

106 Ecuadorean Deforestation

The first impression of land-use data in Table 4.3 might be somewhat different, as expressed by lower annual agropastoral land expansion from 1972±3 to 1984±5 (182,000 ha) than from 1972±3 to 1988±9 (244,000). Nevertheless, this difference is mainly attributable to methodological differences between the MAG and INEC surveys, rather than to actual changes between the two sub-periods.21

Historical colonization and agricultural export cycles22 As mentioned above, it is likely that more than 90 per cent of Ecuador's surface area `originally' (i.e. before human interference on a reasonable scale) had been covered by forests. The historical development of the country thus also includes an important deforestation dimension, in the sense that at least 30 per cent of the country's surface area has been cleared until today. Human settlement in Ecuador probably goes back to at least 10,000 BC (Ayala 1993; BenalcaÂzar 1989: 85±7). Until AD 500, a series of local cultures emerged, mainly in the coastal lowlands, based on hunting, gathering and rudimentary agriculture. It was not until approximately AD 1000 that agricultural surplus production advanced and a partial integration between local cultures developed. Up to the fifteenth century, highland-based civilizations with sedentary agricultural practices progressed significantly, in particular the Äaris). dominating Shyris and other highlanders (e.g. PuruhuaÂs, Can Sequentially, they were able to resist the military threat from the Incas (Ayala 1993). We thus know that pre-Incaic cultures existed in both coastal and highland areas. In the Oriente, historical indigenous settlement was characterized by frequent and multi-ethnic migration, with little development of sedentary agriculture; in the sixteenth century, the area was dominated by Shuar (JõÂvaros) and Coronados (Uquillas 1984: 262±4). Slash-and-burn deforestation in the Costa and Oriente regions remained transient, dispersed and with insignificant net impacts on the country's forest cover. In contrast to the Maya in Central America (Chapter 3), little is known about the deforestation patterns of pre-Columbian indigenous societies that inhabited the area now known as Ecuador. Yet when the Incas conquered Ecuador in the middle of the fifteenth century and built a road from Cuzco to Quito, a high population density had already been reached in the highlands. Both the short Incaic and the long Spanish periods of colonial rule centred economic development in the Sierra. As in neighbouring countries, the introduction of, for example, cattle, sheep and wheat may have caused some localized deforestation. How-

Ecuador: A Closer Look 107

ever, this must have been totally overshadowed by the impact of warfare, slave labour and especially European diseases on indigenous people and their agriculture. The most conservative estimate is that 500,000 people lived in the area of present-day Ecuador in 1492, although alternative conjectures reach about triple that figure.23 This was reduced to a mere 61,000 in 1561 (of which 6 per cent lived in the Costa) and 33,000 in 1591 (of which 11 per cent in the Costa). It took more than two centuries (by about 1800) to reach the pre-conquest level again: by 1840, the Ecuadorean population was estimated at about 612,000, of which only about 86,000 lived in the coastal lowlands (BenalcaÂzar 1989: 88±9). Colonial intercontinental trade focused mostly on mining rather than agricultural products (Chapter 3); in present Ecuadorean territories, mining was restricted to the Zaruma area and would not have caused mentionable deforestation. Ecuador mainly participated in the colonial trade system through textile manufacturing in the highland towns of Quito, Riobamba and Latacunga (Abril-Ojeda 1991: 158). There seems no doubt that the colonial era in Ecuador was accompanied by a process of net afforestation, because of sharply reduced subsistence-led deforestation pressures related to sharp population decrease and the abandonment of indigenous areas of cultivation.24 Specifically, early colonial attempts at lowland colonization in the search for gold and valuable tree species failed entirely, mainly because of a frequently overlooked historical obstacle to tropical deforestation: malaria, yellow fever and other tropical diseases (Bromley 1981: 16). After the declaration of independence in 1822 and throughout the nineteenth century, the links between external trade and economic development gradually increased, partly because of advances in maritime transport, but it was not until the completion of the Panama Canal (1911±14) that trade-led growth received a major impetus. By the end of the nineteenth century, Ecuador represented a poor country with poor internal integration, especially in comparison with the advanced economies in the southern cone of the continent (Abril-Ojeda 1991). Its forest cover was thus also largely preserved until the early twentieth century. The main export commodity in this period was cocoa; Ecuador was the leading world producer throughout most of the nineteenth century. Rising world market prices, coupled with good transport access (and medical advances facilitating tropical deforestation) favoured the expansion of cocoa exports. From a yearly average of 11,194 tons in the 1870s, exports gradually rose to 26,340 tons in 1900±10 and 40,482 tons during 1910±20 (BenalcaÂzar 1989: 187). The cocoa boom lasted

108 Ecuadorean Deforestation

approximately from 1900 to the end of the 1920s, and, as a plantation export product from the coastal lowlands, it gave the first major economic impetus to the Costa region and its main port of Guayaquil. This period of economic prosperity was politically dominated by the liberals favouring trade expansion, with their stronghold on the coast. The boom was also accompanied by infrastructural improvements, specifically the construction of the Quito±Guayaquil railway in 1908. This paved the way for an incipient integration of the two main regions, with impacts beyond the proper cocoa-boom period. Cocoa production was dominated by large-scale haciendas and mainly concentrated in the fertile Guayas river basin, with an agricultural frontier moving northward from Guayaquil. Although many of the profits from the cocoa trade remained with urban merchants, the profits accruing to producers still provided sufficient incentive for continuous forest clearing in the Guayas region (Bromley 1981). When the boom ended in the 1930s, some farms were abandoned while others were sold and split up into smaller parcels. In the 1940s, the Second World War created innovative trade patterns and short-lived demand peaks for new tropical products, such as balsa wood and rice. However, the rail connection with the Sierra, combined with rising population and income levels, provided new opportunities in the coastal region for the cultivation of home market products, such as sugarcane for panela (unrefined sugar) and aguardiente (cane alcohol). In terms of both economic development and deforestation, the banana boom after the Second World War was more important than the cocoa boom, for several reasons. First, the ecological and climatic conditions for banana production are excellent in Ecuador, which turned the country into the leading world producer. Secondly, bananas as a product proved to use more land per output value unit than cocoa, thus economically justifying the clearing of much larger parts of the Ecuadorean coast (Abril-Ojeda 1991: 163). Thirdly, as described in Chapter 3 for Central America, the occurrence of banana diseases led to the substitution of the Gros Michel banana variety for the more disease-resistant and high-yield Cavendish variety. However, the new variety was more fragile in terms of transport, so many plantations were moved to the drier, port areas of El Oro province (Bromley 1981: 20). As former plantations, once cleared of forest, were normally used for other agropastoral purposes, the aggregate impact on deforestation was further accentuated. Fourthly, because of the high demand for labour caused by the then primitive form of banana cultivation, it became a crop grown predominantly by small-scale farmers

Ecuador: A Closer Look 109

(Abril-Ojeda 191: 163). These employment and income opportunities in the Costa attracted a wave of migrants to the coast that would give coastal settlement a more permanent quality than the cocoa boom. On aggregate, the rapid introduction of bananas as a highly profitable export crop, into a land-abundant and capital-scarce environment led to the adoption of land-degrading and deforesting banana production modes in the 1950s and 1960s. Forest loss was then exacerbated by variety shifts and other innovations in leading banana technologies that implied the clearing of virgin areas. Indirect development impacts (road-building, human settlement) also played a major role in the banana's lasting promotion of forest loss. However, successive technology changes have made banana production today a comparatively capital-intensive and land-saving crop, so that its deforestation impact has been very much reduced over time (Wunder 1999). Between 1950 and 1982, annual population growth in Ecuador averaged 2.9 per cent, an unprecedented rate that was also high by international standards. In the coastal region population more than tripled, from 1,298,000 in 1950 to 3,947,000 in 1982 (BenalcaÂzar 1989: 90). Where the cocoa boom had financed rail construction, taxes levied on banana exports now financed the construction of ports and a network of roads. Improved transport facilities greatly promoted domestic trade, in particular between the Costa and Sierra, each with its proper comparative advantages in production. Intra- and inter-regional commerce grew at a remarkable 6 per cent yearly in the 1950±82 period (Abril-Ojeda 1991: 164). However, new though minor agricultural export crops also emerged, such as African palm-oil (from 1965±1985, plantation area grew to 51,300 ha) and soya (30,400 ha in 1985; BenalcaÂzar 1989: 247±8). Coffee was a traditional export product that gained importance in the post-war period, though never to the same level as in Colombia. Production volumes grew at an impressive 5.2 per cent annually during 1950±85 (BenalcaÂzar 1989: 359); at the same time, coffee is also a crop that demands a large number of hectares per output value unit, thus having a large deforestation potential. The combination of an expansion in agricultural export crops, the higher subsistence demands of a rapidly growing population, and the facilitating role of road-building for colonization all promoted a process of rapid deforestation. Bromley (1981: 18) maps the movement of the colonization frontier according to sub-periods. Until 1950, the entire area northwest of Guayaquil centred around Babahoyo (from NaranjalTroncal in the south to Quevedo-El Empalme in the north) had been converted, plus a number of plantation islands inside the forest areas on

110 Ecuadorean Deforestation

the coast (Muisne, CojimõÂes, San Lorenzo, Limones) and in the inland areas of the coastal region (Santo Domingo, QuinindeÂ). In turn, from 1950±1973, an even larger area was cleared southwards towards El Oro province, on the northern coast around San Lorenzo and Limones, but most of all a sizeable area north of Quevedo. Its centre was Santo Domingo de los Colorados, which since 1964 had been connected by road with Quito and thus become well linked with the highlands in terms of trade of agricultural and cattle-derived products. Finally, colonization also reached the Oriente during the twentieth century. Oil exploration efforts in the late 1940s increased interest in the region which until then had been explored only sporadically for gold and cinnamon. Throughout the twentieth century, commercial crops like sugar-cane, tea and naranjilla (a fruit used for juices) and cattleranching were gradually developed (Uquillas 1984: 262±5). Yet in 1960, only 1.6 per cent of the country's population lived in the Oriente, and only small areas had been affected by deforestation (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 69). The agricultural potential of the region was limited, and it was too far away from the ports for export crop development. Consequently, little road investment was made in the Oriente, and settlement until 1950 concentrated around four isolated penetration roads, serving mainly the domestic markets in the highlands with agricultural supplies. Colonization mainly affected areas around the towns of Puyo, Tena, Macas, LimoÂn and Baeza, all lying at the foothills of the Andes and combining suitable agricultural soils with moderately easy access. By the early 1970s, settlement had expanded around these towns along a more or less continuous north±south strip, as well as in the oil areas of Lago Agrio and Coca (see Figure 4.1). The forests of the Amazon region thus did not succumb to any of the agricultural export booms, though they would be significantly affected by the oil boom of the 1970s (see next chapter).

Ecuadorean deforestation: a summary Ecuador represents an example of a country blessed with natural forest richness and a high diversity of ecosystems. At the same time, its uneven topography and its relatively sparse endowment of minerals and of agricultural soils (the latter, disputedly) have provided a number of obstacles to development. Furthermore, Ecuador's relatively isolated location in regard to the main world markets was of paramount importance until the twentieth century, making it unattractive for foreign investment and economic development along the lines of neocolonial

Ecuador: A Closer Look 111

trade integration. Until the 1970s, the country was a latecomer in industrialization and economic development. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, cocoa and bananas had been the two most important export engines, stimulating periodic processes of domestic economic expansion and integration. In deforestation terms, it is most likely that significant forest clearings of a more permanent type had occurred already in pre-Hispanic times, but only in the highlands. With the dramatic decrease in indigenous population following the Spanish conquest and the limited interest of the colonial power in land-using productive activities, it can be deduced that a process of forest regeneration must have occurred and persisted during the centuries that followed. Only with the cocoa boom of the first three decades of the twentieth century did colonization of the coastal lowlands in the Guayas river basin experience a stimulus. However, this was limited in comparison to the successive banana-boom period (approximately 1950±65), which, together with a series of other agricultural products, was responsible for the rapid clearing of forests in the coastal lowlands. Apparently, the areas first selected for colonization were chosen according to three criteria: good soil fertility, adequate climate (rainfall and temperature) and transport access (proximity to roads and ports).25 Consequently, two major historical deforestation processes vis-aÁ-vis an alleged original forest cover of 26,000,000 ha (about 90 per cent of land area) can be distinguished, with a very distinct speed: pre-Columbian clearing in the Sierra that probably occurred over a couple of millennia, and rapid forest conversion in the Costa during the last century. In the terminology of Chapter 2, the question becomes: can one distinguish between `weak' and `strong', and between `leading' and `derived' factors in contemporary accelerated forest loss? Obviously, external trade was the cardinal historical cause of change, both in the sense of the direct demand for land for export crops and in terms of derived impacts of income generation. In Figure 4.2, the causal links are illustrated. World-market changes, with a rise in a specific agricultural commodity price, provide a direct incentive for the expansion of plantations, leading to forest loss. Infrastructural investments (e.g. in roads and ports) and other imports (e.g. fertilizer or machinery) may be directly necessary for the country to take advantage of booming world market prices; together they enable rising producer prices and rising national incomes. Boom-led prosperity thus causes an expansion of domestic demand which may add to the demand for agricultural land and to deforestation pressures. However, there are also lagged impacts. Rising incomes will be

112 Ecuadorean Deforestation

Rising world market demand and prices

Rising producer incomes

Infrastructural investments etc.

Rising national incomes

Regional trade specialization

Population increases

Home market expansion

Higher land demand Deforestation Direct impact

Lagged impact

Figure 4.2 Trade-led deforestation

able to nourish a larger population, which after some decades will tend to increase subsistence needs and market size. While the initially adapted `primitive' technologies tend to be capital-saving and extremely land-extensive and degrading, using forested land as an abundant production input, the example of bananas shows that technological change may be land-saving, thus successively reducing the deforestation impact per output unit over time. However, better infrastructural connections give incentives for specialization and trade, providing access to new areas of colonization. In our case, this mainly concerns the rail and road links between the two main regions (Sierra and Costa). In a country characterized by regions with such different natural endowments, the stimulation of inter-regional trade and productive specialization according to a region's comparative advantage has a great development potential ± and constitutes a powerful reason for forest loss. Economic policies seemed to have a subordinate role in this picture, either accelerating or hindering the processes of trade-led expansion in a country characterized historically by a weak state and widespread

Ecuador: A Closer Look 113

regional fragmentation. It is noteworthy, however, that the dynamics of deforestation changed both cyclically and permanently during the last two centuries. As Bromley stresses, the boom periods dominated by `pull' factors of deforestation were followed by `the ``push'' of land scarcity and rising unemployment in other rural areas of the country' (Bromley 1981: 21), indicating cyclical sequences of different deforestation motives during different sub-periods. A permanent change arising throughout the period of successive cycles was the growing importance of the home market: domestic demand for foodstuffs grew significantly in the post-war period and was satisfied mainly through cultivation-area expansion (rather than intensification), leading to forest-cover reduction (Southgate and Whitaker 1992: ch.3). Looking at the figures for current forest cover ± the second topic of this chapter ± the emerging picture is not very clear. Estimates of current forest cover range from about 11 to 15 million hectares. Lack of comparability for different source types (land surveys, aerial photos, satellite images) is part of the problem. But even for comparable sources, methodological differences may trigger large differences in end results. With satellite imagery, for example, we have seen how differences in the treatment of clouded areas can affect forest-cover estimates. A new estimate, based on CLIRSEN data from 1994±5, is presented. Its main advantage is the more detailed mapping scale (1: 250,000) which, combined with land surveys, allows for the registration and taking into account of many previously overlooked forest fragments, especially in the highlands. This is a factor in the systematic underestimation of historical forest cover, because the earlier the estimates, the less detailed the scales used. The main disadvantage of the new map is an apparent overestimation of forest cover in the southern Costa. A `best guess' provided in Table 4.2 that attempts to correct for this overestimation still yields an estimate of total forest area in Ecuador of 14.7 million ha. This is no less than 3.5 million ha more than the latest and widely accepted FAO figure (11.2 million ha, 1995), and 0.5 million ha more than the older WCMC figure (14.2 million ha, 1977±87). Naturally, as flows must relate to stocks, the estimates of yearly deforestation can be no better than the forest-cover estimates. At the extreme, some authors claim to find an annual deforestation of 341,000 (2.9 per cent) for the last 30 years, others only 106,000 (0.8 per cent). The truth is bound to lie somewhere in between. By checking the consistency with other land-use data, a likely range of 180,000±240,000 ha yearly is found for the 1972±1989 period. In terms of deforestation, the model-based,

114 Ecuadorean Deforestation

popular FAO estimates of 238,000 ha yearly for 1980±90 and 189,000 ha for 1990±5 may thus be more or less appropriate. There is likely to have been a rise in deforestation during the 1970s and early 1980s, compared to both previous and later periods. This more recent upsurge in deforestation will be treated in the following chapter. Finally, it may be surprising to note the wildly diverging quantitative estimates on deforestation that seem to coexist even today, despite the availability of new and more sophisticated measurement techniques. Considering the vast international research and policy attention that this area has received during the last decade, it is a matter of serious concern that even the most basic empirical groundmarks have not been established. There seems to be considerable scope for higher donor involvement in the capacity-building of national expertise through the FAO, WCMC, CIFOR or other bodies to ensure the application of temporally and internationally consistent techniques of measurement and interpretation, e.g. in regard to satellite imagery. This would make it possible to shed more light on the amount and change in forest cover over time, something that everyone has an opinion on, though little seems to be known about it for certain. Notes 1 2 3

4 5

6 7 8 9

An additional fourth but minor zone is the GalaÂpagos Islands.

See FAO (1994: 233±5) for a methodological description.

Naturally, this does not mean that the FAO figures for 1995 are necessarily

wrong, in the sense that the population-based model may give a right prediction. It does, however, seem a more solid base to rely as much as possible on actual measurement of the change in forest cover. No exact source is given by the WRI on the origin of these higher FAO estimates. However, Rudel (1993: 193) refers to a remote-sensing study for 1978±1985 which arrives at the same quantitative result. Note for the sake of comparison that, in terms of the presentation of the sub-periods, I have chosen always to include both beginning and end years. For instance, the 1980s are sub-divided into 1980±1985 and 1985±90 (each covering five years). In the WRI statistics, they are presented as 1981±85 and 1986±90, i.e. only with end years mentioned. The province of Napo-SucumbõÂos was divided (into Napo and SucumbõÂos) in the 1980s. I suspect that it is this type of error ± the comparison of different survey data with conflicting methodologies ± that has also induced the excessive deforestation in the WRI-reported figures (see above). Cited in Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 105) and in Rudel (1993: 193, footnote 3), respectively. I am indebted to Flemming Skov, coordinator of the DIVA programme, for kindly making available the map and primary quantitative figures that are reproduced and used for the calculations in this chapter.

Ecuador: A Closer Look 115 10 Except for the rather meaningless forest definition in the FAO Statistical Yearbook (FAO 1996; 15,600,000 ha). 11 The original unit applied is km2 ; 1 km2 ˆ 100 ha. The sum of the regional data presented in Table 4.2 (25,527,300 ha) marginally deviates from the estimate for the entire country (25,536,600), due to rounding off the figures for the regional border areas. 12 The Galapagos are excluded from our data, but this only accounts for 788,200 ha (Rachowiecki 1992: 398). Adding this to the land area from Table 4.2 (25,527,300 ha), total land area is 26,315,500. However, FAO (1996: 8), FAO (1993: table 4c) and others (WCMC, World Bank) report 27,684,000 ha, ITTO-INEFAN (1993: 4) and INEFAN (1995: 13) 27,068,000 ha. Consequently, there is a difference of between 700,000 and 1,300,000 ha between Table 4.2 and the alternative estimates. Part of the problem may be the interpretation of Ecuador's border with Peru in an area where the Rio de Janeiro Protocol (the document determining the current de facto border with Peru, which is still challenged by Ecuador) gives no clear guidelines on the limits of national territory. However, probably most of the difference is due to better mapping that yields more exact estimates. 13 It might be objected that this argument concerning `forest-fragment detection' is not unambiguous, because the agricultural fragments of shifting cultivators in large forest areas would also be detected much more easily. In practice, however, the amount of truly forest-dwelling, shifting cultivators in Ecuador is very limited. In other words, there is a much higher incidence of forest patches in non-forest areas than vice versa. 14 It may well be possible that CLIRSEN personnel in Guayaquil did not have the necessary skills or resources to produce outputs of the same precision as for the rest of the country (Flemming Skov, pers. comm., 27 Nov. 1997). 15 See FAO (1994: 233). The Spanish denomination here is aÂrea de barbecho; no sub-categories are given, compared to the usual FAO categorization of `long fallow', `fragmented forests', `shrubs' and `short fallow'. 16 The former corresponds to INEFAN (1995), the latter to Cabarle (1989). 17 Degraded agricultural soils that are little used as pastures are included in this category. 18 Hansen (1986) analyses a similar shift to rice in Colombia, including nutritional and environmental consequences. 19 Schmidt, R. (1990): `Sustainable development of tropical moist forests', FAO Forestry Department, Rome, cited in Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 105). 20 Rudel (1993: 56±7 and chs 5±6) describes this in detail for deforestation in Santiago-Morona province, arguing that the initial clearing of large forest tracts was partially linked to road-building and to the support of government agencies in the 1970s. 21 Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 19) mention that the MAG figures may underestimate certain land uses, compared to INEC data. In addition, we note that pasture expansion in the Costa and Oriente appears unrealistically large between 1984±5 and 1988±9. 22 I am particularly indebted to Dr Stuart White for clarifying comments on this section. 23 See Denevan (1976) for an overview of the pre-Columbian population controversy. The conservative estimate is from Rosenblat's study in the 1950s;

116 Ecuadorean Deforestation alternative figures reach 12,100,000 for the Central Andes (Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia ± ibid.: 291). 24 Bromley states the same hypothesis somewhat more cautiously: `From the Spanish conquest until the late 19th century, there was relatively little colonization in the humid tropical areas of Ecuador' (Bromley 1981: 15). 25 Flemming Skov, DIVA, presentation at DANIDA Headquarters, Copenhagen, 27 November 1997.

5

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests

This chapter deals with the last twenty-five years of Ecuadorean history, which have been characterized by the most important structural change in the economy since World War II: the rise in oil exports. Not only was there a permanent change in income and trade structure, but the dynamics of deforestation also changed compared to those described in the last chapter, mainly because domestic markets and economic policy had a larger role to play. This also gives an opportunity to test some hypotheses from Chapter 1: first the external macroeconomic framework is outlined, then the domestic policy response and sectoral adjustment are analysed and, finally, the alleged impacts on forests are assessed.

Export boom, foreign borrowing and structural change Ecuador only emerged as a significant oil exporter in the early 1970s, due to successful exploration and production in the Oriente. From a production of less than 1 million barrels in 1971, oil production grew to 76.2 million in 1973 and maintained this level from 1978±82 (Gelb and Marshall-Silva 1988: 176). It was not until the 1982±6 period that Ecuadorean crude petroleum export doubled in quantity, concurrently with the sharp drop in oil prices, first in 1983, and more sharply in 1986 (IMF 1991: 342±3). In terms of oil-generated foreign exchange, the country thus took less advantage of the first oil-price hike in 1973±4, because of its still limited production levels. Unlike traditional oil exporters, Ecuador's bonanza was not a pure (transitory) price hike, but a (continuous) quantity boom, a fact that is sometimes blurred in assessing the nature of Ecuador's oil boom.1 From the pre-1973 export base, dominated entirely by agricultural products such as bananas and coffee (with a 1970 export share of 65 per 117

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cent and 27 per cent, respectively ± IMF 1991: 342), in the 1970s oil came to constitute the dominant export commodity and has remained so ever since, with an export share of 30±60 per cent during the 1980s and 1990s. Because of the cost of extraction in the Oriente, it was also necessary to undertake sizeable investments in the oil sector, corresponding to between 10 and 15 per cent of total public investment during the 1974±81 period (Gelb and Marshall-Silva 1988: 184). However, new foreign-exchange inflows in the period were not limited to oil export receipts. Like many other oil exporters, the country used its new credit-worthiness and easy access to international capital markets in the mid-1970s for external borrowing. In the period 1977±81, Ecuador indulged in a short but intense borrowing period: long-term loans jumped from US$159.8 million in 1976 to US$633.2 million in 1977. For comparison, crude petroleum export revenues for the same year were only US$478.2 million. In 1981, long-term loans had soared to US$1,275 million, but with the Mexican crisis in 1982, the figure suddenly turned negative (US$114.1 million). Simultaneously, in only six years external debt had risen tenfold to US$7,705 million in 1982, and, with the sudden rise in real interest rates, long-term interest payments went up to US$764.7 million (World Bank 1992: 234±5). Figure 5.1 gives an overview of the two types of inflation-corrected foreign-exchange inflows from 1970 to 1995 (in fixed 1987 US$). Net foreign-capital inflows2 boomed from 1977 to 1982 and almost reached zero in 1983±5, with fluctuations from the mid-1980s onwards. The real value of crude petroleum exports3 rose in 1974 and again in 1978±80, but was reduced by the oil-price drop in 1986; revenues then stabilized at around US$1 billion (in 1987 prices). It may be argued that, as the economy was growing rapidly during the last two decades, the absolute levels of foreign-exchange receipts may not be the best indicator, given that sectoral impacts occur relative to other trends in the economy. With real growth rates averaging 9 per cent during the 1970s, Ecuador jumped from the low-income to the middleincome country category ± a lasting wealth effect which was only marginally reversed by the severe economic crisis of the 1980s. Figure 5.2 takes this into account by calculating the variables in Figure 5.1 as national income shares. This changes the picture slightly, towards a stronger boom impact in 1974±7, and a downward adjustment for the 1980s, although 1983±90 inflows are still higher than the corresponding 1970±3 levels. The aggregate picture of the two booming sector inflows is perhaps somewhat surprising, compared to the common perception of deep external crisis in the 1980s. It is true that foreign-exchange

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inflows peaked in 1979±82, but the post-boom levels were still higher than the pre-boom inflow shares. In comparison to the cocoa and banana booms analysed in the last chapter, the boom was not only larger in size, but there was also a fundamental qualitative difference: agricultural windfalls went to private producers, but oil revenues (and most borrowing) accrued to the state. As a custodian of oil wealth and external credit, Ecuadorean governments of the 1970s followed three distributional objectives: O to strengthen national integration between Sierra, Costa and a largely undeveloped Oriente O to attain high growth rates and subsidize industrialization to absorb the large labour surplus O to develop social infrastructure (health, education) and improve living standards. To a large extent, this development agenda was in fact achieved. GNP per capita grew from US$300 in 1972 to US$1,490 in 1981; it then declined to US$1,010 in 1989, but rose again to US$1,390 in 1995 (World Bank 1992: 232±3; 1997: 214). Employment grew, though mostly in urban tertiary sectors, and both rural and urban incomes and salaries increased in real terms. Yet during the 1980s, the Latin American debt crisis also hit Ecuador severely; this was reinforced by two internal Äo floods and the 1987 earthquake. It proved shocks, the 1983 El Nin difficult to reverse the boom-led trend of real exchange-rate appreciation, pointing to a persistence of inflation (Vos 1989: 226). Part of the adjustment problem in the 1980s was that the precondition for re-establishing external balance would have been drastic economic policies favouring agroexport interests ± such as a sharp devaluation and the lifting of export taxes ± which proved to be politically difficult to implement. The neo-liberal government of FebresCordero (1984±8) attempted to follow this path but had to compromise, due to resistance from the influential urban middle classes (de Janvry et al. 1991). With regard to agriculture, the effects of structural adjustment programmes (SAPs) favoured agricultural exports, but liberalizations hurt certain domestic agrarian sectors (coastal rice and highland wheat producers) that had benefited previously from protectionist price and import controls (Mosley et al. 1991).

The oil bonanza and sectoral redistribution In macroeconomic theory, the consequences of commodity booms are often analysed by so-called `Dutch Disease' models, a term that devel-

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oped in the discussion over the impact of natural-gas exports from the Netherlands4 and that highlights the different boom-adjustment pattern for internationally traded and non-traded sectors. The mechanism is as follows: rapid foreign-exchange inflows from a booming sector generate higher domestic incomes and demand. This causes the nontraded (sheltered) sectors in the economy (services, construction and other sectors sheltered from international competition) to expand and imports to rise. Conversely, higher inflation and a real revaluation of the exchange rate prove unfavourable to traded (exposed) sectors that lose competitiveness vis-aÁ-vis international producers and tend to decline. In the Netherlands, this mainly hit industry. In Ecuador, the principal candidates were primary sectors (agriculture, forestry, fisheries). However, the government influenced this scenario through its sectoral development strategies. Following the objectives outlined above, the main recipients of oil incomes were the following sectors: O infrastructural development, mainly road-building O industrial subsidies O energy consumption subsidies O growing public employment O education and health. The nominal exchange rate was held constant from 1971 to 1981, at 25 sucre to the dollar (IMF 1991: 340±1). At the same time, yearly inflation, as measured by the consumer price index (CPI), rose gradually from 7.5 per cent in 1973 to 21.7 per cent in 1981 (World Bank 1992: 232±3). As these rates continuously exceeded the corresponding US$ inflation rates, the Ecuadorean economy faced a severe real currency appreciation during this period, just as the Dutch Disease model would predict. This favoured both consumption goods imports and, in particular, industrial investment in imported machinery and equipment, an effect that in 1975±81 equalled a yearly subsidy of between 3.8 per cent and 5.3 per cent of Ecuadorean GDP (Gelb and Marshall-Silva 1988: 182). Importsubstituting industrialization was reinforced during the 1970s, through subsidies and protectionist trade policies. This meant that industry did not suffer from the oil boom ± on the contrary, manufacturing increased its export share from 9.7 per cent in 1970 to an impressive 17.6 per cent in 1980 (Abril-Ojeda 1991: 162). Besides industry, conventional protected sectors such as urban construction and the service sector also benefited: higher national income and a rise in purchasing power increased prices and quantities. It is noteworthy that the industrial and service sectors are both concentrated in urban areas. The oil boom and foreign borrowing inflows thus

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accelerated urbanization and migration to the cities (Commander and Peek 1986): The share of urban population rose from 40.7 per cent in 1972 to 48.8 per cent in 1982, reaching 55.1 per cent in 1989 (World Bank 1992: 234±5). Publicly accruing oil revenues also partly shifted economic power from the coastal agribusiness centre of Guayaquil back to the capital, Quito, in the highlands. However, even if there was an overall bias against agricultural interests in the 1970s, there were also many counteracting measures, as we shall see in later sections of this chapter. An important feature is that Ecuador's Dutch Disease version was not as sectorally skewed as for many other oil exporters, e.g. Nigeria, Venezuela or Trinidad and Tobago. The government took less of an entrepreneurial role and chose to distribute a large part of the benefits through sectorally balanced subsidies. At the same time, public investment also took directions that favoured a balanced sectoral growth. Finally, commodity export prices for traded sectors such as bananas and coffee were favourable during the 1970s. All these factors in conjunction meant that, in Ecuador, the boom did not trigger such strong changes in sectoral composition as in comparable Dutch Disease cases; in particular, an outright decline in agricultural production was avoided. Rather, as should be expected, agriculture lost ground in relative terms: during 1970±82, the agricultural share of GDP declined from 21.9 per cent to 13.9 per cent, manufacturing increased from 17.3 per cent to 20.5 per cent, and other (non-traded) sectors increased from 60.8 per cent to 65.7 per cent (Fardmanesh 1991: 713).

Oil production and Amazon forests How is this macroeconomic picture linked to deforestation? As described in Chapter 1, a branch of the literature claims that the macroeconomic framework has a decisive influence on deforestation, in the sense that foreign-exchange shortages (debt crisis and/or SAP implementation) lead to higher forest loss. In part, the argument draws on the `impoverishment' framework (marginalized groups may be expelled to the agricultural frontier); however, the dominating mechanism is `neoclassic': devaluation and other export incentives raise competitiveness and boost production of primary commodities, which constitute the traditional export sectors in developing countries. In particular (land-using) agriculture and (tree-using) timber exports increase and thus induce forest loss. For instance, this line of reasoning is expressed in the forest policy handbook of the WWF and IUCN: `Of the 17 most indebted countries, 14 have tropical forests. In practice, debt servicing

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 123

is often achieved by cashing in natural resources such as timber' (WWF and IUCN 1996: 13). If this argument is valid, one should expect symmetrically that foreign-exchange abundance in any given forested country5 is accompanied by less deforestation, compared to pre- and post-boom periods. The Dutch Disease-type of commodity boom and sizeable foreign-exchange inflows should thus, ceteris paribus, slow down deforestation, mainly because the country is earning foreign exchange without needing to fell trees or expand export agriculture.6 The main mechanism here is real exchange-rate appreciation, i.e. currency revaluation and domestic inflation combined, which cause the competitiveness of traded agricultural and timber goods to fall and reduce forest loss. A precondition is, of course, that the booming sector itself is not heavily land-using: as explained in the previous chapter, the cocoa and especially the banana booms had important roles in the deforestation of the Ecuadorean Costa. An initial question is therefore whether the 1970s exploration and production efforts in the booming oil sector itself were accompanied by deforestation. As for the timber sector, direct and indirect impacts must be distinguished, i.e. areas actually cleared for oil-related activities versus the oil companies' impact in opening up forest areas. Concerning direct impacts, it is estimated that an average oil-exploration platform causes complete clear-felling of 2±5 ha, whereas an additional 15 ha are deforested for the use of construction timber.7 In the production phase, the most important direct impact is the area cleared for the construction of penetration roads. There is also significant river pollution and wildlife reduction that may deteriorate forest quality, but which according to the definitions in Chapter 1 is not considered `deforestation'. Direct deforestation impacts are thus probably intermediate. Technical solutions would exist to reduce these impacts (e.g. minimizing roads and the use of construction timber), but because of the already high production costs and current low oil prices on the world market, there is limited political will to sacrifice a share of the reduced profit margins for environmental mitigation. More important than direct clear-felling are the indirect impacts of roads: it is generally recognized that oil-motivated penetration roads opened up new agricultural frontiers in the northern Amazon region. Roads thus acted as local determinants of deforestation even in advance of their actual construction (PichoÂn 1997: 71). This trend is also visible on the map in Figure 4.1, showing how roads have been driving expanding wedges into the rainforests of the Oriente. In the first period of

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squatter colonization, this may give access to some log extraction; gradual forest-clearing by `slash-and-mulch' methods follows, using the land mostly for commercial crops and land-extensive cattleranching. Besides road-construction, occasional off-farm employment and the provision of social infrastructure (schools, health care) are other colonization-pull factors that may be induced by the oil sector (see chapter 2). Notwithstanding, about 60 per cent of the Ecuadorean Amazon region's economically active population work in agriculture (Southgate, Sierra and Brown 1991: 1146). In principle, one could therefore question the additional deforestation impact of the oil boom: road construction may have directed settlers to specific areas, but in counterfactual terms, the same amount of deforestation might have occurred elsewhere, even without oil production. This is what was called `weak causality' in Chapter 2. The available data lend some support to this hypothesis, but there are also arguments against it. On the one hand, the take-off in migration to the Oriente fully coincided with the oil boom. From 1974 to 1990, the region had the highest population growth in the country (6.7 per cent); a total of 92,700 people moved to the region between 1974 and 1982.8 In comparing the four different Amazon provinces, the data from SUFOREN (1991) about changes in the forested area between 1965 and 1984 (see Chapter 4) confirm that at 770,000 ha, the most oil-affected province, Napo-SucumbõÂos, experienced greater deforestation than any of the three southern provinces of Pastaza (250,000 ha), Morona-Santiago (550,000 ha) or Zamora-Chinchipe (400,000 ha). Roads in the northern part were generally planned according to oil interests and settlement followed them, independent of the fact that other soils without road access often had better agricultural potential (Hicks 1990: 12). On the other hand, adding up deforestation in the three southern provinces (1,200,000 ha) indicates that non-oil factors at work in the south have played an important and oil-independent role. These include the agricultural trade links established between the southern highland region and the Amazon, colonization initiatives by regional development agencies and, as an `underlying' factor, the geopolitical motives of populating a region with unclear border delimitations and frequent military conflicts with Peru:9 only recently, following the 1995 armed conflict, was publicly directed settlement intensified in the Cordillera del Condor area to strengthen the Ecuadorean presence. This stresses that geopolitical motives still have relevance today. Migration to the Amazon can be portrayed as a multi-stage process of stepwise

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 125

movements; inter alia there has been intra-regional net migration from the old southern colonization areas to the petroleum zone in the north. The oil boom and its derived impacts have thus added another, though vital, pull factor to the multifaceted dynamics of Oriente colonization (Brown and Sierra 1994). On balance, unlike the situation for enclave oil exporters such as the Gulf countries, the oil boom did in fact cause deforestation by itself in Ecuador. This is true of both the direct clear-felling and especially the indirect impacts of making virgin forest areas accessible and attractive to agricultural settlement. However, not all of this indirect impact caused truly additional deforestation, compared to what would have occurred in the country as a whole if the boom had simply been a financial transfer without any oil exploration and production (pure spending effect): in part, other regions and sectors would have received a larger share of investment in infrastructural expansion, causing deforestation impacts elsewhere.

The competitiveness of primary commodity sectors If primary sectors like timber, fisheries and agriculture are the main traded sector, it should have been expected from Dutch Disease theory that the significant real currency appreciation would crowd them out and hence diminish any deforestation impact they may have. As shown above, a relative, not an absolute, decline in agriculture occurred, which is explained by several factors. First, rapid income growth also increased demand for those domestic agricultural products that were partially trade-protected from foreign competition (such as wheat, rice and dairy products). Secondly, policies of national integration promoted agricultural specialization and lower transport costs (see below). Thirdly, sectorally balanced policies cushioned competitiveness impacts, for example by reducing traditional taxes levied on agroexports. A fourth explanation is that the `purely traded' export sectors like bananas and coffee coincidentally also faced favourable price cycles in the late 1970s: coffee prices experienced a proper boom in 1976±8, and banana export unit values almost doubled in 1974±80 (IMF 1991: 342±3). In terms of the deforestation impact of declining competitiveness, it is important to assess first the specific price and productivity trends affecting each relevant sector. As described in the previous chapter, banana plantations were responsible for much of the historical deforestation in the Costa. However, production volumes reached a peak at the beginning of the 1970s and declined in 1970±85. This was accompanied by a

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structural shift to more productive and high-value banana varieties. In combination, these changes implied a significant reduction in banana plantation areas, which enabled a diversification of coastal plantation agriculture (BenalcaÂzar 1989: 362±3). Of course, one can argue that in a counterfactual `no boom' scenario, export agriculture would have been more competitive and could have grown at faster rates, an argument that finds some empirical support. Agricultural exports as a whole grew by a yearly 11.4 per cent in the post-boom period of 1983±8, one of the highest rates in Latin America (Southgate and Whitaker 1992: 41). For instance, a remarkable expansion in banana production occurred in the last half of the 1980s and the early 1990s when foreign-exchange availability was low and the sucre had been devalued. However, due to the higher productivity of banana plantations, the additional deforestation impact is likely to have been very limited. A land-using export sector with some deforestation impact is Ecuador's new miracle export sector: shrimp production from ponds located along the coast.10 Shrimp exports started to grow rapidly from 1981 to 1988, and again in 1991, making Ecuador in less than a decade the largest shrimp producer in the western hemisphere. By 1986, it had become the second export sector after petroleum (Mosley 1991: 414). As producers adopt land-extensive, low-cost and low-yield production methods ± and as command-and-control regulations have proved inefficient in impeding open access to land ± the sector's dramatic growth has had a marked impact on ecosystem degradation and mangrove swamp deforestation: from 203,700 ha in 1969, mangroves declined to 182,100 ha in 1984 and 175,100 ha in 1987.11 One can conjecture that, had the Ecuadorean sucre been heavily overvalued throughout a foreignexchange boom in the 1980s, the spectacular growth and resulting deforestation caused by this sector would probably have been at least downwardly adjusted. Besides agri- and mariculture, another potential victim of the Dutch Disease is the timber export sector, which, for example, during the 1980s has been stimulated by devaluations and raised competitiveness in the Bolivian case (Kaimowitz et al. 1996). Nevertheless, Ecuador's forestry sector is generally inefficient and inward-oriented: exports account for less than 2 per cent of production volumes, and are dominated by balsa wood and eucalyptus from plantations. This reduces their potential deforestation impact. The trade balance of the Ecuadorean forestry sector is in fact negative, due to significant imports of pulp and paper (ITTO and INEFAN 1994a).

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 127

Changes in the external economic environment are thus unlikely to be driving forces for the development of Ecuadorean timber production. This is also reflected in sectoral growth rates, which behave contrary to what Dutch Disease theory should make us expect because of the dominance of internal trends specific to the forestry sector: its annual growth was 9.6 per cent in 1965±81, but only 2.4 per cent in 1982±9 (Southgate and Whitaker 1992: 40). Finally, although conservationists in Ecuador stress the deforestation impact of timber companies, especially in the northwestern lowlands of Esmeraldas province (e.g. Sierra 1996: 8), it can be asked whether their impact is not primarily forest degradation, rather than deforestation (see Chapter 7).

Urbanization and the shifting demand for food As noted above, the boom caused an expansion of urban non-traded (construction, services) and `quasi non-traded' sectors (protected industries). This accelerated urban labour absorption and migration to the cities, especially to the labour-intensive service sector. Such a productive shift from primary to secondary and tertiary sectors will, other things being equal, tend to reduce migration to the agricultural frontier, thus curbing deforestation. Data on the expansion of urban sectors indicate that this is bound to have had a strong effect. These figures even ignore the fact that there was a huge rise in rural±urban commuting in the 1970s. Commander and Peek (1986) show how especially the smallest farms (0±5 ha) supplemented their agricultural incomes by urban offfarm employment (e.g. in the construction sector), yielding about 50 per cent of household incomes from this source. The process was further stimulated by road construction and the huge energy subsidies that increased the mobility of both rural workers and products. These policies thus became the means of achieving a `trickle down' of boom incomes not only from rich to poor, but also from urban to rural areas: with migration, rural±urban commuting and trade integration, the rural poor registered strong gains during the boom (de Janvry et al. 1991: 1582). Rising welfare normally creates an increasing but disproportionate demand for food: with higher incomes, people tend to spend less on basic food staples and more on `luxury' foodstuffs such as vegetables, fruit, meat and dairy products.12 Consequently, meat and especially dairy products experienced higher sales in the 1970s, which, together with infrastructural improvements, reinforced an existing pattern of Sierra specialization, as shown in Table 4.3. Highland staple crops were

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increasingly replaced with rice from the Guayas river basin in the Costa, while the Sierra gradually shifted to livestock production; from 1970 to 1990, heads of cattle in Sierra cattle-ranching doubled (FLACSO 1994: 144). Cattle also received a lasting national stimulus, although of an increasingly land-extensive, low-productive type, including on lands previously degraded by agriculture.13 On the whole, the urban development bias of the boom has, ceteris paribus, reduced deforestation, especially in remote frontier regions and rural areas with a population surplus migrating to the cities. However, it is obvious that growing urban centres like Guayaquil and especially Quito also left their own `ecological footprint' on nearby forests. This is due both to the demand for wood products (charcoal, firewood, timber) but, most of all, to clearing forests for agriculture in the vicinity of the cities. The example of the northeastern part of Pichincha province near Quito, with rapid forest conversion almost exclusively for pasture, is quite illustrative of the ecological costs of urbanization.14

Road construction and transport subsidies In a poor country with traditionally isolated regions, the extension of road networks was a sine qua non for the government's strategy of increasing national integration, higher factor and goods mobility, and specialization in accordance with regional comparative advantage. In 1974, no less than 48.4 per cent of public investments were channelled into road construction, a share that only gradually declined to 18.2 per cent in 1981 (Gelb and Marshall-Silva 1988: 184). Improved access helped rural areas take advantage of fast-growing urban markets by shifting from subsistence to commercial crops and cattle-ranching (see last section). A costly policy of heavy subsidies to domestic energy consumption (amounting to no less than 7.3 per cent of GDP in 1980 ± Gelb and Marshall-Silva 1988: 182) worked in the same direction, increasing rural mobility and market access for agricultural products. Obviously, new roads had permanent mobility repercussions beyond the proper investment period; the impact of subsidies was limited to the period they were in effect. Although this earmarking of oil wealth may have been a rational element in a regionally balanced development strategy, it had a very high cost in terms of forest loss. In Chapter 2, roads were singled out as the internationally most important facilitator of deforestation. In Ecuador the picture is similar (see also Chapter 8). Historically, this is exemplified by the completion of roads from Ambato to Puyo (1947) and from Quito to Santo Domingo (1964). The first came to open up the

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central part of the Oriente, the second the central coastal lowlands. Santo Domingo is an interesting example of the qualitative steps of colonization that infrastructure can provoke. Roads to the port of Esmeraldas and the 1961 link to Quevedo and Guayaquil fostered the production of coastal export crops such as bananas and cocoa. However, since 1947 there had only been a single-track dirt road to Quito, implying that cattle and heavy agricultural products were not traded with the highlands at that time (Casagrande et al. 1964: 304±5). With the 1964 completion of the larger all-weather road, it was observed that the scale and spectrum of traded production widened considerably (Wood 1972: 600± 4). Together with the 1967 road from Quito to Los Bancos, later extended to Esmeraldas, this was a benchmark in the colonization and progressive deforestation of the forests of the central Costa and the western part of Pichincha province (Rosero 1992: A4±A10). Road construction generates rents that settlers seek to capture by speculative land occupation. In his historical analysis of the southern Oriente, Rudel (1993) convincingly demonstrates how the first wave of colonos tended to arrive in anticipation of alleged road construction in a given area; their settlements' success would then hinge vitally on the actual construction of the planned road. The same phenomenon is confirmed by Wood (1972: 602) for Santo Domingo, by Casagrande et al. (1964: 288) for the Eastern Andean flanks and by PichoÂn (1997: 21) for the northern Oriente. By looking at the impact of roads from a cross-sectional perspective, it may actually be possible to quantify both the cost reduction and the economic rents they cause. For example, Wood (1972: 604±5) calculates the transport cost saved by road improvement, from a comparison of agricultural transport in different areas with varying road types. Casagrande et al. (1964: 295±6) describe how land prices in the then newly colonized area near Tena (Oriente) are determined by their differential current and expected road access.15 Hence (expected) road construction fosters deforestation and, as described in Chapter 2, blocking roads can lead to settlement abandonment. However, reverse side-effects may also be present: the construction of the Santo Domingo±Esmeraldas road in the 1960s shifted the focus of banana plantations so that an `old' plantation zone in the northwest was abandoned and largely converted back to forest (Sierra 1996: 45±6). In general, the economics of transport is thus an essential determinant of production profitability and structure at the frontier: if road access is costly or lacking, high transport costs impede all activities other than high-value extractivism, e.g. of precious logs, plants and gold.

130 Ecuadorean Deforestation

Analytically, Rudel (1993) distinguishes between the clearing of large forest tracts (i.e. at the frontier) and of forest fragments (in already developed areas): roads are likely to have an impact on the former rather than the latter. This may also be a useful categorization for our purposes: boom-led urbanization would have the partial effect of diminishing frontier expansion, but it would also tend to increase the deforestation of forest fragments in the vicinity of growing cities. Considering that the typical colonization lot distributed by the Ecuadorean land-titling agency IERAC is large by international standards (40±50 ha) ± and given the extremely time- and labourconsuming process of clearing the land ± it becomes clear that on-farm deforestation must necessarily be a gradual, year-long process.16 Ambitious road construction in the 1970s thus probably had an immediate impact on frontier clearing (the first 3±5 years), whereas the clearing of remaining forest fragments followed only gradually thereafter. This means that part of the deforestation impact of roads occurred instantaneously, but it also enabled future clearing processes, implying that roads also triggered lagged deforestation impacts throughout the 1980s.17

The cost of production factors In the Dutch-Disease core model, only one production factor (typically labour) is assumed to be mobile between sectors. Once this assumption is relaxed, some of the boom spending effects may be modified, because changes in production factor remunerations (real wages, real interest rates) and corresponding cost effects in sectoral production are allowed to occur.18 For instance, if the boom causes higher demand for different (internationally non-traded) services, and these are highly labourintensive (hotels, restaurants, domestic services), the higher overall demand for the production factor of labour may cause rising real wages, which then has cost effects for traded sectors that also use labour intensively (e.g. agriculture). Yet in the case of Ecuador, real wages did not rise significantly in the first boom years. In real 1971 sucres, official minimum rural wages stayed almost constant from 1971 to 1979, in both the Sierra and Costa, but then jumped by 40±50 per cent to 1980; the same applies to urban minimum wages (Commander and Peek 1986: 92). Real earnings in manufacturing followed a similar trend. The rate rose further up to 1982 and survived the crisis of the 1980s with a decline of less than 10 per cent (World Bank 1992: 232±3).

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 131

What does this mean for deforestation? It should be noted that the impacts are multiple, depending on cross-ratios of land, capital and labour in different sectors of the economy. Perhaps here it suffices to say that, in the most direct sense, forest-clearing and conversion are highly labour-intensive activities. Consequently, a relatively high rural real wage will tend partly to discourage forest-clearing, in terms of a higher cost of contracted labour and/or a higher opportunity cost of family labour, compared to off-farm employment opportunities. Secondly, the Ecuadorean government followed an expansionary monetary policy in the 1970s, allowing oil revenues and foreign borrowing inflows to monetize. Together with rising inflation and controlled nominal interest rates, this created negative real interest rates that discouraged domestic savings. It is unclear what impact this might have had on forest-clearing. Southgate and Whitaker (1992) argue that credit was constrained to urban interests and did not reach rural producers, who thus would have had less interest in making long-term investments in agricultural soils and opted for myopic strategies of land degradation. However, earmarked oil receipts made available for subsidized rural credits were in fact significant as an explicit instrument in recycling the oil surplus to the private sector (Vos 1989: 219). If one accepts the premise that rural producers did benefit from subsidized credit, there is still the question of how these funds were actually applied. At least some were used for the purchase of cattle rather than for soil improvements. This contributed to the favourable boom conditions in the livestock sector, especially in the Sierra: it grew by 4.6 per cent yearly in 1965± 81, while rates actually declined to 1.9 per cent for the post-boom period 1981±9 (Southgate and Whitaker 1992: 40). Considering the landextensive character of cattle-ranching, this exacerbated forest-clearing, especially in the highlands (see Table 4.3). In sum, factor market and factor remuneration effects tend to be fairly complex and should preferably be analysed in economy-wide models that allow for a specification and quantification of sectoral spill-overs. In any case, on the basis of what can be deduced from the facts seen here, factor market outcomes would not appear to be a decisive element in the link between Dutch Disease and deforestation.

Institutional funding It is sometimes argued that the nexus of foreign-exchange shortages, structural-adjustment programmes and state `modernization' tends to increase deforestation, through severe cut-backs in the budgets and staff

132 Ecuadorean Deforestation

of forestry and national park agencies, thus limiting their ability to enforce forest laws on the ground.19 Consequently, the reverse might be expected during a foreign-exchange boom accruing to the public sector: if forest-administration budgets benefit from the boom, their implementation capacity on the ground should be raised, helping to prevent illegal forest degradation and conversion. In Ecuador, this effect was also at work, in the sense that additional funds for public forest administration were made available during the bonanza. As one of the resulting achievements, the 1970s were the decade when most of the Ecuadorean national parks were both planned and created, culminating in the 1981 creation of the Ecuadorean Protected Area System; by 1995, the system included 18 protected areas, corresponding to an impressive 11 per cent of total land area (Figueroa 1995: 223). Nevertheless, there are two reasons for questioning the general effectiveness of increased funding for the Ecuadorean public sector in curbing deforestation. On the one hand, past bureaucratic and centralistic institutional structures have made it difficult for the forestry agency to achieve the desired results in the field, especially in novel areas such as nature conservation: political changes have several times caused the closing down of forestry agencies and the setting up of new institutions. With due respect to the genuine efforts of many individual agency employees, one may postulate that local NGOs, empowered by international funding and technical assistance, have been the most proactive and consistent agents of forest conservation in Ecuador over the past two decades.20 Secondly, in determining the overall deforestation impacts of Ecuadorean public institutions, one should not examine the boom (or bust) budgetary impact on one single government agency alone. Many of the boom revenues were distributed through public spending, but since 1972 these petro-rents were distributed to institutions according to fixed proportions determined by law (Abril-Ojeda 1991: 167). The money flowing into forest conservation and management was unable to match the funding made available to developmental agencies such as the Ecuadorean Institute for Agrarian Reform and Colonization (IERAC), the National Development Bank (BNF) or the Centre for the Economic Äar and Morona-Santiago (CREA). Recovery of Azuay, Can The agenda of these agencies was in most cases in direct contravention of the objectives of sustainable forest management. IERAC, the land tenure agency, followed the traditional concept of `bringing people without land to land without people', stipulating continuous on-farm

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 133

forest-clearing as a prerequisite for granting land titles. From 1974 to 1985 alone, earmarked oil incomes caused a tripling of IERAC's budget. BNF in the Sierra provided subsidized credits almost exclusively for cattle-ranching, the most wasteful type of land use. CREA, a regional development institution in southern Ecuador, saw its main task to be linking the highland industrial area of Cuenca to the southern Amazon region, thus promoting infrastructure and agricultural production in the latter. Rudel (1993: 56±7) describes how, in this sense, the oil bonanza provided a highly exceptional situation, given that government agencies were normally short of funding for the assistance of the colonos. In methodological terms, these examples indicate that it may be wise to analyse government development strategies in a holistic way first, and then consider the budgetary constraints or options that external financing conditions (booms or busts) and economic crises pose on these strategies: partial boom-impacts of strengthening forest-management institutions may be forcefully overshadowed by much greater financial injections into development institutions that directly counteract forest conservation objectives. Unless all important public-sector strategies are evaluated jointly, the picture can easily be misleading.

Bonanza and deforestation: a complexity of outcomes Summing up, from 1974 to 1982 Ecuador enjoyed a foreign-exchange bonanza from oil exports and borrowing. The boom had both transitory (borrowing, oil-price hike) and permanent elements (rising oil production). Compared to the earlier cocoa and banana booms (Chapter 4), it had a larger economic impact, and revenues accrued to the state rather than to private exporters, highlighting the crucial role of revenue distribution and domestic policy responses. In macroeconomic terms, it led to a decade of rapid economic growth and caused the expected real currency appreciation. The accompanying policy package emphasized national integration through infrastructural expansion and a balanced distribution of subsidies to the private sector. This combination meant that sectoral impacts were less skewed than in most other oil countries. Just as some analysts expect debt service, structural adjustment policies and foreign-exchange shortage to cause additional deforestation, a foreign-exchange boom should be expected to reduce deforestation symmetrically, mainly by alleviating poverty and reducing incentives for the expansion of land-using primary commodity production. Nevertheless, the impact of the Dutch Disease on deforestation in Ecuador proved to differ considerably from this stylized picture; in fact, the

134 Ecuadorean Deforestation

opposite result was observed. As shown in Chapter 4, deforestation and land-use data, though the latter is based on weak sources, indicate that deforestation accelerated during the 1970s and early 1980s, compared to the periods before and since. To understand this apparent paradox, it is necessary to review the numerous and complex partial economic effects of the boom and compare their respective indications of deforestation and their strength. Table 5.1 gives a summary of ten different boom-impacts on forests. The five shaded areas represent impacts that reduce deforestation; the others tend to accelerate forest loss. Deforestation impacts are presented in the order of their likely intensity (last column), which depends on a combination of the intensity of the economic impact (column 3) and the degree to which this impact is linked to deforestation (column 5). Economic impacts can also be classified into three categories (column 1): the `resource movement effect' (RM) to the oil sector necessary to generate export revenues, the policy-led spending (PO) on different budgetary items (roads, subsidies, government agencies) and the Dutch-Disease type of market response (MA) to the boom (sectoral prices and competitivity, migration and labour absorption, remuneration of production factors). A quick glance at the last column of Table 5.1 explains the `paradox' of the boom-cum-deforestation scenario. Only one partial impact (urbanization) had a strong reduction impact, while another (decline of agricultural competitiveness) was intermediate in its effect. The others were either weak (forestry agencies' budgets, higher rural wages) or close to zero (timber-extraction). This compares with two strong boom deforestation impacts (road-construction, oil-sector expansion in the Oriente), two intermediate ones (developmental budgets, shifting food demand) and one weak impact (agricultural credits). Two of the boom deforestation impacts, rapidly expanding road-construction and the increasing income-led demand for livestock products, accelerated processes of structural change that were not reversed after the boom. These asymmetries and lags can in fact help to explain why Ecuadorean deforestation rates remained high in the post-boom period of the 1980s. There are two overall conclusions which may be of interest beyond the analysis of the Ecuadorean case. First, the specific sectoral structure, the nature of traded versus non-traded sectors in a developing economy, and especially the national development strategies and policy packages accompanying the external macroeconomic environment can set the stage to such an extent that they alone can determine whether a boom causes a halt or a spur to deforestation. This fits well with the findings of

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 135

Table 5.1 Dutch Disease effects and Ecuadorean deforestation: an analytical overview Economic and productive impacts Type

No.

1.

New road

PO

Intensity

Strong

Links to deforestation Type

Strength

Deforestation impact

Type

Intensity

Promoting

Very

Opening up

Powerful,

construction

settlement and

close

frontier areas

lasting

(and transport

agricultural

Less forest

Strong

subsides)

production

2.

Higher urban

Strong

Less migration to

MA

labour absorbtion

the agricultural

(Industry,

frontiers

Close

conversion

Services) 3.

Oil sector

Partly

Strong,

RM

expansion in

Strong

timber) and

Direct (roads,

Close

overlapping

regional

Oriente

indirect

with impact 1

(settlement) clearing 4.

Loss of

MA

agricultural

Medium

Reducing crop

Close

and pasture area

competitiveness

Less forest

Medium

conversion

expansion

5.

Soaring budgets

Strong

PO

of development

colonization

Supporting

Medium Augmenting sustaining

agencies

efforts

encroachment

6.

Higher urban

Strong

Expands

MA

incomes and

but

particularly cattle

Medium Forests conversion

shifts in food

gradual

ranching

to pasture

Medium

Medium, with lag

demand 7.

Soaring budgets

PO

of foresty

Medium

forest control

Augmenting

Weak

Less enchroachment

agency

and field

degradation

Weak

management 8.

Higher rural real

MA

wages

Weak

Makes forest

Weak

9.

Cheap and

Encourages

Weak

PO

subsidized

cattle

(contor- forest

MA

credits

investment, etc.

versial)

conversion more

Reduces forest

Weak

conversion

costly Medium

Augments

Weak

conversion

==> 10.

Timber exports

MA

lose

Negligible

Less degradation

Contro-

Less

(direct) and

versial

degradation

Negligible

Notes: Shaded areas indicate impacts expected to, ceteris paribus, reduce deforestation, non-shaded areas vice versa. RM = Resource movement effect PO = Policy-led spending effect MA = Market-led spending effect

136 Ecuadorean Deforestation

previous comparative case studies (e.g. Reid 1992). Secondly, the `easy' deductions from macroeconomics to deforestation that are often found in the conservationist literature can indeed be misleading. Macroeconomic causes are certainly present, but they are highly complex, have shifting indicators, and need to be analysed with extreme care. The case study in the following chapters will demonstrate that macroeconomic changes also set the stage for the process of deforestation in selected areas of the Ecuadorean Sierra. Notes 1 E.g. Vos (1989), who erratically classifies the Ecuadorean combined oil and borrowing boom according to price variables alone. 2 Defined as the sum of `long-term net capital flows' and `other net capital flows' in current US$, divided by the US$ consumer price index (1987ˆ100). Sources: World Bank (1992: 234±5) and IMF (1991: 628/9) and World Bank Star database for the 1990s. 3 Sources: IMF (1991: 342±3, 628±9) until 1990; then UNCTAD statistics (various yearbooks, e.g. UNCTAD 1997). 4 Only the simple core model is outlined here, corresponding to Corden and Neary (1982). For a detailed general review of Dutch-Disease theories, see Wunder (1992); for comparative case studies, Gelb (1988), Neary and van Wijnbergen (1986); for Ecuador, Gelb and Marshall-Silva (1988), Vos (1989), Abril-Ojeda (1991), Wunder (1997). 5 A related, cross-country hypothesis (outside the scope of this book) is that specialized oil exporters face lower deforestation rates than agricultural exporting countries. Obviously, comparisons across countries are more difficult, due to other factors of variance affecting deforestation (such as forest stocks, population and access). 6 One may object that adjustment is not necessarily symmetric. However, in the case of high deforestation during both booms and busts, the argument would be reduced to a statement that countries with fluctuating imports experience higher deforestation rates than those that have stable export revenues. It seems difficult to find justifications for such a hypothesis. 7 See Southgate and Whitaker (1992: ch.10) for an overview of the environmental aspects of Ecuadorean oil production. 8 Thapa et al. (1996: 1321); Southgate et al. (1991: 1147). 9 On aspects related to deforestation in the southern Amazon provinces, see Rudel (1993) and Brown and Sierra (1994: 272±3). 10 This paragraph draws on Parks and Bonifaz (1995), and Southgate and Whitaker (1992: ch.11). 11 CLIRSEN data, reported in Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 130). The change from 1969 to 1984 is likely to have occurred mainly in the 1980s, when the shrimp sector started to grow. 12 For Ecuador, this `Engel effect' is confirmed by Southgate and Whitaker (1992: 38). The respective income elasticity for foodstuffs as a whole is 0.55 for 1965±89.

Oil, Macroeconomics and Forests 137 13 Between 1964 and 1993, pastures expanded from less than a third to about two-thirds of total agropastoral land use. In relative terms, this expansion was clearly superior to the rise in the number of cattle, indicating an average falling intensity (El Comercio 1995: 12). 14 In 1984, only 210,500 ha of the 1965 forest cover of 400,000 were left. About 87 per cent of the deforested areas is under pasture (Rosero 1992). 15 `The cost [of land] varies according to accessibility: along the road, it is 30 sucres per hectare; on the second line, with an access road, 20 sucres per hectare and without an access road, 5 sucres per hectare; along a road under construction, 25 sucres per hectare; and along a right-of-way for a proposed road, 20 sucres per hectare.' (Casagrande et al. 296.) 16 This is confirmed at the micro level, e.g. Rudel (1993), PichoÂn (1997) and Thapa et al. (1996). 17 Of course, the same is not true for the other component considered in this section, energy subsidies, which were gradually reduced throughout the 1980s and 1990s, and thus had a fully reversible impact. 18 See V. Long, in Siebert (1984) for a Dutch-Disease theoretical model with multi-factor mobility between sectors. 19 E.g. Sunderlin and RodrõÂguez (1996) for the case of Olancho, Honduras. 20 See Meyer (1993) for a case study of the main NGO FundacioÂn Natura, its international financing, and its progressively important role in environmental decision-making in Ecuador.

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Part III

Highland Land-Use Patterns

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6

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot?

Whereas the last two chapters looked at the historical process of Ecuadorean deforestation, its stages and extent, the next three will look at the process of forest loss from within a micro-oriented framework, based on fieldwork in four highland study areas with nine selected villages. For each of the main deforestation causes outlined in Chapter 2, hypotheses and results from other studies in Ecuador will be compared with the new empirical results from the Sierra. The present chapter gives an introduction to the study areas and methods and explores two interrelated theoretical pillars from Chapter 2: demographic change and impoverishment.

The context of the highlands study What is particularly interesting about a study of forest use and conversion in the Ecuadorean Sierra? Three things stand out. First, most other deforestation studies have concentrated on various parts of the coastal region1 and, especially, on the Ecuadorean Amazon,2 meaning that currently there is a relative under-representation of research in the highlands.3 Secondly, as noted in Chapter 4 (Figure 4.1; Table 4.2), the Sierra forest area is larger than previously assumed, basically because many forest fragments had not been properly recorded in earlier assessments and maps. Finally, according to the hypothesis of Rudel (1993), the gradual elimination of these forest fragments may represent a dynamic process that is different from the trailblazing into large frontier forests (that has hitherto been highlighted in the literature on Ecuador), with a greater emphasis on `impoverishment' push factors such as population growth and wood demand. The investigation of four study areas was carried out in Ecuador under the Programme for Native Andean Forests (PROBONA), which since 141

142 Highland Land-Use Patterns

1993 has been promoting the conservation and sustainable use of native forests in those forested parts of the highlands that are outside the national park system. The programme is financed by Swiss Intercooperation, with the participation of the Swiss Technical Assistence Agency in Ecuador (COTESU), and affiliated with the IUCN Regional Office for South America, both in Quito. During the first years of its operation, PROBONA carried out forest inventories and mapped forest cover; this information was used inter alia for the national forest map presented in Figure 4.1. Another preparatory activity was the selection of demonstration areas, the screening of site-specific sustainable-use options, and the study of ongoing forest uses. The present investigation falls within the last category, exploring the dynamics of the deforestation process, with special emphasis on the domestic and commercial uses of charcoal, timber and firewood. However, the scope of the work goes beyond the study of markets and domestic uses of wood products, examining the extent to which each of these uses provides an independent reason for deforestation, compared to agropastoral uses of the cleared land (see Chapter 7). This involves a comparison of the `logging' and `firewood' stimuli with `land conversion' and other deforestation incentives that were sketched in Chapter 2. It is hence necessary to scrutinize the rural economy and farmers' criteria for assigning factors of production (land, labour, financial capital) to different branches of the farming system, namely wood exploitation, agriculture and cattle-ranching. The main selection criterion for study areas was the proximity of human settlements to natural forests, thus allowing for a comparative study of human interaction with the ecosystem and the products it provides. This means that the chosen sites represent relatively recent settlements of agricultural frontier zones in the highlands (most villages with an age of between 5 and 40 years), which are thus not in all respects representative of the entire Sierra. Each of the areas and the corresponding urban markets were visited at least twice during a span of 18 months in 1994±6 in order both to consolidate the results and to account for seasonal fluctuations.4 The methods used include the application of semi-structured interviews with farmers and rural informants (a socioeconomic questionnaire of 1±2 hours, containing both quantitative and qualitative elements), the observation of production processes in situ, the analysis of markets, costs, profit margins and product cycles, interviews with urban industrial consumers, and the revision of existing site-specific literature. Compared to other investigations with longer stays in selected villages,

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 143

our method had the disadvantage that it was more difficult to obtain an in-depth knowledge of village-specific relations and long-run local trends. On the other hand, the simultaneous investigation of multiple villages highlighted a broader, comparative view which aims at a level of generalization beyond the exclusively local level: one obtains crosssectional data which permits an analysis of variables and suggests causalities.

The study areas The case-study areas are located in four provinces of the Ecuadorean Äar Sierra (see map, Figure 6.1): the Mazar-Dudas watershed (case 1, Can province, northeast of Azogues); the area around the provincial capital of Loja (case 2, close to the Peruvian border in the south); the Toachi± PilatoÂn watersheds (case 3, mostly in the Cotopaxi province, south of Quito); and Cashca Totoras (case 4, BolõÂvar province, in the central highlands). Within each of these areas, a number of human settlements exist, ranging from small frontier towns to isolated farmhouses. Nine villages were selected for closer inspection5 (see Tables 6.1 and 6.2), but reference will also be made sporadically to additional study sites. The areas are quite different in terms of altitude (ranging from 1700 to over 4000 m.a.s.l.), precipitation, topography and soil characteristics, with climatic zones ranging from montane cloud forest to subalpine paÂramo.6 High-altitude areas are typically cold and wet, contrasting greatly with the subtropical climate of the Andean flanks towards the Costa and Oriente, the latter with drier zones in the south (case 2) and a more humid climate in the north (case 3). Soils generally had the best agricultural potential on the Andean flanks, but the steep slope of the terrain may also make them highly vulnerable to erosion. As a consequence, productive systems in the study areas differ in terms of the main cultivated crops and the balance between agriculture and cattle-raising. Cattle and sheep predominate in the higher regions, together with potatoes and highland grains. In the low- and mediumaltitude zones of the Andean flanks and the southern Sierra, tropical crops like sugar-cane, plantains and fruit predominate, sometimes combined with cattle-ranching. As analysed by Guillet (1983) for the high Peruvian Andes, high altitude may presuppose larger risks and greater limitations on agricultural production in terms of lower soil fertility, erosion hazards, irregular water supply and frequent frosts. These constraints favour the adoption of land-extensive and diversified strategies and allow for only limited

144

yy y ��� � �� � � ��� �� � � � ��� �� � � � y ��� ��� ��� y 0

Miles

100

0

Km

160

Ibarra

Quito

Latacunga Latacunga

Ambato

Riobamba

Guayaquil

Cuenca

��� Loja

Macara

Figure 6.1 Highland study areas

Forest cover 100% Forest cover 30-90% Forest cover <30% Cloud cover

M.a.s.l. > 1200 Major roads

Major towns

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 145

population densities. This also has ramifications on modes of social organization: ecosystem fragility and production limitations call for a highly coordinated resource use, which favours CPR arrangements, for example, communal management (see Chapter 2). Vertical integration of production may be a rational response to these conditions, combining cattle and highland crops with cultivation in temperate and subtropical regions, sometimes following a pattern of seasonal highland±lowland migration. In Ecuador, examples of vertical integration have been documented for both the southern and northern Sierras.7 Vertical strategies are also applied in some of the zones we studied. Various villages, such as Saraguro, San Lucas (case 2) and Ambrosio Laso (case 4), maintain traditions of mixed production with diversification of landholding in different ecological zones. For instance, some Saraguros migrate seasonally with their cattle to Oriente lowlands. In other areas, there is a seasonal rural±rural flow of surplus labour during harvests which allows income to be derived from different climatic zones. This is the case for labour from Illinizas-Sigchos, typically migrating for some months to the lower-altitude zone of Las Pampas (case 3). In general, however, the overall trend towards increasing commercialization and integration with the urban economy has probably reduced traditional diversification and vertical integration patterns: the option of concentrating on cattle (serving also as a store of value) and buying staple crops from outside may reduce the need to maintain a profoundly diversified structure of production. In terms of the highland forest areas, a main result of the field inventories of the PROBONA programme is that the remnant native Andean forests are more extensive than previously believed: 3.15 million ha native forests and 0.75 million ha bushlands were identified. Secondary, intervened forests were predominant in all areas with reasonable transport access. The numbers include highland forests within the system of protected areas (national parks, ecological, faunistic and recreation reserves), the weaker conservation category of `Protector Forests' (bosques protectores), and non-protected forested land; in three of our four case studies, `Protector Forests' were the predominant forest category (see Chapter 8). It should be noted that, as in Chapter 4, the broad definition of `Andean forests' used by PROBONA includes forests of 1200 m.a.s.l., which also entails the forest-rich flanks of the Andes. In addition, the area of forest plantations, mainly with exotic species such as pinus and eucalyptus, was estimated at 78,000 ha in 1995 (INEFAN 1995: 14).8

146 Highland Land-Use Patterns

Land-use change and deforestation As argued in Chapter 4 (Table 4.3.), the ten Sierra provinces experienced an increase of pastures from 1 million ha in 1972±3 to 2.2 million ha in 1988±9 (an increase of 120 per cent). At the same time, the area planted with highland crops decreased over the same period from 503,000 to 325,000 ha (a decrease of 35 per cent). As explained in Chapter 5, this striking transformation in less than two decades reflected an important process of structural change, trade integration and specialization in the rural economy of Ecuador, a process that was accelerated by the oil boom. For the highlands, this meant more emphasis on cattle-ranching, generating meat and dairy products for the growing urban markets, and less importance for traditional subsistence crops like corn, wheat and barley. Our case-study areas were also strongly affected by this general trend. In all the villages, there was a clear tendency towards increasing product commercialization and gradual integration into the regional economy, for instance through the sale of agricultural produce to nearby towns, subsidized credits obtained for cattle-ranching, and the purchase of basic urban consumption goods. Naturally, this commercial inclination was strongest in the areas with established infrastructural access. For Äa and Illinizas instance, roads were built and improved in the Quilotun areas (case 3), which helped link the zone to the nearby megamarket of Quito (about 70 km away), thus promoting both the extraction of wood products and cattle-ranching. The establishment of all-weather routes meant that areas which had only been accessible during the dry season could now be used for continuous product extraction, promoting permanent settlement which in turn also increased the demand for local food products. In the highlands too, roads were thus a predominant factor in shaping forest-cover changes (see also Chapter 8). Unfortunately, aerial photographs and other survey information on land-use changes over time were only available for two of the four study areas, and even then with only partial coverage of areas. For the other two cases we had to rely exclusively on the field questionnaire and on informants' and donor agencies' accounts of recent land-use changes. There is thus an incomplete quantitative picture of deforestation trends in the study areas.9 In spite of these data deficiencies, a rather uniform overall picture of land-use changes over the last two to three decades can be identified: O primary forest coverage decreases significantly O pastures increase correspondingly

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 147

cropland coverage increases only marginally, but intensification reduces fallow and bushland O incidence of severe erosion increase, but at a slow rate. For instance, the Dudas±Mazar watershed (case 1), with the best documentation on long-term land-use changes, was characterized by a decline in primary forest area from 38 per cent to 24 per cent between 1963 and 1983, whereas pastures correspondingly increased their share from 40 per cent to 50 per cent. This was the main trend of net changes in land use. Other variations remained of minor overall importance, e.g. areas of severe erosion increased from 1 per cent to 3 per cent of total surface. These trends reflect the expansion noted above in landextensive cattle-ranching, but also a generally higher scarcity of agricultural lands, leading to more intensified uses. Few soils are fully abandoned, but in the `pasture' category, one may find lands that have already experienced degradation processes and gradual productivity decline. The above figures refer to net land-use changes, but the process tends to involve a deforestation cycle that usually consists of different stages. Box 6.1. describes these stages, whereas Figure 6.2 illustrates the conversion processes, and some possible variations around the general pattern. O

Box 6.1 Deforestation cycle and land uses O O

phase 1: timber and charcoal extraction (1±2 years) phase 2: slash-and-burn agriculture (2±5 years): a) potatoes, beans (1±2 years) b) maize (1±2 years) c) wheat, barley (1±2 years)

O phase 3: pasture for cattle-ranching (7±10 years)

O phase 4: fallow and bushland regeneration (1±5 years)

O phase 5: slash-and-burn, agriculture, pasture, etc.

The sequence described in Box 6.1 (correspondingly marked with thick arrows in Figure 6.2) is typical for a medium-to-high altitude zone. Regarding the process of wood extraction (phase 1), one should bear in mind that there are different sub-phases involved. The extraction of the most valuable timber species from primary forests ± basically a selective forest degradation process ± may occur many years before land conversion.

148 Highland Land-Use Patterns

Primary forest

Secondary forest

Cropland

Pasture

Fallow and bushland

Regenerated young secondary forest

Wasteland

Dominant cycle Subsidiary cycle

Regenerated old secondary forest Figure 6.2 The deforestation cycle

In the Jimbilla-Imbana zone (case 2), the most precious woods, such as mahogany and cedar, are extracted in pairs during a two-day mule journey from remote areas of the Andean eastern flanks, which only have trail access. No deforestation is involved in this process. On the other hand, the cutting of ordinary species of less commercial value tends to be closely associated with clearing and may, for instance, occur simultaneously with the production of charcoal. In this respect, the observed sequence differed from the conversion cycle found in other studies.10 There was not always significant commercial production of ordinary timber species and charcoal from secondary forests. In the absence of road access, the transport of ordinary species would not be economical, and more than 90 per cent of the woody biomass would be burnt on the spot.

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 149

In some low-altitude zones (1600±2000 m.a.s.l., e.g. Las Pampas, case 3), the climate is too humid for burning; instead, cut wood and debris are left to decay on the ground in a slash-and-mulch process. In this case, a cattle phase precedes the agricultural phase, taking advantage of the remnant vegetation after slashing. Similarly, in some areas where cattle-ranching has a vital role, the animals are allowed to forage inside the open, secondary forest prior to the slashing process, in particular during the dry season, when the shortage of pastures may be severe. An agricultural phase usually follows the burning of the biomass, except for some soils with extremely low agricultural potential, where pastures are established directly (see the thin arrow in Figure 6.2). However, normally the farmer takes advantage of the nutrients from burning to cultivate crops for 2±5 years, depending on soil quality. Again, there tend to be various sub-stages during the agricultural phase. The bestpriced commercial crops, such as potatoes in the high-altitude zones, are cultivated initially. For instance, in the Illinizas zone (case 3), potatoes are combined with a subsistence crop during the first years; two harvests per year can be obtained in this area. Potatoes cannot normally be cultivated without costly external inputs (fertilizer, fungicides), but this is not necessary immediately after the burning process. Burning thus provides a once-and-for-all rent in terms of increased productivity and saved costs. Later on, the farmer is forced to shift gradually to other crops with lower returns, such as maize and wheat. Again, the situation is different in the subtropical zones of the Andean flanks (Las Pampas, case 3; Vilcabamba, case 2). Bananas, plantains and sugar-cane are the most significant crops here, the latter being the main cash crop. The third productive phase tends to be cattle-ranching. This is also the largest phase of the cycle (7±10 years), which is consistent with its role as the dominant net land-use change. In some cases, it is also the direct end-use of deforestated lands. However, under most circumstances a fallow period with regeneration of bushes and other woody vegetation is necessary.11 Pasture degradation may be due to several factors: soil compaction caused by cattle, the entry of pioneering species of woody weeds, gradual soil depletion and, most commonly, grazing pressure increase the predominance of non-palatable grasses over grasses preferred by cattle. It is less usual for fallows to be long enough for a proper regeneration of young secondary forest; more mature regeneration stages are only reached in exceptional cases when the area is properly abandoned (see thin arrows in Figure 6.2.). The typical pattern is a rapid

150 Highland Land-Use Patterns

repetition of burning (after 1±5 years), which then allows for a brief agricultural phase, followed by a longer pasture period. In some areas with very steep slopes (e.g. in the Mazar watershed, case 1; Sigchos, case 3) and/or drought-prone areas with a longer history of agriculture (Loja province, case 2), erosion processes and other degradation impacts (e.g. soil compaction induced by cattle) have reached a stage where certain lands have to be abandoned entirely, being converted into wastelands. However, as our study areas are of rather recent colonization, abandonment is still not a widespread phenomenon compared to areas with a long history of degrading agricultural practices.12 Degradation impacts are more gradual; as farmers state in the interviews, `the soil gets tired' and yields decline over the years. Obviously, the clearing of virgin forest lands may be a compensatory response to declining soil productivity and would thus provide an element of `impoverishment' and a deforestation push factor. Nevertheless, other areas, in particular the more fertile parts of the Andean flanks (e.g. Las Pampas, case 3), have a good and more permanent agricultural and pastoral potential; this is also a clear example where pull factors are overwhelmingly decisive for the conversion process. Finally, it should be noted that forests, while not the only, are still the main source of `reserve land areas' to be gradually included in the pool of cultivated areas. For the Dudas±Mazar watershed (case 1), for instance, it is estimated that 95 per cent of currently cultivated areas were originally derived from forests, compared to only 5 per cent from paÂramo grasslands (Laso and GuerroÂn 1994: 25±32). However, some paÂramo areas may locally be quite suitable for certain crops, such as potato production. For example, this was an important land-use change in Cashca-Totoras (case 4).

Demographic change Population growth, composition and migration patterns were investigated at two different levels. First, the population census statistics from 1982 and 1990, published by the Ecuadorean National Institute of Statistics and Censuses (INEC), gives a more or less precise picture of changes at the provincial, district and parish levels. Secondly, the questionnaire provided site-specific, primary information at the village and household levels, such as the foundation of settlements and the geographic origin of colonists, current and past number of children per household, and permanent and seasonal migration patterns.

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 151

Äar, case 1; At the provincial level, the two southern provinces (Can Loja, case 2) showed an outright reduction in population, while for the two others the figures stagnated (Cotopaxi, case 3; BolõÂvar, case 4). The stagnation of the rural population was generally due to the fact that emigration, whether to provincial capitals, the Oriente, mega-cities like Guayaquil and Quito or ± mainly from the southern highlands ± abroad (USA, Spain), either equalled or outnumbered the natural growth rate of the population. Even at the district and parish levels, there was usually either a stagnation or a reduction in population. However, at the local level of colonization-frontier nuclei, the situation was the opposite. Young settlements like Dudas, Colepato (case 1), ÄaloÂ, El Alisal (case 3), Cashca Totoras Uritusinga (case 2), Cerro Azul, Tan and Ambrosio Laso (case 4) had all experienced dramatic population increases during the past ten years, with growth of up to 200 per cent. The initial impact came from immigration, mainly of surplus labour from adjacent agricultural sectors; sometimes the sending areas were characterized by long-term land-degradation and declining agricultural productivity.13 In this sense, push migration and `impoverishment' may have played some role in the opening of new frontiers in the past.14 However, land reform sometimes assigned large land plots to a limited number of former huasipungueros, creating a strong pull for new members to fill the space (see Chapter 8). Moreover, following the initial wave of immigration and the subsequent exhaustive distribution of land claims, all the high local population growth was basically accounted for by natural reproduction. Fertility levels were reported to have been around 6±8 children per household in the past, declining now to 4±6, especially in those areas where there had been more contact (trade, infrastructure, migration) with urban culture.15 In general, there seemed to be little or no knowledge about contraceptive methods. Due to the current hierarchical shape of the local population pyramid, i.e. a large number of young persons entering fertile age in the foreseeable future, no minor reduction in fertility will be able to achieve any short-term reduction of natural population growth rates; yet emigration may reduce population increases. To what degree is there a link between high local population growth and high local deforestation rates? In Chapter 2 it was suggested that we should expect such a link to be most clearly observable at higher levels of aggregation. At the local level, the Boserup hypothesis states that growing local population pressures will be a precondition for technological change and progress, and not necessarily lead to deforestation. In turn, the impoverishment approach saw population growth as a direct

152 Highland Land-Use Patterns

motor of degradation and deforestation. Finally, neoclassical analysts tended to stress that labour is geographically mobile, so that ultimately local population growth should have few local impacts on deforestation. In our study areas, there was a clear, direct and observable connection between local population growth and local deforestation in terms of the subdivision of plots between heirs following inheritance. With the father's death, or simply with the sons reaching the age of independence and wishing to establish their own households, the previously cleared plot proved to be too small to support all its beneficiaries. This would constitute a direct motivation for the on-farm clearing of lands previously held in forest; if no such idle lands existed, emigration was the most frequent response. Our findings support the suggestion that population growth is indeed relevant for the explanation of deforestation in the case-study areas. The Boserup scenario seems to have little relevance in the villages investigated: rural technologies appear to be stagnant and agricultural productivity remains continuously low; value added to agricultural production occurs almost exclusively in urban areas, which largely restricts local benefits to the traditional extraction of raw materials. In other words, extensification and emigration clearly dominated over intensification as responses to increasing pressures on the land. Population growth may or may not be associated with local `impoverishment', depending on land availability: as long as idle soils with a reasonable productive capacity are available, no decline in the welfare of settlers needs to occur. On the contrary, the development of a network of kinship-based relations may be an important insurance factor, for example, in the case of the deaths or illnesses of family members. The neoclassical approach sometimes overlooks the possibility that land remains temporarily abundant at the frontier, forming an `agricultural reserve' which is only gradually integrated into the production process. Neoclassicists may also overstate the geographical mobility of labour, in the sense that various obstacles to emigration abound. In our case studies, these included ethnic factors (see below) and dependence on the inertia of previous migration to urban areas: if some family members had already migrated in the past, it would be possible for others to follow, as they would `have a place to stay' and find it easier to get a job. A second, though more indirect demographic link exists between local deforestation and the growth of population and income in nearby urban or semi-urban areas. Through the questionnaire, it was observed that in all study areas, there had been a remarkable growth in demand from urban markets over the last decade. This mainly

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 153

increased local production of meat (cattle, pigs, sheep) and dairy products (milk, cheese) in the frontier settlements investigated: the demand for agricultural crops and most wood products proved to be more stable. Consequently, migration from rural to urban areas had an important derived impact, which includes feedback on to higher demand for rural production and pasture-led deforestation.

Scarcity or abundance of labour? As explained in Chapter 5, the Ecuadorean Sierra is in general characterized by a high degree of rural±urban temporary migration and commuting. Especially during the oil boom, road investments and transport subsidies intensified the options for off-farm employment, e.g. in construction and domestic services. The incomes from temporary wage labour, including on neighbouring large haciendas, could reach about 50 per cent of household cash income for small-scale rural families (Commander and Peek 1986). For our study areas, the situation was different, as off-farm employment proved to be insignificant. First, the very nature of frontier settlement implies that the majority of villages are located in inaccessible areas; thus transport time and costs limit the possibilities for temporary migration. Secondly, all four study areas are dominated by mediumscale production units, typically with individual plots of 30±50 ha, allocated and titled by the authorities (see Chapter 8).16 As long as these parcels have not been divided excessively, this means that lot size is normally sufficient both to feed an entire family and to keep its members productively occupied. Additionally, a small and more mobile class of landless labourers subsists in most villages. However, the number of large haciendas in all four areas is limited, so off-farm rural employment is limited to farm hands hired temporarily by mediumsized farmers. The latter occurs on a monetary basis when the village is sufficiently integrated into the market economy. In the absence of full commercial integration, traditional non-monetary labour-exchange systems predominate: the minga (with collective work tasks, often performed under communal management) or the `exchange-of-hands'.17 Emigration may be one indicator of the degree of labour abundance, but labour remuneration may provide another quantitative perspective. Instead of minimal rural wages, which are administratively determined, true scarcity-led labour costs should rather be measured by local farmhand wages, which are market-determined. From the questionnaires, it was found that in eight out of nine cases, the daily wage for an average

154 Highland Land-Use Patterns

male worker was between US$1.4 and 2.5 (1995 figures) ± even by Ecuadorean standards, a low level of remuneration.18 This rate applies only to the poorest rural class (landless labourers) and is bound to be inferior to the average remuneration of the landowners, who also have capital outlays and have invested in the land. Nevertheless, the amount of land rent is irrelevant for the scarcity argument. With a marginal labour remuneration of this limited size, it seems difficult to sustain the hypothesis of labour scarcity for our study areas: by offering a marginally higher wage, it would be possible for the landowners to attract migrants and/or reduce emigration to the cities. This also jeopardizes for the Sierra the political-ecology suggestion that frontier labour scarcity is a general source of environmental degradation (see Chapter 2). In fact, the opposite causality is suggested by the data in the previous section: labour abundance becomes a source of environmental degradation.

Income generation and poverty In fragile agroecosystems of the tropics, many millions of rural families are trapped in a vicious circle of poverty and natural resource degradation. Pushed to less favourable lands, these people struggle to make a living in areas characterized by unstable, infertile soils. To keep food on the table and meet their families' other needs, farmers overwork the same plot or clear new ones, sparking a chain reaction that results in deforestation, the loss of biodiversity, soil degradation, and reduced availability of water. (CIAT 1997: 2) This vision of poverty-led vicious circles, described in detail in Chapter 2, has also dominated the analysis of deforestation in Ecuador, being integrated in particular into a version of the `fuelwood trap' for areas in the Inter-Andean valley with an increasing wood scarcity (see also Chapter 7).19 Other often-cited Sierra push-factors, e.g. for Amazon deforestation, have been unequal highland land tenure combined with population growth, erosion and droughts in Loja province, or the collapse of the Panama-hat industry in Azuay province. On the other hand, specific investigations among Ecuadorean frontier settlers show that it is not the poorest and landless who tend to drive colonization processes (see for instance Brownrigg [1981: 310] on El Oro province [Costa], or Rudel [1993] and Ekstrom [1981] for the Oriente). These studies consistently indicate that a market-oriented, risk-seeking,

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 155

entrepreneurial middle class with a minimum investment capacity tends to become frontier pioneers: `while the requirements, in terms of capital, for establishing a homestead and acquiring title to the land on the frontier are not great, they may be substantial enough to make the move economically impossible for the really destitute Sierran' (Casagrande et al. 1964: 292). What is the economic situation in our case of a `closed' frontier with gradual forest fragment elimination? As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, the study areas were greatly affected by the general trend towards increasing highland specialization and commercialization, with cattle as the leading sector. In most cases, cattle-ranching and other livestock production (pigs, sheep) clearly proved to provide the best return on farm labour: during the 1980s, prices rose relatively more and remained more stable than crop prices, and labour requirements were more limited than in agriculture. In spite of cattle's greater profitability, most farmers chose to maintain part of their plots in crop production for reasons of diversification, risk aversion and food security, as well as because of a number of restrictions on their decisions: the smallest peasants held insufficient land to indulge in cattle on a commercial scale and, more importantly, some farmers remained credit-constrained, which prevented them from purchasing the desired amount of cattle (see Chapter 8). In addition, noneconomic motives apply. Crop production has great cultural value for traditional farming, compared to the more recent upsurge of cowboys and cattle-ranching: in some rural areas, one meaning of the word trabajar (to work) is `to plough' (S.White, pers.comm., March 1998). Table 6.1 summarizes the main cash-generating productive activities for each of nine of the studied villages, the typical range of household monetary income20 and the share of wood products in cash-generating activities. Household income is given as a range for two reasons. First, there was some insecurity attached to questionnaire answers about incomes, which, however, was minimized by cross-checking different types of information.21 Secondly, we found great local variation in income, due to internal differences between the farmers, peasants and landless labourers. The visitor's first impression of indiscriminate poverty, given by rather uniform clothing and housing patterns, proved to be deceptive, mainly because of underlying differences in plot sizes and cattle tenure, the latter serving as a means of both saving and investment. Although egalitarian values still prevail in the villages, increasing market-orientation coupled with unequal distribution has set off a process of social differentiation.

156 Highland Land-Use Patterns Table 6.1 Household income sources and estimates in selected villages Village Dudas Vilcabamba Tambo-Merced Jimbilla Uritusinga Illinizas Äa Quilotun Las Pampas Cashca Totoras

Case Altitude study 1 2 2 2 2 3 3 3 4

medium low low medium high high high low high

Main activity1

Household income2

Share wood products %

Cattle-Charcoal Agric.-Cattle Agric.-Firewood Timber-Cattle Cattle-Charcoal Cattle-Charcoal Cattle-Timber Cattle-Agric. Agric.-Sheep

1000±2000 2000±3500 1000±2000 1500±3000 1500±2500 1500±3000 2500±4000 4000±8000 1000±1500

20±40 0±5 10±30 40±60 20±30 20±30 15±25 0±1 10±15

Notes: 1 Productive activities, according to their importance as monetary income sources 2 In US$, annual family income, substracting `external' costs, i.e. purchases outside the village (machinery, petrol, chemical fertilizers, fungicides), but including costs of labour, domestic animals, etc. Source: Field data

The income share of wood products was variable and fell with higher average incomes (Las Pampas, Vilcabamba). Only one village (Jimbilla) actually derived most of its income from precious timber extraction; in the others, wood incomes were lower and mostly derived from charcoal (see Chapter 7). Most of the latter were recent and poorer settlements (see Table 6.2 below) which still held much of their land in forests, favouring wood extraction but restricting agropastoral uses. At the inter-village level of comparison, one can thus say that the poorest villages are also those that are most dependent on wood products. However, although deforestation is also high in wealthy settlements like Las Pampas, ordinary wood species are simply not commercially exploited but left to decay. At the intra-village level, the poorest class of landless people is often more dependent on wood products. For instance, in Uritusinga (near Loja, case 2) the average income share of wood products was only 20±30 per cent, but reached 90±100 per cent for a class of landless peasants specializing in forestclearing and charcoal-production. In this case, the `implementing agent' of forest-clearing was driven by poverty, while the `decision-maker' ± the wealthier landowner ± would mostly be interested in enhancing productive farm capacity through a larger pasture area. Landowners also tended to save a share of wood incomes for future investments in cattle, thus using this `forest rent' as a source of capital accumulation.

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 157

Using this rationale, it would be wrong to blame poverty generally for deforestation, as occurred in a similar study in Bolivia.22 In most cases, pull motives for deforestation related to soil conversion would prevail. The landless poor tend to depend on the remuneration for clearing land, but they would not actually drive the landowner's decision, unless kinship or social ties between the two induced the latter to do the former a favour. In areas with large commercial integration, for example the villages of case 3, we would find a pattern where capital-abundant landowners have deforested more of their 50-hectare plot than their creditconstrained neighbours, both because they could pay the hired hands' salaries for clearing and because they could undertake the investments for subsequent agropastoral soil uses. There was a clear positive relationship here between household resources, income and the extent of deforestation.

Ethnicity and land use Resident farmers in our zones are mostly mestizos (i.e. of mixed European and indigenous origin), but some highland villages (Cashca Totoras, case 4; Saraguros, case 2) are purely indigenous, while others (e.g. Illinizas, case 3) have populations with both indigenous and mestizos. Ethnicity is thus to some extent a continuous variable, because mestizos have a varying degree of indigenous versus European origin, so classification should also depend on culture and the self-perception of the inhabitants. From the description in Chapters 2 and 3, it might be expected that natural resource-management practices vary according to ethnicity, in the sense that indigenous forest-dwelling communities tend to use their forests more sustainably. However, exogenous impacts may already have changed their traditional practices considerably. In Ecuador, the latter is a not uncommon phenomenon. For instance, Sierra (1996: 72, ch.7) concludes from his statistical test of ethnic differences in land-use patterns that the forest-dwelling indigenous groups of the northwestern forests of the Costa region in fact deforested more during the last decade than mestizo immigrant farmers from outside the region. The reverse picture is given by Rudel for the southern Oriente, showing that the indigenous Shuar tend to clear a smaller portion of their lands than immigrant mestizos; yet other factors, such as year of settlement, population growth, road-construction, and land-titling requirements, act as factors equalizing the two groups' land-use patterns (Rudel 1993: 86,114±15).

158

Table 6.2 Land uses and demographic patterns in selected study areas Village Dudas Vilcabamba Tambo-Merced Jimbilla Uritusinga Illinizas Äa Quilotun Las Pampas Cashca Totoras

Remaining forest stock high low low high high high high low low

Yearly deforestation1 high low medium medium high high high high high

Notes: 1 `high': more than 1.0 ha per average household `medium': 0.5±1.0 ha per average household `low': less than 0.5 ha per average household 2 `high': more than 4% growth during the last 10±15 years `low': less than 4% growth during the last 10±15 years Source: Field data

Recent settlement/ immigration yes no no no yes yes yes no yes

Ethnicity mestizos mestizos mestizos mixed mixed mixed mestizos mestizos indigenous

Population growth2 high high low high high high high low high

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 159

No explicit statistical tests were carried out regarding ethnic differences in deforestation in our study areas. However, the general picture is that few differences exist between indigenous and mestizo groups, due to the fact that their productive models tend to be highly similar. This can also be seen from Table 6.2. For instance, in the Illinizas zone (case 3) many of the squatters are indigenous colonos who have migrated from adjacent labour-surplus areas in the Inter-Andean Valley and basically follow the same wood-product and cattle-ranching pattern as their mestizo neighbours. Somewhat surprisingly, forest uses did not differ very much either, in the sense, for instance, that the extraction of non-timber forest products was an insignificant element in the livelihood of either highland group. Differences in land-clearing should rather be explained by other factors, e.g. the number of years that had passed since initial settlement in the area. Also, some of the ethnic land-use differences observed seem rather to be explained by third variables, which do not necessarily imply a different general attitude towards natural resources. First, indigenous farmers tend to be discriminated against in being granted credits; this provides an obstacle to full participation in cattle-ranching which was the major cause of deforestation. Secondly, communal landownership ± the traditional organization of indigenous groups ± tends to provide less incentives for forest-clearing (see Chapter 8). Thirdly, the indigenous population generally faces greater obstacles in migrating to urban centres, which may imply that a greater share of a rising population over time stays within the community. This may imply greater pressure for food production, and thus counteract the first two factors.

Push or pull forest-clearing? In this chapter, four case-study areas of frontier settlements in the Ecuadorean highlands were presented in terms of their dominant landuse patterns, demographic factors and productive activities. The areas overwhelmingly represent `closed frontier' settlements: most land is already distributed among individual owners. Consequently, there is seldom a `homesteading' motivation for deforestation (see Chapter 8); there is rather an on-farm enlargement of the cultivated area, at the cost of forest fragments. Tables 6.1 and 6.2 summarize the site-specific composition of demographic and socioeconomic factors, revealing relatively large variations between the nine villages chosen for close inspection. The diversity of land-use patterns on the frontier was also underlined by PichoÂn

160 Highland Land-Use Patterns

(1996; 1997) for the Oriente. However, there were also some common denominators, such as an overall net land-use change from forest to pasture and a deforestation cycle with a typical sequence of productive activities little affected by the different climatic zones studied. Deforestation was also analysed in functional terms from the viewpoint of average farm-level annual clearing of forest (see Table 6.2). In four out of five cases with a high remaining forest stock, deforestation was also high in absolute terms. Conversely, from the six cases of high deforestation, five were young settlements and/or with significant immigration during the last 10±15 years, and all five had also experienced a population growth of more than 4 per cent annually over the same period. Comparison with Table 6.1 shows that most of these villages also faced low income levels and a rather high emphasis on wood products. This at least allows us to sketch a stylized picture: recent frontier settlements with large forests, low agropastoral development and high population push factors are those where most forest is harvested and cleared by farmers. This would seem to confirm an `impoverishment' scenario at the inter-village level of comparison. Yet at the intra-village level of different socioeconomic groups the situation is different, in the sense that there was no indiscriminate picture of poverty: the poorest class of landless obeys a different set of (predominantly push) factors from the pioneer landholder and land-use decision-maker who is reacting to (pull) incentives. Access to a forested frontier provides the privelege to mine forest resources (wood products, accumulated soil nutrients). Impoverishment thus only seems to occur when land is already scarce and forest reserves are exhausted. As long as this has not occurred, the growth of families and the enlargement of on-farm agropastoral land seem to equal `development', judged by the locally available options. We shall return to the question of the local rationality of deforestation in Chapter 9. With regard to population growth and labour allocation, the theoretical concepts examined in Chapter 2 proved to be too simple. Farm labour is mobile ± vertically, seasonally and sectorally ± but not to the extent which tends to be assumed in neoclassical theory, and there is idle capacity: land and forest abundance at the frontier prevails in many places, though plots are titled. On the other hand, the comparatively low remuneration of farm hands and the continuous emigration from villages founded decades ago is not generally consistent with the frontier labour-scarcity hypothesis favoured by the political-ecology school. In fact, frontier population growth clearly promotes deforestation, in

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 161

two ways: the subdivision of plots following inheritance, and the maintenance of cheap labour-supply for labour-demanding forest-clearing. In addition, population growth in nearby urban markets raises demand for especially cattle-derived farm products, which provides a strong pull incentive for frontier forest-clearing. So, returning to the main question of this chapter, is deforestation the poor man's push in the Sierra frontier areas? The answer is more complicated than a simple `yes' or `no', but is definitely more inclined towards the latter. Poor villages often deforest more than wealthy ones, but mainly because their location is remote and they have not yet developed the agropastoral potential of their farms. Here, it is not poverty that causes deforestation, but deforestation that reduces poverty! The landless poor physically carry out part of the forest-clearing process, but they tend not to decide land use. This is the responsibility of landowners, who rent their forested land to landless peasants ± or alternatively hire farm hands ± and capture part of the forest rent from timber and charcoal associated with clearing. The same decision mechanism applies to those landowners that directly work their land without hiring farm hands. The marked tendency towards increased commercialization, led by cattle-ranching, gives a supremacy to market incentives in the explanation of land-use changes. The predominant pattern of forest and nutrient mining with the sequence of wood-extraction, crop-production and cattle-ranching is not explained by ethnicity; few differences between mestizo and indigenous farmers can be observed. The traditional egalitarian rural society based on poor farmers' subsistence-crop production and a few large haciendas is gradually being replaced by a more differentiated population of farmers, with income differences both inside and between villages, where plot size, agropastoral soil potentials and market access are the main unequalizing factors. This frontier picture definitely does not resemble the scenario of selfperpetuating poverty and vicious circles of degradation; the latter may perhaps be encountered in established agricultural areas of the InterAndean valley with heavy erosion and little remaining forest. Impoverishment may play a role as a structural push factor in migrant-sending areas (e.g. inequality cum population growth) and in restricting the available productive options at the frontier (e.g. credit constraints), but the deterministic version of forced deforestation is not explanatory here. Rather, the results coincide with other frontier studies in Ecuador by underlining the role of small risk-taking entrepreneurs, motivated by pull rather than push factors. As discussed in Chapter 9 below, this also means that conservation strategies based unilaterally on poverty

162 Highland Land-Use Patterns

alleviation in frontier settlements are likely to fail to provide forest protection; on the contrary, they may even exacerbate existing pulldeforestation. Notes 1 Casagrande et al. (1964), Wood (1972), Brownrigg (1981), Bromley (1981), McKenzie Hedger (1994), Southgate and Whitaker (1992: ch.11), Sierra (1996). 2 Casagrande et al. (1964), Ekstrom (1981), Bromley (1981), Uquillas (1984), Hicks (1990), Southgate et al. (1991), Rudel (1993), Brown and Sierra (1994), Thapa et al. (1996), PichoÂn (1997). 3 Previous highland studies on forest use and deforestation include Mougeot (1985), White and Maldonado (1991), CESA and IntercoopercioÂn Suiza (1991; 1993), and Baez et al. (1997). 4 An unpublished consultancy report was produced for the PROBONA programme as an intermediate, partial product (Laso and GuerroÂn 1994), followed by the final publication (Wunder 1996). 5 The term `village' covers both geographically more or less united settlements, and a number of smaller, separate but close settlements that are homogenous in productive terms. The latter case of `sub-villages' applies to Illinizas (Cerro Äa ÄaloÂ), Quilotun Azul-pueblo, Cerro Azul-cooperativa, Parcelas El Alisal, Tan (JatuÂn Loma, La Cantera, El Triunfo-Chico) and Cashca Totoras (Santa Rosa de Totoras, Ambrosio Laso). 6 According to the Holdridge system (Holdridge 1967), fourteen different climate zones were identified in the land areas owned and used by the villages (Wunder 1996: 60, 116, 180, 263). 7 See Ekstrom's analysis (1981) of the Cuyes and Jima valleys south of Cuenca, and Baez et al. (1997) on the community of Oyacachi, in the Cayambe-Coca reserve northeast of Quito. 8 Note that the combined estimate of 3.15 mn ha and 0.78 mn ha, a total of 3.93 mn ha forested land, is lower than the figure reported for the Sierra in Table 4.2 (4,516,593 ha). This is due to several factors. First, the Amazon areas above 1200 m.a.s.l. are included in Table 4.2, but not in the inventory (see Table 4.2, note 2). Secondly, clouded areas in the satellite image may not be forested precisely as assumed in Chapter 4. Thirdly, the interpretation of satellite images and field observations may differ, in particular for the distinction between forests and other woody vegetation. 9 Consistency checks on the questionnaire were possible in the case of Cashca Totoras (case 4), as total deforestation over a certain period was known ex ante. They revealed the inconsistency of farmers' answers to questions on land-use changes, in the sense that the sum of the individually informed amount of annual forest-clearing was clearly inferior to the `true' amount of clearing. As the area is declared a `Protector Forest', there is a clear incentive for the individual farmer to understate the amount of deforestation. 10 Brownrigg (1981: 314±16) states that the extraction of valuable species occurred simultaneously with land-clearing in the western Andean flanks of El Oro province. This may exceptionally result from road construction, which suddenly opens up an area to all types of exploitation, but it would not be the pattern that is usually found.

Deforestation: the Poor Man's Lot? 163 11 It is often difficult to distinguish in practice between degraded pastures and fallow areas. Sometimes farmers may simply perceive that currently there is a different cattle-carrying capacity at the two sites. 12 White and Maldonado (1991), for example, analyse the case of the JadaÂn watershed (southern Sierra), where erosion processes have reached a severe stage, with extremely low yields (mainly of maize) and large abandoned areas. 13 For instance, in the cases of migration from the Toacazo area to Cerro Azul, from Azogues to Dudas, and from Chimborazo to Ambrosio Laso. 14 This historical process of emigration was not investigated here. 15 It should be noted that the precision of this information may vary, according to the individual memory of informants and those interviewed. There was, however, a uniform picture of high fertility in all the frontier settlements that were investigated. 16 Some local variation around this general pattern exists. Note also that a number of large owners have seen their lands occupied and divided by squatters, a process often supported by the former Ecuadorean land-titling agency, IERAC (see Chapter 8 for a detailed discussion). 17 Mingas tend to be non-reciprocal, but participants' food is paid for. The `exchange of hands' (local names: cambiamano, prestamano, randimpa) is reciprocal and more commonly practised on a bilateral basis. 18 The ninth case ± the rich sub-tropical cattle and agricultural zone of Las Pampas ± had an atypically high wage rate of US$4 a day. The day labourer additionally has the right to receive three meals, such as a bowl of rice and a soup. Rates may vary between individual labourers according to their known working capacity. Remuneration for women is usually 50±70 per cent of the quoted male rate; for children it was observed to be one-third. 19 See CESA (1991), Andrade and MoraÂn (1981: 36), and Brandbyge and Nielsen (1991: 78): `The decline of traditional firewood and its sources leads to privations, especially among the poor, but scarcity in itself does not create a market for conventional firewood among those who do not have money to spend on fuel' (my translation from Spanish). 20 As all sites had a significant commercial orientation, it was sufficient for the understanding of the income-generating process to focus on monetary flows, rather than imputing the value of subsistence production. 21 Respondents generally understated incomes for fear of taxation or neighbours' envy, or to encourage donor aid by overstating poverty. Two checks were made by posing questions about consumption levels (providing a lower limit for incomes) and production quantities of commercial destination; the latter could then be multiplied by known local market prices, deducting transport and input costs. 22 Sainz (1991: 64) analyses charcoal production in Khora, Bolivia, and concludes: `Without any doubt, the low incomes from agricultural production represent the key factor in explaining that a large proportion of the families in this community dedicate their time to charcoal production' (my translation from Spanish). Yet a closer inspection reveals the same structure as in our villages: landowners decide on land-clearing on the basis of the soil's agropastoral potential; landless peasants implement this decision as passive agents of second order.

7

Felling the Forest for the Trees?

In the last chapter, we looked at the relevance of impoverishment and population growth as two theoretically related explanations for deforestation introduced in Chapter 2. This chapter will consider two additional factors: timber demand and the `fuelwood trap'. To what degree is the forest felled and converted for its tree resources? We saw in Chapter 2 that the unsustainable extraction of wood products could lead to forest degradation and, in some cases, directly to deforestation. However, forest-loss impacts tend rather to materialize through the indirect role of facilitating the conversion process, e.g. through roads built for log extraction. This chapter will therefore seek to highlight the character of wood supplies from native forests in the Sierra, and questions whether this removal of trees contributes significantly to the disappearance of forests and if so, under which conditions.

National wood supply The amount of timber, firewood and charcoal produced and consumed in Ecuador is only partially known, and many uncertainties surround the statistics. This is true in particular for predominantly noncommercial uses such as firewood. This is mainly due to a deficient base of primary sources. The basic parameters on firewood consumption from the National Energy Institute (INE) are derived from an old field survey by Andrade and MoraÂn (1981). Yearly changes from the 1980s onwards are then extrapolated by the growth rate of the GDP of the forestry sector, under the premise that the production processes of timber and firewood are fully complementary. This is a heroic assumption, given that, in most cases, different agents and motivations govern the production of timber and firewood. A second data source is 164

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 165

the National Institute of Statistics and Censuses (INEC), but its figures refer exclusively to households' principal energy-supply source, thus failing to take into account the rapidly growing combined use of firewood and gas in rural areas throughout the last two decades (see below). An auxiliary point of divergence is the widespread confusion about conversion factors between firewood volumes, weights and energy values.1 Consequently, it should come as no surprise that national firewood and charcoal consumption estimates differ impressively between parallel sources: from 3.5 million m3/year (ITTO and INEFAN 1994b) to 4.2 million (FAO 1994: 66), 6.0 million (US Forest Service 1990: 58) and 6.34 million m3/year (ITTO and INEFAN 1994a). Reconsidering the different sources of variation, a `best-guess' estimate might be a yearly firewood consumption of 4.5±5.0 million cubic metres, of which about 10 per cent is processed into charcoal (Wunder 1996: 9). In regional terms, about 55 per cent of firewood consumption is supposed to occur in the Sierra (ibid.: 9). Timber production in Ecuador is concentrated in the areas where the largest extents of natural, species-rich forest is left: the Oriente and, in particular, Esmeraldas province in the northern Costa.2 A note of caution would be prudent: existing statistics underestimate production volumes, for reasons such as illegal cutting, tax-evasion and nonregistered autoconsumption. Although natural forests also remain in the Sierra region, their fragmentation and good accessibility have meant that they have already been widely exploited in the past. This is especially true for precious species (e.g. used for furniture, floors, windows), whereas ordinary species (used in industry and construction) are still relatively abundant. Figure 7.1 reproduces the flow chart from an ITTO/INEFAN project for the year 1992, focusing on the national use of wood extracted specifically from natural forests. A total of 8.5 million m3 is estimated to be removed yearly, the bulk of which (70 per cent) is used for firewood consumption.3 Of the remaining 30 per cent for industrial production, two-thirds are processed by small-scale chainsaw producers. Even in the northern Costa, the most important area for Ecuadorean timber production, primary supplies have been concentrated in the hands of small-scale producers since the introduction of the logging concession ban, which has made the production neither more efficient nor more sustainable (Sierra 1996: 47±8). One of the problems is the large amount of waste produced in the rudimentary cutting, processing, transport and storage functions. It has been estimated that, out of the volume of commercial wood in the forest, only 7 per cent reaches the

166

LEGEND:

NATIVE FOREST * 8500

3

3

INPUT 10 M PRODUCT 3

3

OUTPUT 10 M

5700 ‡ FIREWOOD 6000

2800 INDUSTRIAL LOGS 2800

1800 CHAIN SAWS 800

830 SAWMILLS 420

1170 INTERNAL MARKET

41

55

23

EXPORT

INTERNAL MARKET

EXPORT

177 † PLYWOOD 78

WASTES 300

Notes: * Native forest output is equal to the wood amount extracted to the roadside † Plywood production uses primarily wood from coastal forests ‡ Includes firewood converted to charcoal Source: ITTO and INEFAN (1993:124)

Figure 7.1 Flowchart of primary wood transformation in Ecuador, 1992

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 167

stage of industrial processing; 93 per cent is lost in the intermediate stages (ITTO and INEFAN 1994b: 23). Another special feature of the Ecuadorean timber sector is that the role of exports is negligible: during the last ten years, the value of exports has never reached more than 5 per cent of total production value (Sierra 1996: 71). Even this reduced share has been dominated by balsa wood and other products mainly produced in forest plantations rather than natural forests.4 This clearly indicates that the view of deforestation being led by excessive Northern timber demand and ruthless trade companies' hunger for profit (outlined critically in Chapter 2) is currently irrelevant for Ecuador: any prospective deforestation impact from logging is fuelled exclusively by the home market.

Wood production and land-use impacts In Chapter 2, the circumstances under which the extraction of wood products might lead to outright deforestation were discussed; these depended on the forest ecosystem and the type of intervention. There is a corresponding debate in Ecuador about the environmental impact of timber operations, focusing both on the direct impact of log extraction (which is not characterized by environmentally benign techniques) and the indirect effects of opening up an area, e.g. through road construction. For instance, Amelung and Diehl (1992) calculated in their model that, depending on the assumptions, between 7 per cent and 33 per cent of deforestation in Ecuador was explained by commercial logging. Unfortunately, the Ecuadorean debate generally lacks a clear distinction between deforestation and forest degradation (see Chapter 1). Obviously, this gives excessive explanatory weight to loggers and chainsaw operators compared to farmers and cattle-ranchers.5 It also tends to ignore composite deforestation motives related to different stages of the conversion process (see Chapter 9). Whereas logging may have a certain deforestation impact in the Costa and a minor one in the Oriente, under normal circumstances it is not a cause of forest-clearing in the Sierra. Due to the low commercial scale of remaining valuable timber species, it is usually not worthwhile to open a new road in a mountainous region just for the sake of timber extraction; this thus eliminates any prospective `indirect' impact. The extraction of logs here may rather be a by-product of forest-clearing implemented for general purposes of colonization. For example, this was the case in the Äa area (case 3), where cattle is the dominant source of cash Quilotun income, but the extraction of ordinary timber species, mainly for the

168 Highland Land-Use Patterns

construction sector in Quito, would contribute between 15 and 25 per cent to yearly household incomes. The extraction of valuable species also occurs in our study areas, especially on the Andean flanks, but on a minor scale that does not in itself motivate forest-clearing. The situation is somewhat different for charcoal production. This is almost a 100 per cent commercial product, given that it is used exclusively in urban areas and generally not, as is sometimes wrongly stated, as a common domestic energy source.6 Though firewood and charcoal may be jointly produced, the latter obeys pull incentives derived from urban markets which are clearly distinct from the push deforestation found in the `fuelwood trap' (see Chapter 2). The motivation for converting firewood into charcoal comes from the higher energy value obtained per unit of weight, which makes it economically feasible to transport it over longer distances, i.e. it can `pay its way out of the woods'. Two different types of urban use may be distinguished: a simple energy use (e.g. by blacksmiths, sugar mills or brick factories) and a specialized use (e.g. by broiler restaurants or fireworks factories). The former is easily substituted by alternative sources, such as gas or electricity; the latter depends on specific charcoal properties, such as its smoke flavour and light weight. Charcoal production takes place on the spot and is often directly related to the process of forest-clearing. Simple, earth-covered holes are used as kilns and, depending on their size, the burning process takes between four and twenty days. According to road distance and market requirements, either all types of firewood are cut and used across the board for conversion, or hard species with a high energy content are selected; arrayaÂn (Eugenia sp.) is particularly popular. In the case of across-the-board utilization, charcoal-burning would indeed be a candidate as a cause of deforestation, provided that the once-and-for-all rent from clearing and charcoal conversion is in fact the decisive motivation within the landowner's resource-use strategy.

Caught in the fuelwood trap? Compared to charcoal-making, firewood proved in general to be a poor determinant of deforestation in our study areas, although its use for domestic cooking and heating constituted the quantitatively largest anthropogenic use of woody biomass. Table 7.1 summarizes the results of our questionnaires about domestic uses of firewood. Monthly consumption levels are between 0.4 and 1.0 m3, higher than the results obtained by some authors for other parts of the Sierra (e.g. Mougeot

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 169 Table 7.1 Average firewood consumption in study areas: domestic monthly consumption per household1, 3 Altit./gas use

Only firewood 2, 4

Firewood and gas2, 5

High altitude Low altitude

1.01 m3 (16.8 loads) 0.76 m3 (12.6 loads)

0.50 m3 (8.4 loads) 0.38 m3 (6.3 loads)

Notes: 1 2 3 4 5

Cooking and heating, excl. artisan or industrial uses Figures in parentheses: 1 average `load' ˆ 0.06 m3 Household of 5±7 persons High altitude: 4 loads weekly; low altitude: 3 loads weekly High altitude: 2 loads weekly; low altitude: 1.5 loads weekly

1985, for part of Cuenca province), but much lower than the official rural estimates, based on the aforementioned old census by Andrade and MoraÂn (1981). Consumption is stratified according to altitude (higher areas need about one-third more fuelwood) and gas availability (reduces firewood quantities to only half). On the whole, our figures are lower than INE's figures, inter alia because they take into account the substantial penetration of bottled gas, even into marginal rural areas, that is favoured by a costly policy of massive subsidies to Ecuadorean gas consumers.7 In our areas, gas tends to be combined with firewood for different cooking purposes: traditional meals with a long cooking time are preferably prepared with firewood, whereas quick meals and the heating of water is done with gas. About 80 per cent of the households interviewed had a gas stove. Reasonable distance to the road (for cylinder transport) and a minimum threshold income were the two necessary conditions for the possession of a gas stove. The price of cooking stoves, identified as an important barrier to commercial fuels in a study for the coastal provinces of ManabõÂ and Los RõÂos (McKenzie Hedger 1994), was not found to be significant in our areas, despite the incidence of rural poverty in both study zones. By maintaining a combination of firewood and gas, households remained flexible not only vis-aÁ-vis different cooking requirements, but also in regard to price changes, temporary shortages of bottled gas and the seasonal variations in the availability of (dry) firewood. Where did the domestically consumed firewood come from? In the literature dominated by case studies from wood-scarce areas in the Interandean valley, notably the work of the Ecuadorean Centre for Agricultural Services (CESA),8 firewood is seen as the motor for a `fuelwood trap'-type vicious circle of impoverishment (see Chapter 2): peasants are too poor to buy commercial fuels, so the only feasible response

170 Highland Land-Use Patterns

to a firewood harvest that exceeds regeneration is the search for ever remoter areas of collection, accompanied by the gradual abandonment of non-energy forest uses (food, medicine, construction), as the inevitable results of deforestation. The commercial exploitation of firewood is also seen as a main motive for deforestation, especially in the Sierra: `natural forests are still the main sources of firewood, and this is why they are disappearing rapidly' (Mougeot 1985: 116, my translation and emphasis). In addition, impoverished producers are supposed to be deprived of most of the benefits of the wood trade because huge middlemen profits would occupy the lion's share of value added (see below). This pattern could not be recognized at all in our study areas. A main reason was a difference in the historical use of the land: as recently colonized forest frontier areas, tree resources were still abundant at most study sites, which did not allow for any wood-led vicious circle. However, one may also suspect that the `fuelwood-trap' line of thought exaggerates the vicious circularity of deforestation in other parts of the Sierra by underestimating the flexibility of peasants' responses. In those of our sites where firewood was already becoming scarce, as evidenced by an emerging market for it, there were multiple options available to react to this scarcity: a less selective choice of firewood species,9 leaving trees standing near the house during the clearing process, planting eucalyptus as a rapidly growing substitute, the purchase of firewood, augmenting the use of gas and, finally, increasing collection time by walking longer distances. It seems ex ante unlikely that the latter option should have been exclusively applied elsewhere, given that the remaining array of possibilities was in no way specific to our sites. In addition to firewood, other important domestic wood uses were timber for construction and as poles for cattle-fences; the latter is influential in some of the areas specializing in cattle-ranching. For energy uses, the efficiency of both domestic cooking stoves and charcoal kilns is appallingly low, implying large losses of energy.10 However, different stove-project experiences have shown that, as long as there is an abundance of wood resources, households show little interest in using improved stoves (OLADE et al. 1987). Some commercial uses of firewood also exist, mainly for simple energy purposes, but these are restricted by high transport costs. Only in the southern highlands (Loja province, case 2) is there a locally significant industrial and artisan use of firewood, mainly in brick factories but also in sugar mills. The preferred species for energy use in this warm and dry area is faique (Acacia macrantha). Because of the generally drier climate and more difficult prospects of forest regeneration after wood

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 171

extraction (see Chapter 2), one may suspect that the demand for firewood accelerates local processes of deforestation. However, even in these areas, the cutting and sale of firewood is often combined with clearing for new crop-cultivation areas; few lands remain idle after forest-clearing.

The markets for wood The attributes of the three wood products with more or less significant commercial uses are compared in Box 7.1. As can be seen, firewood and charcoal share certain characteristics: product homogeneity, relative trade transparency with uniform prices, but seasonal price variations (producer prices rise during the local wet season). Because of the slow but steady advance of the agricultural frontier, the distance between cleared forest areas and urban markets tends to grow; higher average transport costs are thus gradually passed on to urban prices. Yet there are product differences too. Firewood can only be sold in nearby markets; the radius of distribution for charcoal is higher. Local charcoal-processing produces a value added to the raw material on the frontier. These two factors together mean that charcoal is economically the most important wood product on the frontier; firewood is the least significant. The characteristics of timber vary greatly, in the sense that many different species are used for multiple purposes, meaning that they have to be prepared and distributed according to the different demands of customers. Often species are mis-identified, involuntarily or deliberately, even by professional traders. Heterogeneity of the product and lack of transparency in trade mean that middlemen's costs and profits both account for a somewhat larger share of the final consumer price than for firewood and charcoal. Tables 7.2, 7.3 and 7.4 give an overview of wholesale and retail prices for the three products, comparing relevant production zones in our study areas with the corresponding urban markets. Table 7.2 shows a remarkable uniformity in producer roadside prices of charcoal, when standardized to the same unit of weight. This reflects a combination of two factors promoting highly competitive markets: many forests are cleared and can potentially provide charcoal, and there is good road access to the cities. Consumer prices, usually determined by urban demand and supplies from these multiple production areas, show a little more variation but generally amount to around twice the producer price.

172 Highland Land-Use Patterns

Box 7.1 The commercialization of wood products Characteristics of firewood O a highly marginal product in the peasant economy O low unit value and high transport costs O used mainly in brick factories; some minor uses (bakeries, sugar mills, pizzerias) O a relatively homogenous product O short commercial chains and low middlemen profits O prices: high seasonal fluctuations and a rising long-term trend in urban prices Characteristics of charcoal O in some localities, an economically important product O added value as a result of local processing O specialized uses, e.g. in broiler restaurants; simple energy use, e.g. by blacksmiths O product and prices very homogeneous O short commercial chains and low middlemen profits O prices: high seasonal fluctuations and a rising long-term trend in urban prices Characteristics of timber O a product of little importance, except for a few cases; little value added locally O ordinary species used in industry and construction, valuable species e.g. for furniture, floors O products and prices very heterogeneous O longer commercial chains and high middlemen profits O prices: low seasonal fluctuations and a rising long-term trend in urban prices For firewood (Table 7.3) the situation is similar, with generally comparable producer price levels, but greater variation in urban prices. Commercial firewood normally only comprises the best energy-providing species (with price variations according to quality differences); for domestic use, all species may be consumed when the resource is scarce. In Loja and SaquisilõÂ, production areas are quite close to the urban markets, so transportation costs are low, which reduces the surcharge expressed in consumer prices.

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 173 Table 7.2 Wholesale and retail prices for charcoal: yearly averages for selected zones Area Dudas Uritusinga Las Illinizas Äa Quilotun Cashca Totoras

Case study

Altitude

1 2 3 3 4

medium high high high high

Producer Consumer Principal price2 markets3 price1 3.08 3.83 3.46 3.46 3.32

6.16 6.94 7.20 7.20 5.60

Cuenca, Azogues Loja Quito, Latacunga Quito, Ambato Chimbo, Guaranda

Notes: 1 In US$ for a `standardized' sack of 50 kg (both soft and hard species) at roadside 2 In US$, retail price in informal urban markets or to final consumer 3 If more than one market is mentioned, prices refer to the first Source: Field data

Table 7.3 Price ranges for firewood in study areas: per `load', in US$ 1 Area/market Case 1 (Dudas-Cuenca) Case 2 (Loja Province) Case 3 (Toachi-PilatoÂn) Case 4 (Cashca-Chimbo)

Rural market

Urban market

0.5±0.6 0.5±0.7 2 0.5 0.8

2.0±2.2 0.8 0.6 3 1.2

Notes: 1 Average price winter-summer. Each `load' contains 15±20 kg 2 For harder `faique' species: 0.6±1.2 rural, 1.6±1.7 urban 3 Local markets of Saquisili and Sigchos Source: Field data.

There is a striking difference in regard to the producer prices of timber (Table 7.4): the latter tend to be much more variable than for charcoal and firewood. This is mostly because there is a wide range of prices for differÄa and Illinizas areas, only ordinent species. For instance, in the Quilotun ary species are left; on the other hand, the zone of Jimbilla specializes in the extraction of precious woods from the upper flanks downslope towards the Oriente. There is also generally a much larger jump from producer to retail prices, for the reasons mentioned above, to US$4±8 per board. Potentially, this may be the result of a squeeze by middlemen.

Are primary producers squeezed by middlemen? A common hypothesis among Ecuadorean NGOs and development organizations is that poor peasants tend to be `cheated' by traders and intermediaries, an observation that is probably well-sustained for many

174 Highland Land-Use Patterns Table 7.4 Timber wholesale and retail prices: Yearly averages for selected zones Area

Case study

Altitude Producer price1

Retail price2

Main markets3 Cuenca, Azogues Cuenca, Loja Huaquillas Quito, Latacunga Quito, Ambato Quito

Dudas Jimbilla-Imbana

1 2

medium 0.94y 2.20* high 2.65y 4.00*

7.70* 5.80*

Las Illinizas Äa Quilotun Las Pampas

3 3 4

high high high

0.39y 0.66* 0.46y 0.66* 0.95y 1.40*

4.40* 4.40* 3.60*

Notes: 1

y

Average board price (tabla), net of external costs, in US$ Range of size for one tabla: 2±3 m  22 cm  2±2.5 cm * Gross price of board (tabloÂn) of the typical species in each zone: Dudas: molloÂn, Jimbilla: romerillo, Quilotuna, Illinizas: colorado, Las Pampas: canelo; in US$ Range of size for one tabloÂn: 2±3 m  22cm  4±5 cm 2 * Board price (tabloÂn) equivalent to 1*, retail sale to urban consumer, in dried state of elaboration/semi-elaboration

3 If more than one market is mentioned, the price refers to the first

Source: Field data.

products and geographical areas. Traders take advantage of deficient market information and of trade-led dependency relations, thus reaping the bulk of the benefits from commercialization. Unfair prices paid to peasants help to maintain them in poverty, which contributes to the `impoverishment' explanation of deforestation. Consequently, the middlemen hypothesis is complementary to the `vicious circle' and `fuelwood trap' types of explanation: exploitation by traders is part of the supposed deadlock of the rural poor. Nevertheless, in the case of the wood trade in our study areas, there was no general confirmation of this supposition. The situation would depend both on the product in question, and on the site-specific structure of the transport±intermediary business (e.g. number of traders, distance to markets, barriers to entry). Table 7.5 shows the commercial Äa, margins for charcoal production from case study area 3 (Quilotun Illinizas) through Sigchos to the capital, Quito. The commercial chain analysed here consists of a maximum of four agents: the producer and/or forest owner,11 the transporter-middleman, the retailer and the consumer (other arrangements may be more direct).12 The table reveals that 44 per cent of the total consumer price is retained at the producer level, half of which accrues as forest rent (payment for the wood).13 The intermediary's share is 32 per cent (his gross mark-up is 37 per cent), which does not appear a particularly high share, keeping in mind the high costs of purchase and of maintaining a truck, especially

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 175 Table 7.5 Charcoal commercialization margins: trade from sigchos to Quito: sucres per large sack6 Values1

Relative margin %2

Share of final price %3

3750 1125 2625 7500

50 15 35 100

22 7 15 44

Purchase from producer Gross margin `middleman'8 Sale to retailer6, 9

7500 5500 13,000

63 37 100

44 32 76

Purchase from `middleman' Gross margin retailer10 Sale to consumer11

13,000 4000 17,000

76 24 100

76 24 100

Item Standing wood price4 `External' costs (chainsaw, petrol, etc.)5 Producer margin6 Sale to `middleman'7

Notes: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

1 US$ ˆ S/2,300 (1995 figures) Value distribution for each commercial agent, as a share of his sale price Value's percentage relative to consumer price (S/17,000) Estimated as 50% of producer's sale price (`a medias'±see Chapter 8) Estimated as 15% of producer's sale price Includes all labour costs Simple average of arrayaÂn/soft species and winter/summer Includes costs of petrol, depreciation of truck, and all labour Simple average arrayaÂn/soft species Average for urban street markets Includes all labour costs and rent of stalls

Source: Field data, urban market and user enquiries.

when it is used on dirt roads.14 Nor does the retailer's gross margin of 24 per cent appear too high, considering the outlays and costs of distribution. A historical account of the transport business in the Illinizas zone can help to explain the figures. Ten to fifteen years ago, there were reported to have been only two truck drivers, who conspired in setting prices to raise their margins and seem to have conducted the business of wood transport to the detriment of primary producers. However, over the years a couple of primary producers had both cleared all their forest and managed to save enough money to buy their own trucks. They thus `progressed' to becoming middlemen, meaning that there now seem to be four to six trucks serving the area, according to the season. Together with peasants' increased contact with the nearby market towns of SaquisilõÂ and Sigchos, the increased competition among middlemen has reduced transporters' margins to a reasonable level. The historical situation in Illinizas seems to be similar to that observed currently in the Dudas±Mazar watershed (case 1). Charcoal and wood,

176 Highland Land-Use Patterns

especially from the village of Dudas, are mainly destined for the town of Cuenca, quite a long way off (70±90 km). The transport business thus depends on specific pre-established contacts and is not as open to entry as in case area 3. This, together with a small turnover of wood products from Dudas, has helped to concentrate the activity in the hands of only two truckers, which makes it possible to squeeze producer prices to a lower level. However, the middleman is also under pressure from competing middlemen in the urban markets. This becomes clear when we look at the seasonal fluctuation in prices. In most of the study zones, the commercial extraction of wood product was lower during the `winter' (a wet season of 3±4 months). This means that production from a given area is reduced (often by up to 50 per cent), both because of the temporary inaccessibility of dirt roads, and because producers reduce their activities, due to the difficult working conditions in the wet forest. These reduced supplies drive up the local roadside price of wood products paid to the producer. However, the middleman is usually unable to pass this seasonal increase on to the urban consumer. This occurs because a megamarket like Quito derives its supplies from a series of production zones where the wet season does not occur simultaneously. The going price in Quito is thus determined by the currently cheapest available dry-season supplies. In practice, this means that some truckers go out of business during the wet season, while others accept a lower (or even negative) net profit margin, as long as there is a positive contribution to cover fixed costs. The situation is slightly different in the case of timber. Table 7.6 takes the example of canelo, a label under which a number of semi-precious woods are sold in Quito, most of which originate from lower-altitude zones on the Andean flanks.15 Two figures are given in the table; the one in parentheses refers to lumber yards (bodegas) in the (poorer) centralsouthern part of Quito, the one without parentheses is from the (wealthier) north of the city. The dual structure of the market was underlined by the fact that the same canelo board was apparently sold at 6800 sucres in the former and 9000 sucres in the latter. This difference seems to have to do both with a higher turnover, and with greater competition and a lower profit margin in the centre-south.16 Even in the case of timber, the share accruing to the wood producer fluctuates between 39 per cent and 52 per cent.17 With 24±43 per cent, the lumber-yard margin is the most important element of value added, which, however, also reflects a range of cost elements.18 Just as in the case of charcoal, the transportermiddleman (share of 18±24 per cent) does not seem to reap any extraordinary unit profit from his business.

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 177 Table 7.6 Timber commercialization margins in Quito: prices per board of canelo 1, 10 Item

Value sucres1

Standing wood price4 `External' costs (chainsaw, gasoline, etc.)5 Producer margin6 Sale to middleman7

1750 850

50 25

19 10

(26) (13)

850 3500

25 100

10 39

(13) (52)

Purchase from producer Gross margin middleman8 Sale to Quito lumber yard

3500 1700 5200

67 33 100

39 19 57

(52) (25) (76)

Purchase from middleman Gross lumber yard margin9 Sale to consumer10, 11

5200 (5200) 3800 (1600) 9000 (6800)

57 43 100

Notes: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Relative margin %2

(76) (24) (100)

Share of final price %3

57 (76) 43 (24) 100 (100)

1 US$ = S/2300 (1995 figures) Range of board size (tabla): 2±3 m  22cm  2±2.5 cm Value distribution for each commercial agent, as a share of his sale price Value's percentage relative to consumer price (9000 and 6800 sucres, respectively) Estimated as 50% of producer's sale price (`a medias'±see Chapter 8) Estimated as 25% of producer's sale price Includes all labour costs Dry season price Includes costs of petrol, depreciation of truck, and all labour Includes costs of labour, rent of sales storehouse/lumber yard, product processing and drying Numbers without parentheses: average lumber yard in the north of Quito; Numbers with parentheses: average lumber yard centre/south of Quito; Price of dry wood; fresh wood is sold at S/1500±2500 less per board

Source: Field data, urban market and user enquiries

On aggregate, the middlemen for wood products in our study areas only gain elevated profits from the transport and redistribution of wood products in exceptional cases. The options are particularly limited when there is sufficient competition between different intermediaries, and in the case of relatively homogeneous products like firewood and charcoal. For timber, lack of transparency and a dualism of markets may sometimes make it easier to earn extraordinary profits, especially in urban lumber yards. Nevertheless, it seems an exaggeration to talk about a general `exploitative' relationship between middlemen and producers. If anyone should be accused of receiving immodest benefits, it should be the urban consumer of charcoal-roasted broilers and cheap boards who yields a consumer's surplus that is subsidized by nature, in terms of the non-sustainable management of the Andean forests of origin.

178 Highland Land-Use Patterns

Wood quantities and incomes An assessment of the local impact of wood production should also take into account the scale of operations in terms of the quantities of traded wood and incomes that are generated. As explained in Chapter 2, one should expect that the demand for wood products would be a particular reason for deforestation around cities. Specifically for Ecuador, we saw in Chapter 5 that one of the impacts of the oil boom was an increase in rural±urban migration, which may reduce deforestation pressures on remote frontier settlements, but increase the `ecological footprint' of the growing cities on nearby forest areas. Obviously, the main candidate in the highlands is Quito, the capital. Table 7.7 shows estimates for the city's consumption of charcoal, based on the research team's enquiries of selected urban consumers and distributors, cross-checked with the quantities transported out of various production zones. Both total consumption in Quito (a little less than 100,000 sacks a year) and the specific supply from the study area 3 of Sigchos (about 23,000 sacks) were quantified.19 Almost half of this quantity is distributed directly to broiler restaurants; consumers seem to favour the taste of charcoal-roasted chicken to that cooked by gas. While many simple energy uses of charcoal have been reduced or have even disappeared, this specialized use has increased and thus proved to be resistant to the real price hike that charcoal has experienced in Quito over the years. Likewise, charcoal is used for cooking by small-scale mobile grills (pincheros). There are also some sales through the largest supermarket chain, Supermaxi. Finally, charcoal is distributed through street vendors in popular markets to private consumers, typically for barbecues. Assuming an even distribution between hard and soft charcoal species, total yearly consumption in Quito would equal 3,850,000 kg.20 How much income does the yearly sale of 22,800 sacks of charcoal from the Sigchos zone generate for the corresponding local communities? Table 7.8 shows that the two relevant production areas, Illinizas Äa, produce yearly about 800,000 kg and 600,000 kg, and and Quilotun earn incomes of US$57,000 and US$43,000, respectively. However, their production also supplies other urban markets, such as Ambato and Latacunga. In the other specialized areas, production and incomes are comparable in size (Dudas, Uritusinga) or much lower (Cashca Totoras).21 As has been shown in the previous chapter (Table 6.1), this makes charcoal the second largest local source of income after cattleranching in selected high-altitude frontier areas, amounting to between

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 179 Table 7.7 Estimating charcoal demand and supply in Quito (number of large sacks)1 Use/distribution

Demand

Supply

1. Broiler restaurants, demand 45,300 11,325 Particip. Sigchos zone 25% 20,000 2. Informal grills, demand2 2500 Particip. Sigchos zone 25% 11,700 3. Supermaxi supermarket sales 0 Particip. Sigchos zone 0% 19,250 4. Informal markets3 8975 Particip. Sigchos zone 46%4 96,250 5. Total demand 22,800 Supply Sigchos zone for Quito market Aggregated participation Sigchos zone: 22,800/96,250 ˆ 23.7% Notes: 1 Large sacks of arrayaÂn (50 kg) and soft species (30 kg) 2 Crude estimate based on few enquiries 3 20% of total charcoal demand in Quito; excludes the demand originating in informal grills (use no.2)

4 Calculated as a residual: 4. ˆ 5.�3.�2.�1.

Sources: Field data, urban market and user enquiries

Table 7.8 Charcoal production and income in study areas: data for selected zones Area

Case Altitude study

Dudas Uritusinga Illinizas Äa Quilotun Cashca Totoras

1 2 3 3 4

medium high high high high

Charcoal1 production

Charcoal income2

Principal markets

340±605,000 512±678,000 823,000 621,000 67,830

21±37,000 40±52,000 57,000 43,000 4500

Cuenca, Azogues Loja Quito, Latacunga Quito, Ambato Chimbo, Guaranda

Notes: 1 In kg, yearly (both soft and hard species) 2 In US$, gross annual income, deducting `external' costs (chainsaw, truck, etc.), but including remuneration of on-site production factors (such as own labour costs, local hired hands, local animal transport) Source: Field data

20 and 40 per cent of total cash incomes. Hence charcoal-making also represents a particular phase in the evolution of the forest-frontier landscape. The importance of firewood sales for the rural economy is negligible, typically yielding less than 10 per cent of the corresponding income

180 Highland Land-Use Patterns

from charcoal. Only consumption by brickworks is large enough to have an impact on deforestation in selected zones, especially in the Loja area (case 2). However, even here there is an ongoing process of gradual substitution towards eucalyptus. For timber, both quantities and incomes vary much more between villages, depending on the species that are extracted. Table 7.9 gives an overview of the situation in the five study areas where a systematic production of timber occurs. Again, the areas in case 3 now produce exclusively ordinary species; about ten years ago, there is said to have been a sizeable production of fine species, like olive (Cervantesia s.p.) and canelo (Ocotea infrapovedata), which are now basically extinct. Less unit value is currently replaced by higher quantities; 214,000 boards are delivered from the two areas each year. In turn, Jimbilla specializes in selective felling of precious species, mostly for furniture; it is the only frontier village in our study area which with some justification can be said to live from its forest resources. Extraction quantities are not very high, but the high value per tree produces extraordinarily high incomes; an additional reason here is that villagers have `integrated upwards' into transport which raises local value added. Finally, for Las Pampas and Dudas timber extraction is now only a supplementary activity, as precious timber resources have gradually been exhausted. Table 7.9 Timber production and income: yearly figures for selected zones Timber Timber production1 incomes2

Case study

Altitude

Dudas

1

medium

3600

Jimbilla

2

medium

83,000

244,000*

Illinizas

3

high

106,000

41,000

Äa Quilotun

3

high

108,000

50,000

Las Pampas

3

low

20,000

19,000

Area

3375

Main species3 ishpingo, molloÂn, sarar ± fine guayacaÂn, romerillo ± fine colorado, chilco, ordinary morado, chilco, ordinary Cedro, canelo fine

Notes: 1 Annual figures, in boards of about 250 cm  25 cm  2.5 cm, or their equivalent 2 In US$, gross annual income, excl. of 25% `external' costs (chainsaws, petrol, etc.), but including labour costs, domestic animal transport, etc. 3 Main exploited species, and dominance of fine (valuable) v. ordinary (less valuable) species * Includes 10% gross profit of transport Jimbilla±Loja in producer-owned trucks Source: Field data

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 181

Wood-led deforestation? On the whole, one can say initially that the local economic importance of wood products has much to do with proximity and road access to urban markets, a result that is considerably in line with other research from Ecuador.22 For example, a geographic area where there was both destructive forest use on a significant scale and an important income Äa), linked to the Quito derived from its use was area 3 (Illinizas, Quilotun market. The combined yearly local income from charcoal (US$57,000 plus US$43,000) and timber (US$41,000 and US$50,000) in the whole area is US$191,000. One might be tempted to interpret this value as an `opportunity cost' for forest conservation: at the study-zone level, this would be the minimum local income that any forest-conservation project had to generate in order to be competitive with existing destructive uses. However, an uncertain premise here is whether these incomes are actually more important to the landowners involved than subsequent land uses, in this case mainly potato-production and cattle-ranching. We shall attempt to answer this central land-use question in Chapter 9. Another frequently asked question is how much forest is `consumed' by the observed demand for wood products. For instance, Hofstad (1997) estimated that charcoal consumption in Dar es Salaam (Tanzania) currently demands a continuous production area of 3416 km2, the growth of which can then be model-projected. This assumes homogeneity of the miombo production forest around the city and no competing land uses that would interfere with an optimal rotation scheme exclusively for charcoal. Compared with Quito, a city of similar population size, it is difficult to provide an equally clear answer, for several reasons. First, biomass content for charcoal manufacture varies widely across different types of forest around the city, because of both ecosystem variability and the different degree of previous human interventions. Secondly, nutrient mining and conversion for alternative uses is the rule, implying that far from all of the available biomass is utilized. In lands with good transport access most felled tree species may be utilized, while in others only hard species are converted; the rest is simply burnt to ashes. Putting aside for a moment these two notes of caution, we remember that yearly charcoal consumption in Quito was estimated at 3,850,000 kg. The observations from the production zones indicate that the per hectare yield in charcoal manufacture varies approximately from 900 to 3,200 kg/ha.23 Applying a simple average of 2050 kg/ha, this would imply that, were the forests cleared exclusively for charcoal, with a

182 Highland Land-Use Patterns

fully efficient use of the available biomass, a mere 1878 ha of forestclearing per year would be sufficient. This figure, 19 km2, is about twenty times lower than the figure for Dar es Salaam! The much lower figure for Quito seems to have to do with several factors: once-and-for-all harvesting prevails, natural forests are much richer in biomass and urban consumers mostly use fossil fuels. However, it does make it clear that charcoal consumption is not a factor that necessarily leads to deforestation in Ecuador, even with present rudimentary charcoal production methods: if a megamarket like Quito requires only 19 km2 for charcoal production, it would be relatively easy to set aside a sustainable production zone for current and future charcoal consumption in all of Ecuador. The deforestation impact has much more to do with general resourcemanagement practices, within which wood products are only a partial, and generally not the most important, element. If this is true for charcoal, an even stronger argument can be made in the case of timber extraction, which is generally not a reason for deforestation in the Ecuadorean highlands. Any certain direct impact could only be observed in study zone 3, with a significant yearly extraction of ordinary species. In all other cases, extraction is selective, at the worst leading to forest degradation. Because of the predominantly low commercial value of remaining timber species, timber extraction forms no independent reason for road-building or other infrastructural investments, meaning also that it has no indirect bearing on forest conversion. The deforestation impact of timber exports is practically zero, for the Sierra as well as the rest of the country. Firewood has only negligible commercial significance, except for a series of brickworks near Loja (case 2), where commercial uses may play a certain role. Domestic cooking ± the quantitatively largest use of wood ± and the derived wood demand showed no signs of a `fuelwood trap' or other `vicious circles'. Either tree resources are still abundant, or else peasants react flexibly to incipient wood scarcities. As noted already in Chapter 6, our study areas show no indications of impoverishment as a main explanation of deforestation. Another popular poverty-led hypothesis ± middlemen's alleged squeeze on primary producers ± also proved irrelevant for the wood trade in our areas, except perhaps for timber, where urban retailers sometimes reap extraordinary profits. This contrasts with other research results, e.g. the detailed African wood trade study of Leach and Mearns (1988: 206±13) that generally found long commercial chains, high intermediate profits and cost-inefficient urban distribution systems. In Ecuador, charcoal and the firewood trade is usually direct, transparent and rather efficient.

Felling the Forest for the Trees? 183

On the whole, the results presented in this chapter give a negative answer to the main question posed at the beginning: is the forest felled for the sake of the trees, and is deforestation thus wood-led? It seems likely from our nine case-study villages that wood products, especially charcoal, contribute to forest-clearing, especially in the vicinity of larger towns and cities, but even there they do not appear to constitute a root cause. In Chapter 9, we will return to this question, trying to answer more precisely how different causes of deforestation can be ranked quantitatively within farmers' livelihood strategies. However, this diagnosis also implies that overall command-and-control measures against wood commercialization from native Andean forests ± such as an often recommended prohibition of charcoal production and consumption ± would be an inadequate instrument to promote forest conservation (Wunder 1996: 399±402): it would reduce rural incomes further and the current profitability of forest land use, it would enable corruption and create numerous conflicts and implementation problems and, most of all, it would not address the crux of the deforestation matter. Notes 1 See Wunder (1996: ch.1) for a critical review of assumptions and results. 2 This region generated 21.5 per cent of all timber produced in 1985, but by 1991 this share had risen to 41.6 per cent (Sierra 1996). 3 Note that the authors use a higher estimate of firewood consumption (6 million m3) than the one which we use as a working estimate (4.5±5.0 million m3). 4 In volume terms, Figure 7.1 suggests that the combined yearly amount of exported sawnwood (41,000 m3) and plywood (23,000 m3) equals 64,000 m3, which represents 2.3 per cent of industrially processed native logs and a bare 0.8 per cent of all extracted native wood. 5 For instance, Sierra (1996: 28) defines deforestation in the northern Costa as areas where less than 30 per cent of forest remain; however, in the same document (ibid.: 52) he assumes that all selectively logged-over, non-converted areas should also be considered deforested, due to the severe biological damage that is found. Whereas the first quotation is clearly referring to landuse change (with a quantitative criterion somewhat higher than FAO's 90 per cent ± see Chapter 1), it is equally apparent that the second relates to forest degradation. 6 Brownrigg (1981: 314) states that `Charcoal . . . is the major source of domestic fuels in this corner of petroleum-rich Ecuador, as in many other areas of the country'. This is highly unlikely: there is no clear rationale for converting firewood into charcoal for domestic consumption, as labour input and energy loss are implied. 7 This policy was inherited from the oil-boom period of the 1970s, as explained in Chapter 5.

184 Highland Land-Use Patterns 8 For instance, CESA (1991) and Brandbyge and Nielsen (1991); see also the description in Chapter 6. 9 As long as the resource is abundant, peasants rank and select firewood species according to their calorific content, which they recognize in detail from their traditional knowledge of tree species (Velasco and Ortega 1989). 10 Leach and Mearns (1988: 189) conclude from their African case studies that conversion to charcoal triggers an energy loss of 50 per cent, i.e. a tree burnt as firewood has an energy content double that of the same tree first converted into charcoal. 11 The forest owner may or may not be the charcoal-producing agent; as discussed in Chapter 6, there is a class of landless peasants specializing in `renting' forest patches to be cleared and extracting charcoal and/or timber, half of which (in products or in value) is then usually paid to the owner. 12 In some cases, forest owners deliver with their own trucks directly to a broiler restaurant (pollerõÂa). Naturally, if only two agents are involved, producer prices will be higher and consumer prices lower. 13 Throughout this chapter, we calculate producers' margins net only of `external costs' (e.g. of petrol and chainsaw oil), but not of local production factors triggering local costs (e.g. hired hands or mules). The logic here is that the interesting distinction is between the village and the external level, not so much between individual local producers, differential labour- and factorexchange systems. 14 Of course, the transporter will in many cases carry out a `two-way business' where he not only extracts wood products, but also brings in foodstuffs and different consumer goods, which likewise produce a profit. 15 For instance, Persea mutisii and Ocotea infrapovedata. 16 The northern lumber yards mainly serve constructors of expensive apartments (where tree prices are subordinate); the centre-south mostly supplies small carpenters making furniture for the lower-middle classes in that part of the city. 17 However, the producer share is lower for ordinary species. 18 Besides the drying and processing of the wood that the lumber yard undertakes, it also has a high capital cost in terms of the outlays for stored wood that it has to make. 19 Other important supply areas to the Quito market are situated northeast (Nanegal, Guallabamba) and southwest (Chiriboga, San Juan) of the city. 20 The total number of sacks is divided by two and multiplied by the respective weight of hard and soft charcoal: 96,250 sacks / 2* 50 kg ‡ 96,250 sacks / 2* 30 kg ˆ 3,850,000 kg. 21 Ranges are given where conflicting information exists on the quantities produced and transported. 22 For instance, Wood (1972) and Mougeot (1985). 23 The peak of 3200 kg is provided in the technical report by Castro (1995: 97), suggesting a charcoal production of 80 sacks/ha in lower montane primary forest; the low of 1100 kg corresponds to high-altitude forests, dominated by Weinmannia, in Cashca Totoras (case 4).

8

Institutions and Policies

In the last two chapters, the relevance of the deforestation theories and hypotheses of Chapter 2 was examined, using the example of the Ecuadorean Sierra. This chapter completes the picture with empirical observations concerning issues such as land tenure, resource-access rules and different types of development institution, making reference to the corresponding theoretical approaches discussed in Chapter 2. In each case, we will start with the general policies, and then explore the specific implications for forests. It will be argued that, in spite of the existence of legislation and institutions for forest protection, on the whole public policies have reinforced the trend towards deforestation, although they do not seem to have constituted root causes that would imply qualitative changes of development patterns on the frontier.

Land-tenure policies Ecuador has traditionally been characterized by a highly unequal distribution of agricultural land, partly as a legacy of Spanish colonization (see Chapter 3). In 1964, increasing social pressure, centered in the highlands, led a military government to carry out land reform; this was followed up with the formation of the Ecuadorean Institute for Agrarian Reform and Colonization (IERAC) as successor to the National Colonization Institute (INC) from 1957, and other land-reform legislation was amended in 1974. The aims of these interventions were both social and productive; to reduce land concentration and promote more efficient land use for enhanced food production by eliminating the feudal dependency inherent in the latifundio-minifundio and huasipunguero systems, and gradually to replace it with wage relations, communal ownership and/or peasant cooperatives. 185

186 Highland Land-Use Patterns

Land redistribution was succesfully resisted by some politically influential landholders, but over the last three decades significant changes in land distribution have broadly been achieved, particularly since 1974. This change in tenure was the result not only of legal reform, but also of market forces, of the ongoing colonization of state forests and of the invasive occupation of private lands subsequently legalized by IERAC. Ecuador has fragmentary statistics on land distribution, but a recent study of four areas in the Sierra (Salcedo, Cayambe, Guamote, Patate) shows that the traditional dominance of latifundistas (defined here as owners of more than 100 ha) has been reversed: their share in total agricultural land, which in 1974 had been 80 per cent, was by 1991 reduced to between 6.8 per cent and 21.3 per cent, while that of medium-sized farms (10±100 ha) reached on average 52 per cent in the areas studied (Camacho 1993). The colonization of state forests played an active part in this restructuring process: new plots assigned to pre-cooperatives or individual squatters generally had a size of 50 ha, thus strengthening a middle class of landholders in the overall distribution. What was described in Chapters 2 and 3 as the `homesteading' motive for deforestation ± to clear the land in order to gain and defend possession ± has been an important feature in Ecuador, especially since the 1964 land reform and the creation of IERAC. Also, a number of additional public agencies were established in the 1960s and 1970s with a more regional mandate for colonization.1 However, at least since 1936 a Ley de Tierras BaldõÂas y ColonizacioÂn ± `Law of Idle Lands and Colonization' ± had been in force.2 In principle, the procedure was that the colonist occupies a piece of state-owned, unoccupied land, files a claim with INC, the plot is surveyed, delimited and approved by the INC local office, and the claim is passed to the central office in Quito. Finally, the plot is registered, the colonist is allowed to buy it formally from the state at a price which is more or less symbolic, and a title is then granted (Casagrande et al. 1964: 289). This procedure has not changed fundamentally until recently (Uquillas 1984: 277). While this process is under way, the peasant passes from the category of invasor (a recently arrived squatter) to a posesionario (one in the process of formalizing tenure). In the meantime, to maintain possession (which may take up to a decade), he must demonstrate that he `works the land', i.e. that he is not an absentee owner with pure speculative purposes. Together with the obstacles to or prohibitions on land trade, this is thought of as a `social safeguard' in the land reform and titling process, similar to what was observed for Central America

Institutions and Policies 187

(see Chapter 3). However, the prolonged insecurity of tenure also means that deforestation is made a precondition for establishing full tenure, beyond what would have been the case solely from a productive perspective. Southgate et al. (1991) have used cross-sectional data from the northern Oriente to show, using a regression model, that tenure insecurity ceteris paribus boosts deforestation. Rudel (1993) demonstrates in his case study from the southern Oriente that indigenous Shuar and Ashuar groups were forced to change their resource-management practices towards higher forest-clearing in order to defend traditional rights to the land by `working it' and to establish titled tenure. Obviously, the lengthy administrative procedures of land-titling, the bureaucratic obstacles to the individual squatter's action, the belowvalue land price that is demanded and the arbitrary local interpretation of what is required to deem a plot as being `worked' together provide an environment that is extremely favourable to the extraction of policygenerated rents: bribes can be an efficient, even necessary way of obtaining title in the foreseeable future, a smooth type of `decentralized decision-making'. In many areas, IERAC officials also acquired a reputation for `land-trafficking', i.e. acquiring a vested interest in the distribution of colonization. This dubious institutional image, together with the over-staffing of headquarters in Quito, were probably the main reasons for the recent restructuring of IERAC into the new INDA or National Institute for Agrarian Development.3

Tenure and land use in the areas studied The vast majority of the case-study villages are characterized by individual land tenure with formalized ownership. As in the rest of the Sierra, IERAC's normal plot-allocation size is 50 ha, although some may be as small as 30 ha. This makes for a larger average plot size than in Central America, but lower than in the Brazilian Amazon (see Chapter 3). In addition, there is a small group of larger landholders (owning on average around 20 per cent of the land, but with local variations) and a small cluster of landless peasants. Historically, uninhabited land in Ecuador was more abundant than today, so publicly allocated plots were even larger. For 372 tracts in 5 coastal provinces, allocated during 1955±9, Conforti (cited in Casagrande et al. 1964: 290) finds an average size of 175 ha, the smallest size being 50 ha. Wood (1972) even argues that the excessive size of plots forms an economic and social obstacle to development: large holdings provide incentives for resource-mining and land

188 Highland Land-Use Patterns

extensification; the distances between farms become too large for an effective communal organization to evolve. Due to the large plot size of 50 ha, however, the process of on-farm deforestation in the case-study areas also takes time, especially after the initial `homesteading'-led spurt of tenure establishment. Most owners rely on family labour and farm-hand exchanges to secure sufficient labour for the enduring job of forest-clearing. In some cases, forestclearing is one of the few remaining remnants of collective action among individual frontier squatters.4 Only the most entrepreneurial groups with access to financial capital hire paid hands in a systematic way to do the clearing; this commercial option can accelerate forest loss considerably. Yet not all forest land is on private plots: a number of communal forests exist, and a few cases of state forests were also still present. Many of the settlers are organized in pre-cooperatives or cooperatives. This is due to the bias in IERAC's institutional practices towards collective organization of individual farm units, rather than any inherent collective orientation in the settlers' mode of production. Relatively little of the agricultural land at our sites, in contrast, is in communal ownership. A small minority of the peasants are still invasores; others have become posesionarios,5 but except for the most recently established settlements, most squatters hold land titles. In spite of formal tenure and the subsequent right to sell the land, turnover is quite limited. It was not possible to find among the study sites a pattern similar to that in Brazil and parts of Central America, where a first generation of resourcepoor squatters rudimentarily `improves' the land, which is then taken over by a wealthier class of landholders with capital access. On the contrary, land tenure at the frontier is relatively stable, allowing the individual owner to plan his resource use with a sufficiently large time horizon. Conflicts relating to land tenure do not appear to be widespread in our study areas. When they occur, two motives for controversy abound. First, the physical land demarcations made by IERAC are sometimes incorrect or ambiguous, leaving space for altercations between neighbours about land, trees and resource access. Secondly, the few remaining large landowners on the frontier, mostly absentee proprietors based in the cities, are subject to constant pressures from (groups of) mobile squatters searching tierras baldõÂas (`idle lands'). In general, the lands of these larger owners retain a higher degree of forest cover, as they lack the motivation and the labour input to clear the land at a pace comparable to that of the small-scale squatters. Large tracts of persistently forested

Institutions and Policies 189

land, then, are considered an invitation to land occupation. Due to its mandate to support land redistribution towards `productive' uses, IERAC has in most cases been supportive of this process of occupation of forested lands, its clearing and subsequent division. As a result, it was observed that some absentee owners put peasants from neighbouring villages to work (meaning to deforest) their forested lot, as a purely defensive move against rapidly spreading rumours that tierras baldõÂas were available to mobile, land-hungry squatters.6 Of course, this discrepancy suggests that the social objectives accomplished by land reform and the related institutional practices have had an environmental cost in terms of accelerated forest loss.7 If there is a trend that small landholders deforest more than large ones, can one also say that some tenurial forms are more conducive to forest conservation than others? In accordance with the hypothesis outlined in Chapter 2, we observed that CPR (common pool resources) arrangements, such as communal tenure, may provide a disincentive to forest conversion. For instance, interviews with local dwellers in the communal forest of Huashapamba (near Loja, case 2) revealed five complementary explanations as to why the area had not hitherto been converted to other uses, i.e. a set of `causes of conservation': 1 low agricultural soil potential on the steeply sloping land 2 a desire to avoid adverse microclimatic change by internalizing forestprotection functions 3 donor-assistance-driven conservation agendas (elaboration of management plan) 4 disincentive of communal tenure for labour investments in land conversion 5 limited incentives and options for land improvements after clearing a communal plot. The example shows that communal tenure provides an opportunity to value collective forest benefits that may be ignored under individual ownership; this is especially relevant for a drought-prone region like Loja province (motive 2). Low opportunity costs of conservation are an important precondition (motive 1), and it is also conducive to forest conservation that this option is actively promoted by external agents (motive 3). Perhaps the most important feature of CPR property arrangements is that they may hinder forest conversion because there is significant labour investment involved in forest-clearing and conversion for agriculture and other uses: if there is a danger that other community members or external agents will subsequently take control of the land, the individual peasant will not plunge into the effort of conversion, as

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he would not be guaranteed the benefits of the agropastoral use of the land that provides the main incentive for clearing (motive 4). Another explanation is that, for a communally owned plot, one cannot normally receive rural bank credits (see below), which further limits the options for productive use of that land (motive 5). In other words, if no `homesteading' motives are present, i.e. if no transformation from CPR to private tenure is possible, communal tenure may provide forest protection by restraining the individual land-user from implementing decisions aimed purely at his private profit maximization. This limitation becomes more evident when commercialization opportunities increase: the more the locally most profitable land use depends on the external environment (market opportunities, credit, external inputs), the more problematic a CPR-type of tenure may become to communal owners. Commercial opportunities also tend to differentiate individual peasants in terms of the labour inputs they are ready to provide for market-oriented production. Although our empirical evidence is insufficient to allow broader generalizations, it was evident in several cases that communal tenure was tending to be abandoned for privatization, for instance in the community of Colepato (Mazar, case 1), where the indigenous population had undergone lengthy legal procedures to accomplish this objective. In regard to this argument, it is vitally important to maintain the distinction introduced in Chapter 1 between forest degradation and deforestation. Communal forest tenure may potentially provide relatively more protection against forest conversion, but its overall forest management effectiveness would depend on the authority of communal organization: if local institutions functioned well ± in terms of participation and sanctions ± a sustainable use of forest resources could ideally be achieved; otherwise, de facto open access would favour degradation. The latter scenario was also relevant in the case of state forests,8 where the extraction of timber and firewood clearly exceeded natural regrowth. In other words, `open access' to the forest promotes resource degradation, just as predicted theoretically by `the tragedy of the commons' scenario, but without `homesteading' it does not tend to lead to deforestation.

The dynamics of tenure and access rules Even though the present field study was only conducted over a two-year period, it was evident from the interviews (respondents' accounts of the past) and from cross-sectional comparisons (contrasting contemporary

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and older settlements) that tenure forms and access rules were not static, but experienced continuous and comparable patterns of change in the different study zones. The main driving forces influencing the altered `rules of the game', now and in the past, were the trend towards higher commercial integration and the growing local scarcity of natural resources, such as pastures, firewood and timber. In various study zones, especially the rather isolated areas found in cases 1 and 4, remnants of traditional rights and access arrangements were found. For instance, it had been the custom that small peasants had the right partially to use larger landowners' pasture (e.g. a seasonally confined access), sometimes in exchange for labour services. These traditional access rights, beyond what property rights would strictly command, were probably the result of an abundance of land on the frontier, relative labour scarcity, unequal land distribution and semifeudal customary relations between landlords and the peasantry. In some cases, a pasture area would be used a medias, `at half share', i.e. the value added derived from the grazing animal would be divided on an equal basis between the landowner and the owner of the animal at the time of sale or slaughter. This `share-ranching' may be a useful arrangement in an environment where there are liquidity shortages, unequal land tenure, high risks and a general predominance of non-monetary transactions.9 The same variety of monetary and non-monetary transactions was found with labour markets and farm-hand exchange (see Chapter 6); it can also be recognized in relation to forest-product transactions. In the case of charcoal and timber, the primary producer may or may not be the proper forest owner. When the two functions do not coincide in the same person, the following four options of tree-resource rent payment from producer to owner were found in the areas studied: 1 gifts of trees, or expectation of loosely defined `return favours' (mostly in the case of kinship ties)10 2 payment in kind (for instance, a medias, leaving half of the produce to the forest owner) 3 payment in labour services (integrated into the cambiamano system of reciprocal farm-hand exchange) 4 monetary payment (standing trees are bought by lumberjacks according to their estimated product value). Which of the systems is applied will depend on the degree of market integration in the area, and probably also on wood scarcity. In several areas, settlement has advanced successively into new forest areas, leading to wood scarcities in the older settlements while abundance rules in

192 Highland Land-Use Patterns

those most recently founded. Comparing these villages in the Mazar zone (case 1), for example, produced interesting results in terms of the design of access rules: in the new villages close to the forest, firewood was generally `for free', i.e. its collection was allowed and tolerated on both private and communal lands; in the older villages with only remnant forest patches available, wood was either sold between neighbours or, as some respondents stated with indignation, `pilfered' from those landowners who still owned tree resources. This indicates the key role of resource scarcity in determining changes in the `rules of the game' regarding natural resource access.

Credit access As already mentioned in the first section of this chapter, the completion of IERAC's (now INDA's) land-titling procedures are also a prerequisite for obtaining bank credits for farm activities. In Chapter 5, it was explained that rural credits from public agencies with a mandate for colonization had been significantly augmented during the oil-boom period due to the relaxation of overall budgetary constraints. This had a partial impact in accelerating deforestation. In our Sierra study areas, the predominant actor regarding rural credits was the National Development Bank (BNF), a semi-public bank providing credits at interest rates below the level observed in urban markets. A number of additional liquidity-creating actors are also present, though they have a less significant role in the overall picture: internationally funded technical-assistance agencies (which also provide subsidized credits for farm activities), urban merchants granting advances to rural producers (e.g. for pig-breeding) and private usurers.11 Generally, the amounts of credit allocated by the BNF were quite low (US$ 1000±3000 for small to medium farms), and with a short-to-medium time horizon (5±10 years). It is important to note that, in the Sierra, BNF credits are almost exclusively earmarked for cattle-ranching. Unfortunately, it was impossible to obtain statistics for the destination of credits specifically in the highlands, but on a national scale the share of cattle in the BNF's total rural credit had increased from 31.4 per cent in 1989 to 41.3 per cent in 1993.12 In our study areas, an approximate estimate of the amount of BNF credit allocated to cattle- and, subsidiarily, sheep-ranching was around 95 per cent in the high-altitude areas (e.g. Cashca Totoras, case 4), and probably around 80 per cent in low-altitude areas (e.g. Las Pampas, case 3). Loans that are not granted for cattle go into commercial agriculture: potatoes, peas and, in lower zones, fruit.

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The strong orientation towards cattle in granting rural credit in the Sierra has to some extent contributed to the drastic expansion in pastures over the last two decades.13 The general specialization of the highlands towards cattle-ranching, constituting the most extensive use of land, was evidenced in Chapter 5. This is exacerbated by the fact that, in its local administration, the BNF demands idle pasture areas as a precondition for its cattle-destined lending: a BNF official visits the particular farm, calculates the amount of cleared area with available pasture, determines the animal-carrying capacity of this idle pasture land, and calculates the funds necessary to stock it with cattle. There is thus a direct deforestation link between the amount of cleared land and the size of the individual loan granted by the BNF. In practice, this means that the farmer's only means of diverting loans to other purposes (purchases of land, improved housing, agriculture, migration14) may be to `pretend' to have idle land available for cattle. Consequently, forestclearing can be a means of creating liquidity, over and above what is justified by the productive requirements of cattle-ranching.15 Why has BNF credit been so much concentrated on cattle-ranching? A number of reasons can be suggested, arising both from field observations and discussions with employees from local BNF offices and BNF headquarters in Quito.16 A basic structural reason, of course, is that cattle-derived products (milk, cheese, meat, offspring) have enjoyed favourable prices over the past two decades and in many areas represent the currently most profitable land use. Nonetheless, the diversity of productive options in most of the areas studied is ill reflected in the unilateral promotion of cattle credits. There are many possibilities for agricultural intensification with a high income potential, not to speak of opportunities for adding local value to extracted primary commodities. Many peasants in fact demanded credits for agricultural and other purposes (as de facto reflected in current credit-deviation practices), but found generally little comprehension on behalf of the BNF.17 In understanding why cattle receives such overwhelming institutional interest, it is also necessary to look into the administrative and implementation capacities of the BNF. At provincial levels, the bank is often understaffed; local offices do not have the personnel or expertise to undertake the site-specific assessments, screening, monitoring and assistance that would be necessary to promote local development potentials fully. A good example here is the assessment of local soil potentials. Soil studies have already been made by donor agencies for large parts of the Sierra, but these are apparently seldom used in deciding what type of activity should be promoted in the local context. More importantly,

194 Highland Land-Use Patterns

there is little internal recognition of the BNF's proper capacity limitations, which could provide a first step towards cooperation with other public entities. This means that the question of cattle is also governed by administrative convenience: a once-and-for-all financial disbursement, few requirements for monitoring or technical assistance, lower productive risks than in agriculture, and easily seizable assets in the case of bad debts. How much additional deforestation are the BNF's land-clearing requirements and the institutional bias towards cattle-ranching likely to trigger? And does its lending eventually help the individual peasant to make the most profitable use of his land? We shall return to these questions with a quantitative example in Chapter 9. It is also difficult to generalize because there was much local variation in BNF's impact. For instance, credit was more readily available in mestizo than in indigenous villages, implying also a differentiation by ethnic group. Generally, credits were only granted to individuals, not to communal owners; this provides an incentive to switch to private, individual ownership. Finally, in recently founded frontier villages in all four study areas, the widespread lack of formal land titles (and the still limited area cleared by squatters) prevented the BNF from having a significant impact; its role was much larger in areas that had been colonized a couple of decades ago. In other words, newly colonized areas tended to be credit-constrained in the formal money market. However, this does not completely obstruct the development of a cattle/woodproduct-led productive model at the frontier; it may rather have slowed the pace of adjustment.

Forest administration During the study period, the Ecuadorean Institute for Forestry and Natural Areas (INEFAN), functioning under the Ministry of Agriculture and Cattle (MAG), was the public entity exclusively in charge of forestry, national parks, protector forests, wildlife and other forest-related environmental issues.18 In some areas (e.g. cases 1 and 4), INEFAN had signed letters of cooperation with other entities that have a stake in forestmanagement issues.19 Local INEFAN offices (which are typically in the provincial capital) see to field implementation of policy. Forest areas under the mandate of INEFAN comprise both natural forest and plantations. In three of the four case studies (1, 3 and 4), large natural forest areas had also been declared `Protector Forests': these can be private, communal or state-owned. A declaration of protection is usually

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justified by the risks of soil erosion on steeply sloping areas, other types of fragile soils, and watershed protection values. It legally restricts agricultural or cattle uses, arguing that the soil is not suited to these land uses (Wunder 1996: 55). Finally, part of study area 1 was added to the Sangay National Park, where different rules apply; the national parks system generally provides stronger protection. The fundamental legal basis for forest administration is the Ecuadorean Law of Forestry and Conservation of Natural Areas (latest version, April 1994). However, the legal text is very broad, is not harmonized with other relevant legislation, and may even in some cases induce perverse incentives that encourage forest-clearing. For instance, article 9 of chapter III recognizes private ownership of forested lands, but article 76 states that wild flora and fauna always belong to the state. Obviously, these two rules combined imply an incentive to clear primary forests and replace them with monocultures, before the state registers and claims specific rights over the wild resources (Vogel 1998: 16±17). Another general pitfall in the forest law is a clear tendency towards over-regulation and excessive bureaucratic procedures. On the one hand, this means that INEFAN officials are functionally overloaded with unnecessary paperwork, distracting attention from forest-management tasks. On the other hand, field interviews revealed that procedures may frequently be too intricate, making it impossible to adhere to them. Several respondents mentioned that they had made long trips to the provincial capital, in order to obtain the necessary transport permits for wood products (guõÂas de movilizacioÂn), but had just been asked at the INEFAN office to come back later or to pay additional fees to `smooth' the paperwork. The management of the three Protector Forest areas in the study zone also revealed serious deficiencies, starting with the procedures surrounding their declaration. This was particularly obvious in the case of ToachiPilatoÂn (case 3), an area of 212,000 ha that was legally protected in 1987, due to the interests of the Ecuadorean Electrification Institute (INECEL) in using the watershed for the future creation of a dam. However, using a typical top±down strategy, a much larger area was de jure `protected' than previously recommended in the feasibility studies, including large sections (about 80,000 ha) that de facto had already been converted from forest to pasture or agriculture. This was due to the desire of INECEL to maximize the area under their influence, but inevitably the legal implications of the declaration entered into direct conflict with the interests of local farmers, who had not participated at all in the process.

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Moreover, INEFAN and INECEL had nothing to offer in terms of alternative income-generating possibilities that could have compensated local farmers for their losses arising out of the prohibition on clearfelling. The inescapable outcome was that the protection status of the area remained on paper but was never respected in the field, implying that deforestation activities had even accelerated (Wunder 1996: 175±9). This may have occurred partly because the declaration was taken as a signal of available `idle' lands by new squatters and partly because old squatters feared future enforcement of the law, thus accelerating their clearing while the law existed only on paper. In this sense, a nonenforced protection law may be worse than no law at all, having the effect of revealing institutional intentions and giving other agents better information and options to anticipate state action and create a fait accompli. The local INEFAN offices that must implement forest protection on the ground face a number of problems. The new mandate for Protector Forests is usually not backed up by an allocation of additional resources to the office in question. The staff's ability to patrol large and remote areas is insufficient, as are the legal instruments of enforcement available to forest guards. This implies that, for the individual farmer, it is usually rational to break the law and take the minor risk of being discovered, apprehended and modestly fined (White and Maldonado 1991: 48).20 Only limited options are available to the local office to tailor administrative practices to specific local needs, due to the large degree of centralization in INEFAN: basically no decisions can be made without lengthy consultations in Quito. Yet it must also be recognized that many of the local office personnel are not inclined to go extensively into the field. When they do, they mostly concentrate their control efforts on the wood trade, despite the fact that more deforestation tends to be carried out for agricultural clearing. It is also not unusual to be told that local INEFAN officers do not genuinely intend to prevent the activities of wood traders or primary producers but simply seize their merchandise in order to levy personal `taxes'.

Infrastructural investments The pivotal role of building public roads for improved access, cuts in transport costs and the clearing of forest lands was underlined both in the theoretical part (Chapter 2) and in the account of historical development patterns in different parts of Ecuador (Chapters 4 and 5). Roads cause direct forest loss through the area their construction physically

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occupies, but their most significant impact tends to be the indirect opening up of new lands for clearing and settling. It was stressed that the oil-boom period, with its heavy and financially sustained policy emphasis on national infrastructural integration, reinforced the impact of roads on forests (Chapter 5). This general role proved to be equally important in the area studied. Two patterns of temporal adjustment could be distinguished here. One prototype was pioneer settlement that is established at the frontier, at a reasonable distance from the existing road network. Lacking road access initially limits the scale and extent of local productive activities because commercialized products have to be transported by mule or on horseback. However, if the settlement survives and if neighbouring areas also develop progressively, traders and the growing number of settlers will lobby together for road construction, for example, the prolongation of an existing dirt road (the `feeder' case). If they succeed, this will normally boost market-oriented farm production, trigger higher land prices (road-created rents) and promote further deforestation. For example, Äa, Las this type of adjustment was found in case 3 (Illinizas, Quilotun Pampas areas) and case 1 (Mazar watershed). There is a correlation but not a one-way causality here from roads to deforestation: rather, the two are mutually reinforcing. A second option is that a road is built without the necessity of local lobbying but motivated by the strategic connection of larger towns as part of a wider regional development strategy (the `transit' case). Obviously, this creates new settlement opportunities along the road and induces pressures for both wood-product extraction and soil conversion for agriculture and cattle. This is the type of process that is described in Box 8.1 for the Guamote±Macas road in Sangay National Park.21 The net road impact of further settlement promotion and accelerated forest loss may be equal to the former case, but the causal link is apparently clearer when the road precedes settlement. In Chapter 2, it was mentioned that the improvement of existing roads may generally have as strong a growth impact as investments in new roads, but at a lower cost of deforestation. In the areas studied, road improvements had a high priority for many frontier settlements, but they would also cause some additional deforestation. For instance, in Äa area (case 3), the stretch of road that had been improved the Quilotun from a dirt road to an all-weather road had also seen a more sustained extraction of wood products (boards and charcoal) and farm produce. Road improvement can thus consolidate settlements, increase population and promote the stable extraction of new commodities that had

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Box 8.1 The Guamote±Macas Road Sangay National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1983, is an area of unique biodiversity, stretching from several snowcapped volcanoes in the Sierra down the eastern flanks of the Andes to the foothills of the Amazon region. A main natural protection for this zone has been its rugged topography and difficult access. However, over the last forty years political ambitions have arisen in the provinces of Morona-Santiago (Oriente) and Chimborazo (Sierra) to link the towns of Macas and Guamote by a 70-km new road, closely following the track of an existing mulepath that cuts through the area. Additionally, because of its strategic access to the Oriente and the Peruvian border, the military has geopolitical motives to promote such a road. This stop-and-go project, initiated a decade ago but frequently interrupted due to financial shortages, will eventually divide the Park into two. Because of the steep slopes and high rainfall, the road project is extremely difficult and has high environmental costs. Even before its completion, it has produced multiple landslides, which also put into doubt its social profitability. Hence, the direct deforestation impact of its construction has been considerable, because earth, rocks and stones loosened by explosives have poured down the steep hillsides, with devastating effects. However, the indirect impacts are clearly worse still. Rumours of alternately halting and restarting the road project have over the years always been followed by the abandonment and reclamation respectively of land tenure along the proposed road: small farmers and a couple of urban entrepreneurs speculate actively in the completion of the project, which would enable commercial farm production and increase land prices along the road. Plans and preparations have also been made on how selectively to extract fine timber species. A number of sporadic colonization efforts in this still isolated zone have failed in the past; only one settlement remains today. However, these settlers too are struggling to acquire land titles and are eager to see the road project completed, because they will reap an economic rent from the transport access it will provide. Sources: Wunder (1993; 1995).

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not been profitable earlier. The specific forest-loss impact of these changes will depend on how soil-demanding the particular product is, and to what extent substitution processes will be induced.

Conclusions This chapter has dealt with observations regarding local and national institutions and the policy framework governing major land-use decisions in our study areas. The legal framework designed to protect and manage forest resources in Ecuador reveals a number of weaknesses because of inconsistencies and erratic regulations that, when implemented, sometimes provide `perverse' incentives for the clearing of natural forests. In addition, the excessive use of command-and-control measures and a multitude of bureaucratic requirements create an environment that is favourable to corruption, an observation that was confirmed by episodes in the field. Finally, the declaration of de facto non-implemented protection measures may be counterproductive and leads to a counterintuitive conclusion: non-enforced laws may be worse than no laws at all! Regarding the role of the main Ecuadorean institutions with a presence in the field areas, our critical evaluation is summarized in Table 8.1, showing a broad list22 of administrative observations ± both within institutions and between them ± encountered in relation to Protector Forests, a category of state protection that was dominant in three out of the four areas studied. As described in the corresponding section above, administration of these forests was characterized by a number of shortcomings, from the protection declaration itself, planning and strategy design to local day-today management, or lack of it. However, it is also important to note the strong institutional competition of development agencies in the landtenure and rural-credit fields. Both have an agenda that is directly opposed to forest protection, and there are considerable power struggles between government agencies. For instance, in the Toachi±PilatoÂn Protector Forest area (case 3), it was notorious that both BNF and IERAC still maintained on-farm deforestation as a precondition for credits and land titles respectively, in spite of the clear legal violation this implied. Their highly flexible interpretation of the law was that `a number of trees had better remain on the steepest slopes for protection'. Obviously the opposition to what was perceived as `INEFAN's law' was further strengthened by the totally unrealistic demarcation being pushed through by INECEL. Perhaps even more serious is the total lack of local popular participation, a feature which in itself guarantees failure.

200 Highland Land-Use Patterns Table 8.1 Institutional forest impacts: observations from protective forests in study zones Type of institution

Observations

Forest administration (mainly INEFAN)

O protective declaration without realistic appraisal of existing forest cover O no productive alternatives offered O lack of resources earmarked for protection O lack of implementation instruments O lack of long-term planning O lack of adherence to existing plans and priorities O limited capacity for action O limited field presence O action only wood-focused O frequent corruption O paternalistic view of local population O centralism within the organization O lack of coordination with other entities

Development and credit (mainly BNF)

O own agenda in conflict with conservation O direct deforestation incentives O limited field presence O lack of coordination with other entities

Legal and tenure (IERAC)

O own agenda in conflict with conservation O direct deforestation incentives O limited field presence O decade-long land-titling procedures O corruption O lack of coordination with other entities

Because both BNF and IERAC make their assistance to the individual farmer contingent on his or her continuing forest clearing, there is a direct institutional bias, inducing deforestation over and above what is justified by the farmer's productively determined land-use decisions. Does this mean that much of the ongoing Sierra deforestation is the result of `perverse' policy incentives, as was hypothesized in the case of Brazil in the 1980s? Are strong external market and credit forces at work, promoting a trade-led deforestation process? The second question may clearly be answered in the negative. Cattle pasture is the main end-use of deforested land, but there is no beef export or `hamburger link' between Ecuador and the US ± except

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perhaps in a cultural sense.23 Internal market forces are driving current rural development and land-use changes. On the first question, `perverse' incentives are indeed present, but they do not appear to be the main driving forces. A main explanation is the weak presence and impact of the Ecuadorean state in frontier areas. The most recent settlements in our sample (such as Uritusinga, Dudas, part of the Illinizas and Äa areas) were mostly characterized by a situation of laissez-faire. Quilotun For instance, the share of households with access to BNF credits here was only around 10 per cent. This percentage rises in later stages of development, when farm development has already advanced: at this point, cattle credits are likely to accelerate forest-clearing. One can ask whether IERAC's land-title requirements cause accelerated initial forest conversion, because the squatter has to sustain his land claim by active occupation. Although this may sometimes be the case, it also appears that the amount of cleared but idle pasture ± which would be the best available documentation for deforestation `over and above' productive needs ± is not excessive. The early stages of colonization demand rapid clearing to obtain a minimum farm size necessary for subsistence production, which seems to be the overriding deforestation motive; the institutional requirements probably affect this model only at the margin. This means that policy reform in regard to rural credit and to land-tenure policies should be an integrated element in a successful forest conservation strategy, but applying these measures in an isolated manner are unlikely to yield fundamental changes in the currently observed patterns of deforestation. With regard to rural land tenure, during the last three decades Ecuador has experienced a gradual change from extreme inequality to a land distribution where medium-sized farmers occupy a larger share. This is also reflected in the study areas, because IERAC tends to allocate medium-sized new plots (50 ha), and some old estates have been reallocated by land reform, squatter occupation or sale. The plot area in Ecuador lies between the smaller size of most of Central America and the larger plots usual in Brazil. Large owners in the study areas usually deforest their farms at a slower rate than do small and medium farmers. This pattern is quite distinct from the standard `political ecology' approach presented in Chapter 2, which would underline external pressures, large landholders, asset inequality and urban capitalist interests as the main push factors in deforestation. Forms of tenure also have an important bearing on resource management style, as was anticipated in Chapter 2. At the same time, the

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findings underline the functional relevance of the distinction between forest degradation and deforestation: open-access forests tend to be degraded, but not deforested. The main explanation is that deforestation implies for the farmer a `land improvement' that requires a considerable investment of labour time and other outlays, which he will not undertake unless secure private tenure is granted, i.e. if a `homesteading' motive exists. Simultaneous with the strong general trend towards commercial integration, several communal owners had thus made administrative requests to convert to private ownership, which would, ceteris paribus, increase their deforestation activities. However, the type of forest tenure, access rules and local institutional arrangements ± and their respective interaction with forest uses ± proved to be quite variable between study sites. Our empirical results are insufficient to provide general conclusions, and further research is needed in this area. Yet it was confirmed that resource-access rules and forms of tenure also have a dynamic dimension, with resource scarcity as the main factor of change. Old customary user rights over and above what is given by property rights tend to be eliminated over both time and development stages for resources such as pastures, firewood and timber, so that property and user rights come to coincide fully. This reflects the type of behavioural adjustment that was predicted by the neoclassical approach in Chapter 2. In the areas studied, public road-building is probably a more powerful policy factor in shaping pressures on forests than credits and land-tenure policies combined. The crucial role played by transport economics does not differ from the argument offered in the remainder of this book, underlining the fact that road-building is the single most important factor in deforestation. However, a causal distinction should be made between road types: `feeder' roads are built to accommodate local interests (thus with a two-way causal link to settlement and deforestation); `transit' roads are created for regional development purposes (with a oneway causal impact on settlement and forest loss). It is obvious that basically all types of road construction or improvement in forested areas have some negative impact on forests, but the balance between the costs of road investments, development benefits and forest loss are different, which may have important policy implications. This will be further discussed in the following, concluding chapter. Notes Äar and 1 This includes the Centre for the Economic Recovery of Azuay, Can Morona-Santiago (CREA), the Regional Programme for the Development of

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2

3

4

5 6 7

8 9 10 11

12 13

Southern Ecuador (PREDESUR) and the National Institute for the Colonization of the Ecuadorean Amazon Region (INCRAE). Uquillas (1984: 271) refers to an apparently similar `Law of Fallow Lands' from 1875, which states that at least 20 per cent of the land area must be under cultivation within ten years of title being granted. If the settler fails to meet this requirement, landownership is to be returned to the state. INDA was only created towards the end of our period of investigation, too early to be able to comment on its policies. An interview was conducted in February 1995 with INDA's director, Angel Sereni Granja, who expressed the intention of cooperating more with other institutions in the future in the rationalization and planning of the colonization of forest lands. However, it was too early to make any judgements about INDA's practices in the field. The observations made in this chapter thus refer to its predecessor, IERAC. In the Illinizas area (case 3), the work of forest clearing on private lands was organized as a minga (collective unpaid workday; see Chapter 6) on a rotational basis that allowed for one yearly clearing of about 1 ha of forest on each squatter's plot. The distinction between the two not only has implications vis-aÁ-vis IERAC, but also in the internal relationship with other local squatters: the posesionario enjoys much more respect than the invasor. For example, this was observed in Cashca Totoras (case 4). This observation was confirmed by local interviews. The question is not only who owns, controls and `works' the land, but also the productivity with which the land is used: if yields are static or declining, this will in the short run induce peasants to compensate by extensification, at the cost of forest cover. It is frequently argued that land reforms and the subdivision of productive haciendas has caused a decline in yields, because peasants lack access to capital, technology and technical assistance. Camacho (1993: 380) argues that this is not necesssarily the case in the Ecuadorean Sierra, but he does not present any figures to support his view. What can be said from the mere observation of our study areas is that production techniques in agriculture and cattle-ranching are extremely rudimentary, with a large scope for intensification and more efficient resource use (see also Chapter 9). For instance, La CofradõÂa near Loja (case 2). The same pattern was found by Ekstrom (1981) in the Cuyes valley, southeast of Cuenca (southern Sierra, on the flanks towards the Oriente). This may include compadrazco ± a fictive, assumed kinship. The types of local moneylender and the origin of their funds is highly variable. For instance, in the case of the indigenous community of Colepato (Mazar watershed, case 1), remittances from US-based migrants provided funds for remaining family members to lend to other villagers at elevated rates of interest. Calculated from El Comercio, Martes EconoÂmico: `Banco Nacional de Fomento ± CreÂdito para el Sector Agropecuario', 14 March 1995. Impacts may differ, however, between the short and long runs. For instance, it was noted in Cashca Totoras (case 4) that recently granted credits for sheepbreeding had stimulated this activity, inter alia substituting charcoal-making as a source of income. However, in the long run a further expansion of sheep

204 Highland Land-Use Patterns

14 15

16 17 18 19

20

21 22 23

production would require an increase in pasture which may put additional pressure on forest cover. In case 2 and especially case 1, there was an ongoing emigration to the US and Spain, and several examples were found where bank credits had been used to buy air tickets and other necessities for potential migrants. Another frequently used option is to hide previously purchased cattle with neighbours to give the false impression that there is idle pasture available. Of course, unlike the `clearing-for-credit' described above, this credit-deviation procedure does not presuppose an additional deforestation impact. Interview with Luis Larenas, BNF headquarters, Quito, 16 January 1995. One practical problem is that the individual time profile of funds disbursed in equal shares by the BNF does not correspond to the temporally disparate profile of agricultural production costs. A Ministry of Environment has recently been created which shares some of the fields of competence that have hitherto been concentrated in INEFAN. In Cashca Totoras (case 4), this refers to the BolõÂvar University in Guaranda; in Dudas-Mazar (case 1), to the Management and Conservation Unit of the Paute Watershed (UMACPA), founded by the Ecuadorean Institute of Electrification (INECEL), that is to prevent sedimentation of the Paute dam which generates most of Ecuador's electricity. In principle, the legal framework for Protector Forests also contains the option to expropriate a non-complying landowner's farm. During fieldwork, no application of this article was encountered: it would be so drastic a move that local conflict may result. Strictly speaking, the area affected by the road is just north of the PROBONA study zone 1 (Dudas-Mazar). However, it shares a multitude of characteristics with the areas studied. This wording indicates that not all the problems mentioned here are found in each of the case studies. Among the Ecuadorean middle classes, there is a simulation of North American consumption patterns.

9

Conclusion and Reflections

This final chapter combines a synthesis of the main results of this book with some additional considerations. After accounting for the main dynamics in changing Ecuadorean forest cover in the first section, the next two sections present an economic-quantitative approach to the discussion of causality in Chapter 2. This is followed by three sections that provide empirical feedback from the Sierra to alleged key causes of deforestation (wood demand, population and poverty), which thus provide the arguments for assessing the relevance of the three deforestation schools described in Chapter 2. An outline of the debate on deforestation and development strategies sets the stage for a final discussion of Ecuadorean policy options vis-aÁ-vis deforestation and a brief summary of the implications for different types of applied forest-conservation strategy.

Changing forest cover in Ecuador Ecuador is the most densely populated country in South America, and according to FAO-FRA figures it currently faces the second highest deforestation rate on the continent. New and more accurate satellite images, however, also reveal that there is more forest left than previously believed: the `best guess' offered in Chapter 4 indicates that in 1995 about 14.7 million ha, corresponding to 58 per cent of land area, maintained a tree-crown cover of at least 10 per cent (the FAO forest criterion); more than 3 million ha larger than the figure reported by FAO-FRA for the same period. Insecure data and methodological inconsistencies abound in the maze of Ecuadorean deforestation figures, affecting both forest stock and change estimates. The FAO's most recent (model-predicted) change estimate of 189,000 ha yearly deforestation appears more or less consistent with trends in data on other land-use changes. 205

206 Highland Land-Use Patterns

The Inter-Andean Valley and other highland zones were probably widely deforested already in pre-Inca times. Most Inter-Andean lands suitable for cultivation were likely being cultivated. Even certain areas now under forest, particularly on the external flanks of the two Cordilleras, have at some point in pre-Columbian times been deforested, as evidenced by agricultural terraces now being uncovered as these forests are colonized. The dramatic decline in the native population following the Spanish conquest is most likely to have been accompanied by a process of net afforestation due to the widespread abandonment of subsistence agriculture. Afforestation was only gradually reversed with trade-led expansions in cultivated areas, beginning in the nineteenth century and accelerating rapidly during the twentieth. Agricultural export booms like cocoa (1900±30) and bananas (1950±70)1 had the double impact of direct forest conversion for plantations and financing infrastructural expansion that gradually promoted economic growth, home-market expansion and, subsequently, population increases. In this way, agricultural booms promoted the demand for new cultivation areas as an integrated part of trade-led development. With the oil boom of the last two decades this pattern continued, except that home-market dynamics and domestic policy responses gained in importance: the explicit strategy of promoting regional integration through oil revenues and foreign borrowing (road construction, transport subsidies, colonization funding) meant that deforestationaccelerating factors came to predominate over deforestation-curbing ones (see Chapter 5). As in other parts of Latin America, cattle-ranching was the dominant `end-use' of previously forested lands in the Ecuadorean Sierra. Roads constitute the most important public subsidy to frontier expansion; rural credit and land-tenure policies also play a facilitating role (see Chapter 8). However, compared to the Brazilian Amazon (see Chapter 3), Ecuadorean deforestation was not led by foreign financing and large-scale capitalists but by small-scale squatters and laissez-faire market forces. It is also remarkable that, unlike Central American deforestation, no `hamburger link' to distant export markets was driving cattle expansion in the Sierra, which was exclusively promoted by internal factors: a growing population, better infrastructure and rising urban incomes, which boosted demand for meat, cheese and milk.

The net present value approach One conclusion emerging from the overview of deforestation theories in Chapter 2 was that causes of deforestation and its enabling factors

Conclusions and Re¯ections 207

interact in a variety of ways. The highland case-study material presented in the last three chapters allows us to use a numerical example to illustrate this. The typical highland deforestation cycle described in Figure 6.2 is reproduced in Table 9.1, calculating the net present value (NPV, the time-discounted sum of yearly benefits) from the different phases of land-use change on a one-hectare plot over a fifteen-year period. This approach to the joint causality in deforestation departs from the basic notion that `the cause of deforestation should be attributed to those sectors that derive the highest value-added from the exploitation of tropical forest resources' (Amelung and Diehl 1992: 20). Using NPV analysis also implies that deforestation is seen as an investment in future land uses. The discounting procedure allows us to consider that, for instance, a one-dollar income from timber cut now is worth more to the landowner than a corresponding income from cattleranching ten years ahead; from the latter, the landowner needs to deduct an accumulated interest payment (which he might have earned by, for instance, putting the one-dollar current income in the bank). The NPV can thus be employed as an indicator for the profitability of future land uses. If the landowner's overall objective is to maximize the returns from his land (in addition to objectives such as risk minimization, food security and leisure time), the scheme reveals the quantitative weight of different motives within a composite rationale for forest-clearing. Lacking full information for a single geographical area, data for perhectare profitability of wood extraction, agriculture and cattle-ranching was collected from different zones and supplemented by comparable reports (e.g. Castro 1995 on wood products) and interviews with local agricultural experts. The baseline scenario in Table 9.1 portrays a medium-altitude plot of native, primary forest, rich in wood resources, with easy road access to nearby markets. It could, for instance, describe an area close to Quito which has rapidly been opened up by new road construction. The land is titled and ownership is assumed to be secure, and the farmer has access to bank credit. It is thus a scenario of a relatively well-endowed plot in terms of both natural resources and physical and financial infrastructure; the situation is particularly favourable to agriculture and wood extraction. During the forest-conversion cycle, the first two years are assumed to be dedicated to wood extraction (timber and charcoal), the next four to agriculture and the last ten to cattle-ranching. After fifteen years, the plot is left fallow and may subsequently be reutilized; yet with a real interest rate of 5 or 10 per cent, discounted benefits beyond a 20±25-year horizon prove negligible.2 All values are net of both capital

208 Highland Land-Use Patterns Table 9.1 The deforestation cycle and per hectare profitability: contribution of different productive activities to net present value (in US$) Year 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Activity Timber and charcoal Agriculture Agriculture Agriculture Agriculture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture Cattle pasture

Net profit2 274 274 369 263 178 111 168 168 168 168 148 128 108 88 48

Discounted value1 1ˆ5% 1ˆ10% 274.00 260.95 334.69 227.19 146.44 86.97 125.36 119.39 113.71 108.29 90.86 74.84 60.14 46.67 24.24

274.00 249.09 304.96 197.60 121.58 68.92 94.83 86.21 78.37 71.25 57.06 44.86 34.41 25.49 12.64

534.95 Sum wood products 795.30 Sum agriculture 763.51 Sum cattle 1,558.81 Sum agric. & cattle 2,093.76 Net present value 0.26 Share wood products 0.38 Share agriculture 0.36 Share cattle-ranching

523.09 693.05 505.13 1,198.18 1,721.27 0.30 0.40 0.29

Notes: 1 Yearly net profit divided by accumulated discount factor (5% or 10%) 2 Gross profit minus costs of all inputs, incl. labour costs

and labour costs, i.e. deducting in a differentiated manner the costs of hired hands, household labour, purchased inputs, loan repayments, etc.3 Focus is on traded products which could be assigned a farm-gate value; domestically consumed firewood has been excluded, due to its abundance at the frontier (see Chapter 7). Production factor intensities differ across sectors: for example, wood extraction is the most labourintensive activity, followed by agriculture and cattle. Yearly average incomes were calculated to eliminate seasonal fluctuations. Table 9.1 shows that, at a 5 per cent real discount rate, the plot produces an NPV of US$2093 (at 10 per cent NPV is US$1721). As a measure of expected, discounted benefits, NPV will be closely related to the commercial land price for the given plot: for instance, in the northwest of Pichincha province near Quito, forested land with good

Conclusions and Re¯ections 209

agropastoral potential is in fact traded in this price range; for remote, infertile and/or inaccessible areas, land prices may be only a fraction of it.4 At the same time, NPV will also measure `conservation opportunity costs', since it represents the minimum income stream from sustainable forest management that one would have to come up with to offer the landowner economically competitive alternatives to forest conversion. In terms of the above forest-loss causality discussion, the last three lines in Table 9.1 (decomposed NPV values) can be interpreted as the contribution of different productive activities to the overall profitability of the deforestation cycle. Even for forests with rich timber resources (as in the present case), wood extraction only provides a minor share (between one-third and one-fourth) of total benefits compared to the income potential of agropastoral uses: at 5 per cent interest, agriculture generates with 38 per cent about the same decomposed value as cattle-ranching (36 per cent). The considerable share of agriculture during the early years is due to the high soil fertility and low pest and disease burden that is acquired immediately after forest burning, which makes it possible to grow high-value crops (such as potatoes) without costly external inputs (fertilizers, fungicides). This once-and-for-all rent from forest burning has often been ignored in forest-mining analyses that focus exclusively on the windfall gain from wood products. Cattle occupies more than half the fifteen-year cycle. As for agriculture, pasture soil fertility tends to decline over the years in many areas, but low labour inputs make ranching a favourable option.

Combining deforestation motives Compared to the baseline scenario (A) of Table 9.1, various assumptions may be changed to explore parameter sensitivity. The results are summarized in Table 9.2 below. For the sake of comparability, we consider the three land-use stages from the baseline to be fixed in duration.5 As a preliminary, it is considered that land property rights may be insecure (scenario B), especially as long as forest cover remains high: plots not `worked' continuously by their formal owners in active `homesteading' to secure land titles are subject to constant risks of squatter occupation in Ecuador (see Chapter 8). One way to model this is to assume a constant yearly probability of eviction; for illustration we have chosen a high-risk value of 10 per cent.6 This implies a principle of `risk discounting' where, assuming risk-neutral farmers, the yearly eviction probability (10 per cent) can simply be added to the discount rate (10 per cent) to calculate the present value of risk-corrected, expected benefits

210 Highland Land-Use Patterns Table 9.2 Net present value of deforestation cycle under different scenarios SCENARIO A Description Baseline

B Tenure insecurity

C `No Road'

D `No credit'

E `No road or credit'

Assumptions

Credit and road access

Credit and road access

No road but credit access

Secure tenure

10% risk discounting

Secure tenure

No credit but Neither road road access nor credit access Secure Secure tenure tenure

Discount rate %1

I ˆ 10

I ˆ 20

I ˆ 10

I ˆ 20

I ˆ 20

Production potential %2

Wood 100 Agric. 100 Cattle 100

Wood 100 Agric. 100 Cattle 100

Wood 30 Agric. 30 Cattle 80

Wood 100 Agric. 80 Cattle 60

Wood 30 Agric. 24 Cattle 48

NPV (US$)

1721

1281

768

1077

376

Total of: wood prod. agriculture cattle

523 693 505

502 539 240

157 208 403

502 431 144

151 129 96

Share of: wood prod. agriculture cattle %

30 40 29

39 42 19

20 27 52

47 40 13

40 34 26

Notes: 1 Refers to real interest rate on bank credit 10% (A, B, C); usuary rates 20% (D, E); risk discounting 10% (B) 2 Percentage of the production potential in the baseline scenario (A) Source: Field data

(Angelsen 1996: 12; Burgess and Barbier 1998: 3). Scenario B shows that NPV is reduced from US$1721 to US$1281, and especially the timedistant ranching incomes are heavily reduced: unless pasture establishment provides secure tenure per se, and thus reduces eviction risks (see previous footnote), it is simply too uncertain whether tenure lasts sufficiently long to capture these benefits. As the next step, we return to the baseline assumption of secure tenure and investigate three diverging policy scenarios. First, if no close road access has been provided by the authorities (scenario C), field data suggest that wood-derived incomes are on average about 70 per cent lower than baseline values, as only selected precious timber species are worth extracting for sale. The decline in agricultural income due to transport restrictions lies in the same range. Conversely, cattle is a more mobile commodity (it can walk to road-heads) and produces high-value outputs per unit of weight (cheese, milk) that are sufficiently

Conclusions and Re¯ections 211

robust to withstand higher transport costs (only 20 per cent net-income decline) and thus `pay its way out' of frontier zones. NPV declines to a meagre US$768 (at a 10 per cent discount rate), which explains why isolated farmers and communities are eager to lobby for road construction: it reduces transport costs and widens the spectrum of viable productive activities (see Chapter 8). Cattle incomes constitute more than half the `no-road' NPV, which fits well with observations from frontier areas such as Uritusinga and Illinizas (see Chapter 6). A second policy scenario is that road access exists, but that subsidized rural credit from the BNF or other development agencies does not (scenario D). This makes the landholder dependent on usury lenders at a much higher cost, which forces him to produce higher investment returns and to adopt a higher individual discount rate (20 per cent). From the comparison of sites and the scrutiny of household data, this is likely to produce an approximate average decline of 40 per cent in cattle incomes; cattle is the most capital-intensive production, and BNF credits are usually cattle-earmarked. Agriculture would decline by 20 per cent, while wood extraction is not assumed to be affected.7 Aggregate NPV is reduced to US$1123, but there is an even stronger structural impact: the combination of a higher discount rate and the elimination of specific cattle subsidies reduces the cattle income share to only 13 per cent; conversely, agriculture and wood hold a prominent share (42 per cent and 45 per cent). However, the isolated frontier farmer may be constrained in terms of both road and credit access. Scenario E thus combines the partial impacts previously outlined in scenarios C and D. Aggregate NPV is extremely low (US$306), which reflects limited income-generating opportunities: precious timber species extraction, agricultural nutrient-mining and cattle-ranching are all practised on a reduced scale. Land prices in these marginalized areas are correspondingly low (see above). The structure of production emphasizes wood products, i.e. the immediate cashing-in of forest rents. Summing up, different NPV scenarios have been quantified in this section, from the most favourable (A: road and credit access, secure tenure) to least advantageous situations (E: no road, no bank credit). The combination of production constraints and discount-rate variations triggers large differences in the landholder's expected benefits: scenario E only yields 22 per cent of the baseline NPV. This implies that deforestation incentives might rise significantly in the case of certain infrastructural and policy interventions. For instance, lacking road and credit access (scenario E) may create prohibitive barriers to deforestation if the

212 Highland Land-Use Patterns

expected stream of benefits from all potentially cultivable areas is insufficient to justify squatters' land occupation. However, in qualitative terms, the basic model of frontier farming and gradual forest elimination does not change even when the state is relatively absent. Rather than providing `perverse' structural incentives, policies may determine the speed, scale and direction of the forest conversion process. Moreover, the weight of different motives for deforestation (measured by their relative contribution to NPV) varies greatly according to the incentive. For instance, tenure insecurity and credit constraints may favour myopic strategies focused on short-run returns (wood extraction, nutrient-mining agriculture) as sources of basic capital accumulation. It is also obvious that certain sustainable-use options, e.g. a forest reserve with eco-tourism, would be a more competitive alternative to scenario E than to A: with good soil potentials, infrastructure and market access, deforestation currently provides highly competitive returns which it would be difficult to match. This is also worth remembering when it comes to assessing the social optimality of deforestation (see below).

The impact of wood products One conclusion from both the NPV exercise here and the socioeconomic analysis in Chapter 7 is that timber, charcoal and firewood demand are usually not predominant driving forces of forest conversion. Rather they tend to be by-products of the colonization process. This becomes evident when the current consumption of wood products in urban markets ± charcoal for broiler restaurants is the most important ± is compared to the limited forest area that should be set aside for production: if wood products were the only rationale for forest-clearing and wood resources were used efficiently, deforestation would be extremely limited. Nevertheless, wood resources are in fact utilized very selectively, and most of the woody biomass is burnt on the spot. Yet when landholders are credit-constrained or for other reasons (e.g. tenure insecurity) adopt strategies focused on short-run returns from the land, wood-derived windfall gains can serve as a convenient means of basic capital accumulation (so long as road access facilitates the transport of wood products to urban markets) which are subsequently reinvested in other activities. Wood-led incomes also tend to be most important in the first years of settlement, declining in importance later on. In some frontier villages, the poorest segments of the population, e.g. landless peasants, have specialized in timber and charcoal production. The deforestation role of wood products is thus also dependent on

Conclusions and Re¯ections 213

the general policy context, on socioeconomic structure and on sitespecific development features. In Chapter 2, one of the theoretical deforestation explanations was the `fuelwood trap' ± an impoverishment `vicious-circle' framework led by the supremacy of poor peasants' growing domestic energy necessities, met by an ever-decreasing wood supply. In Ecuador, this model has also been adopted in certain studies, especially for the widely deforested Inter-Andean valley. In contrast, most of the highland frontier areas studied here were still characterized by an abundance of wood, so that firewood was not a prime reason for the elimination of forest cover. Moreover, even in specific zones with incipient firewood shortages, peasants responded in a flexible manner (tree-planting, energy substitution, firewood commercialization) that throws fundamental doubts on the applicability of vicious-circle models. The fuelwood trap may in general constitute too simplistic a framework ± and be too much tied to the population-resource scenario ± to describe adequately the complexity of forest-loss processes in Ecuador. Another poverty-led hypothesis is that poor peasants are exploited by ruthless wood traders: deceptive roadside prices force primary producers to cut excessively to meet their subsistence needs. This also proved irrelevant in our cases. Middlemen's margins are by no means impressive; they are reduced by the high degree of competitiveness and homogeneity of the charcoal and firewood markets. Only for timber may a lack of transparency in urban markets trigger excessive retail margins per output unit. However, due to previous harvesting, precious timber species are already scarce in the highlands and thus do not tend to provide an incentive for deforestation. Even on a national scale, timber exports ± often seen as the primus motor in forest loss ± are negligible, and their deforestation impact is basically zero. This confirms the critical view of biased conservationist campaigns against logging firms (Chapter 2) that confuse deforestation and forest degradation. The direct and indirect impacts of timber extraction are both highly variable and seldom tend to be decisive for the elimination of forest cover.

Poverty and population growth It can thus be concluded that there is little empirical support in this study for the hypothesis of push-deforestation through wood products. However, as discussed in Chapter 2, even more general problems relate to poverty as an explanation for deforestation. Stated as a static condition, it is unable to explain the dynamics of land-use change:

214 Highland Land-Use Patterns

civilizations may be `poor' for centuries without clearing large forest areas. In fact, they may not have done so precisely because of their poor capacity to undertake large-scale conversion. Conversely, some agriculturalists may practice slash-and-burn because of poor access to more profitable and more land-intensive techniques. `Poverty' per se is thus an ambiguous predictor of deforestation. The Brundtland report and others suggested poverty alleviation as the `win-win' answer to forest-loss and environmenta-degradation processes, thus reconciling conservationist first-world interests with the developmentalist ones of the third world. As a generalized view, this has proved to be naive. It ignores the widely held observation that deforestation and the degradation of abundant natural resources may be a perfectly rational strategy for the individual decision-maker. Widening productive options and welfare-generating measures can slow down deforestation, but they may just as well accelerate forest loss. In other words, the concept of `welfare poverty' offers nothing to the explanation of deforestation. Poverty must rather be understood as a functional concept, i.e. as specific constraints on decision-makers' resource-management strategies. The scale and impact of functional poverty must be defined in a disaggregated manner. Its correlation with deforestation may then prove to be either positive, negative or zero. This is quite obvious from the case studies described in Chapter 6. The physical act of forest-clearing was frequently implemented by landless peasants and day labourers, commonly specializing in lumbering or charcoal-making. Undoubtedly, they are among the least privileged in welfare terms, and in functional terms, `survival' is their prime motive. Yet they were no land-use decision-makers: had the landholders for some reason decided to conserve their forests entirely, this group would have had to seek other opportunities, e.g. migrate to the cities, and they would have had no direct bearing on the amount of forest cover. As a decision-maker, the colonist-landholder may appear poor from a first-world perspective, but not in relation to a neighbour or a relative, or even in his historical self-perception; indeed, he is objectively far more privileged than the landless peasant. Within the context of rural Ecuador, the typical colono is a small, risk-taking entrepreneur, willing and able to invest household labour-time and some initial funding. His potential reward is to be able to `homestead' a land plot through occupation, `improve' it through deforestation and capture a land rent if road access or other public subsidies are provided. His frontier farming system is usually more cash-oriented than those in established agricul-

Conclusions and Re¯ections 215

tural zones, especially with cattle-ranching as a simultaneous means of investment and basic capital accumulation. He thus reacts more to pull than to push factors, although deteriorating conditions in the zone of origin (drought, erosion, unemployment) may have contributed to his initial decision to migrate to the frontier. This also implies that the standard political-ecology distinction between `the poor' and `commercial interests' may be a false dichotomy:8 relatively poor agents may also be driven by commercial incentives. If `poverty' is not particularly useful for understanding Sierra deforestation, what about the other element in `impoverishment' ± population growth? It is convenient to distinguish here between three levels: frontier migration (`homesteading'), on-farm deforestation and demandderived impacts. First, frontier migrants who originate from rural areas with high population densities and land pressures may perceive better opportunities on abundant frontier lands with low population densities. Hence, population growth in migrant-sending areas contributes to frontier pressures, although usually it is not the most destitute that migrate. In contrast, subsequent on-farm deforestation on `homesteaded' plots is a gradual process, influenced significantly by population growth in two ways. First and foremost, high fertility rates in the settlement nuclei induce rapid population growth (above 4 per cent). When no more idle land is available, the intra-family subdivision of plots between heirs is the most frequent response to increased demand for land, although some intensification of production may occur as plot size decreases. Division is followed by forest clearing to re-establish for each household a minimum plot size. Subsidiarily, local population growth also helps to create labour abundance (measured for example by low local wages), which is important for the labour-intensive task of forest clearing. Thirdly, population growth in the cities promotes increased demand and favourable prices for agricultural and cattle-derived products. This population impact, which occurs at a distance from the frontier has an indirect but important bearing on local economic opportunities, land demand and deforestation.

The applicability of deforestation models To summarize the different observations from the Sierra case study, Box 9.1 is an attempt to categorize the priority of the different pre-identified deforestation factors. Category A, with the nexus of urban demand shifts, road construction (planned or implemented), Sierra cattle specialization and continuous frontier expansion, clearly provides the strongest

216 Highland Land-Use Patterns Box 9.1 Differentiation of factors promoting Sierra deforestation Sierra deforestation factors

Observations

A. Strong correlation and causal link O agricultural frontier expansion  growing demand for cultivated areas O urban demand shifts towards  cattle is prime Sierra deforestacattle products tion factor O (planned) road construction  enables and directs colonization and improvement B. Weak and/or local accelerating impact but not strongly causal O charcoal commercialization  strong demand only around cities O timber commercialization  insignificant scale, degradation impact O commercial firewood demand  only strong for local brick factories O land-tenure policies (`home-  accelerate deforestation to steading', insecurity) secure claims O policies of subsidized (mostly  accelerate deforestation locally cattle) credit C. Conditioning factors shaping the direction and causality of forest loss O frontier population growth  generates cheap labour, plot division O general population growth  raises demand for farm products O forest-tenure changes  variable deforestation/degradation impacts O frontier poverty alleviation  impact ambiguous, but increase likely O budget increases of public agen-  impact ambiguous, but increase cies likely O foreign-exchange and macro-  impact ambiguous, depends on policy economic framework D. Commonly mentioned factors study O external markets for agricultural products O international timber trade O `fuelwood trap' O middleman squeeze on rural producers O impoverished frontier-pushed farmers

but not explanatory for this case  exports from Sierra negligible  exports from Ecuador negligible  frontier wood abundance, farmers flexible  squeeze normally absent  pull factors dominate

Conclusions and Re¯ections 217

deforestation dynamics. Other factors are facilitating or associated to forest loss processes, but the causal links are either weak or confined to a local setting (category B). This applies to wood-product commercialization (mostly charcoal, less for timber and firewood), tenurial policies of open land access and prolonged tenure insecurity that is escaped only by `working' the land (`homesteading' rules), or the one-sided promotion of cattle-ranching through public credit. Category C refers to a set of conditioning factors that may be powerful in shaping the impact of the factors in A and B, but their direct influence is not unambiguous. For instance, as shown in Chapter 5, external and macroeconomic conditions are strong determinants of a changing rural economy, but the effect on forests is highly dependent on the policies applied. An example is the increased funding for public development and forest administration agencies with a contradictory agenda vis-aÁ-vis deforestation. Population growth ceteris paribus increases deforestation, but the local forest impact will be contingent on demand patterns, commercialization and migration trends. Decreasing frontier poverty and deforestation tend to go hand in hand, but the causal interrelation is site-specific. Forest tenure changes over time, for instance from CPR to privatization, may differ in terms of forest degradation and deforestation impacts, and may be highly dependent on other local conditions. Finally, two frequently applied deforestation explanations played no role in the present context (category D): external demand and dependency (timber and agricultural exports), and immiserization frameworks (fuelwood trap, poverty-push, middleman squeezes). These results can also be related more directly to theoretical approaches to deforestation that in Chapter 2 were aggregated into three different `schools of thought', with varying assumptions and policy recommendations (see Table 2.1). Table 9.3 reproduces these features in part, adding brief observations from the empirical case study (in bold).9 At first sight this suggests an eclectic approach, in the sense that none of the approaches can be applied exclusively, though two (neoclassics, impoverishment) apparently have more explanatory power than the third (political-ecology). The impoverishment approach singles out the growing number of poor as the main deforestation factor; as explained above, this was found to influence Sierra forest cover in an ambiguous manner. Certainly, smallholders are the predominant actors in clearing forests, but important internal social differentiations exist. Hence, no deterministic impoverishment-push process was found, though restricted resource-management choices have influenced certain actors. A stagnant environment of

218 Highland Land-Use Patterns Table 9.3 Empirical relevance of three deforestation schools

Questions

`Impoverishment' `Neoclassical' School School

`Politicalecology' School

`The growing What main, single factor is responsible number of poor' for deforestation?

`Open-access property rights'

`Capitalist investors crowd out peasants'

Empirical observation:

YES, applies sometimes, but more of a facilitating factor

NO, not at all: small squatters occupy large estates

Who is the principal `Smallholders' deforestation agent?

`Various agents'

`Capitalist entrepreneurs'

Empirical observation:

YES, medium-sized farmers dominate

YES, medium-sized farmers dominate

entrepreneurs YES, but at MICRO level

What is driving the dynamics of deforestation?

`A gradual push with deterministic vicious circles'

`Optimizing agents react `Capitalist pull, land to pull expulsion and smallinventives' holder push'

Empirical observation:

NO, push factors are subordinate

YES, commercialization emphasizes pull factors

What impacts have demographics and labour absorption?

`Absorption is low; labour abundance boosts deforestation'

`Labour mobility is high `General labour and labour supply very scarcity at frontier causes deforestation' elastic'

Empirical observation:

YES, but more so in advanced stages of colonization

YES, but not fully: migration obstacles prevail

NO, scarcity is confined to early colonization stages

`It causes lower farm What effects has a rise in the peasant's production and farm output prices? less deforestation'

`It causes higher farm production and more deforestation'

`It causes lower farm production and less deforestation'

Empirical observation:

YES, supply curves are NO, no `full-belly' upward sloping behaviour

YES, but more a function of `numbers' than `poor'

NO, no `full-belly' behaviour

NO, no expulsion, push factors are subordinate

Note: Bold indicates brief empirical observations based on highland case studies

limited technological change and sustained high population growth meant that labour remained abundant, as predicted by this school and opposed by the neo-Boserupian optimism about labour absorption. However, the dominance of pull factors meant that increasing farmoutput prices stimulated, rather than contracted, demand for new agropastoral land (the best example being cattle-derived products), favouring neoclassical supply adjustment over the impoverishment view of a `full-belly' reaction to rising prices (see Chapter 2). The neoclassical focus on open-access tenure regimes is adequate for explaining frontier `homesteading' (rewarding deforestation with land

Conclusions and Re¯ections 219

tenure). But when no land titles can be gained from occupation, openaccess forests (including some CPR arrangements) tend to be overexploited and degraded, but not entirely deforested. The reason is that deforestation represents a site-specific investment of labour and capital which only makes sense under secure property rights. This is an important qualification of the common perception of deforestation processes. Market-led pull incentives were indeed also dominant in the response to price changes. Consequently, neoclassical resource-scarcity proved to be a powerful concept, including in explaining changing institutional arrangements at the local level. However, labour-market assumptions about full geographical mobility were too simple: different types of migration obstacles tend to persist so that labour remuneration differed significantly across the villages studied. Perhaps surprisingly, political ecology that has preferentially been applied to Latin American deforestation (see Chapter 3) has little relevance for the Ecuadorean Sierra. Its focus on capitalist crowding-out processes led by world-market incentives apply neither to the frontier areas nor to the Sierra in a broader sense. Production is certainly becoming increasingly commercialized, but for domestic urban consumption. Entrepreneurs can surely be found, but mostly as small-scale settlers, not capitalist investors. Rural emigration to the frontier does occur, but not because of export sectors crowding out poor peasants. In this sense, the picture definitely differs from both the Brazilian and the Central American cases sketched in Chapter 3. Purely internal dynamics render traditional dependency-thinking irrelevant: Ecuadoreans have only themselves to hold responsible for disappearing highland forests.

Deforestation and development Of course, the next step is to ask whether one needs to hold anyone responsible, or to what extent the elimination of natural forest cover should be widely viewed as an integral part of Ecuador's development process. At the extreme, is it simply the gradual reduction of an economically low-production ecosystem, and are trees plainly to be seen as `tall weeds'? Beyond economic benefit considerations, this clearly refers to wider questions of ethics and `sustainable development'Ð concepts that were raised in the Introduction to this book. In historical terms, all developed nations have eliminated natural forest cover to a greater or lesser degree to make land available for development purposes; however, many rich countries in the North are now reforesting lands (see Chapter 1). This has led some scholars to test

220 Highland Land-Use Patterns

the so-called `environmental Kuznets curve'10 for deforestation, expressed as a cross-country statistical relation between per capita GDP and deforestation: forest loss allegedly rises up to a certain `turningpoint' income level and then declines. There are several theoretical arguments to sustain this hypothesis. First, early development phases often imply disruptions in traditional CPR forest-management systems: the resulting vacuum encourages deforestation until other institutional arrangements for forest conservation are functioning well. A second explanation refers to agriculture and to demographic transition: in later stages of development, agricultural intensification gradually reduces the need for frontier expansion; simultaneously, the population grows less rapidly or even stagnates, which levels off rising food demand. Thirdly, different societies demand different forest benefits: throughout the early phases of development, multiple forest use by traditional forest-dwellers is often replaced by forest-colonizers' commercial specialization (on agriculture, cattle, high-productive timber), which is less compatible with natural forest conservation. Yet in the rich countries (and even near certain third-world mega-cities), multiple forest use has experienced a revival based on recreation, ecotourism, water provision for hydroelectricity, for urban drinking-water and so on. Empirically, some cross-country statistical studies support the Uhypothesis, but turning points may occur only at extremely high income levels, implying that deforestation rather levels off.11 Likewise, a WWF comparative study of selected individual countries (Thailand, Mexico, Ivory Coast) concluded that the U-curve is not deterministic, nor is a turning-point guaranteed (Reid 1992: 146±8). On the whole, this may imply that `following the bell-curve' of stage-led deforestation comprises common development features, but an `overshooting' of deforestation may also occur because of the lagged reaction of societies to ecological crises (as historically in Europe), which is only gradually reversed subsequently. Finally, it should be remembered that while the initial U-curve transition entails the elimination of natural forests, any prospective later rise in forest cover predominantly occurs in terms of man-made forest plantations, providing a different set of forest goods and services (notably, a much lower biodiversity). Where is Ecuador in this international picture? As a middle-income country, with over half its land area still covered by forests, the U-curve model would predict that there is still much scope for deforestation because economic development demands additional agropastoral land. Certainly, many rural areas are currently experiencing processes of com-

Conclusions and Re¯ections 221

mercialization, specialization and agricultural extensification which were explained above to be not very conducive to natural forest conservation and multiple use. Furthermore, both the private, non-subsidized returns and the sustainability of frontier settlements have proved to be higher than previously believed, e.g. in the Brazilian Amazon (Schneider 1995). This may also indicate that the Malthusian view of a `human carrying capacity' for settlement in the Ecuadorean Amazon (Hicks et al. 1990) is overly pessimistic; it is likely that some sustainable production will be possible in the future, despite the dire predictions. As pointed out in Chapter 3, South American forest abundance favours a developmental view of deforestation: Much destruction of tropical forests in Latin America is the product of efforts to promote economic development . . . Not all deforestation is, however, wasteful . . . Thus if public policy is devised exclusively from a domestic perspective, it would have to promote forest conversion to agriculture and other activities in areas that allow for positive rates of return after considering all externalities. (LoÂpez 1996: 2) This neoclassically inspired conclusion certainly also reflects immigrant settlers' interests as described in previous chapters. Furthermore, qualitative interviews of frontier-settlement households in our Sierra study areas showed that forest resources were predominantly viewed with indifference, as `land reserves' for future conversion. Current domestic benefits were largely confined to wood products and hunting, commercial benefits to charcoal and timber-harvesting (see Chapter 7). Forest existence also produces local costs, such as carnivora attacking domestic animals or birds' incursions on to crops. Supernatural animals and cultural myths handed down from earlier generations describe the forest as a dangerous and unpredictable place. There can thus be no doubt that the colono, indigenous or mestizo, prefers the open lands to the forest for many reasons (Wunder 1996a: 377±8). Negative externalities from Sierra deforestation can be observed for neighbouring geographical zones, for the Ecuadorean state and for global environmental interests. This implies that forests have a larger social than private value, a common result. For instance, disappearing cloud forests reduce water flows to downstream agricultural areas, accelerated erosion on deforested slopes has caused severe sedimentation of the Paute dam (case study 1) and incurred high costs on national electricity production, and the flanks of the Andes are among the global `hot spots'

222 Highland Land-Use Patterns

of biodiversity, so that their rapid deforestation causes losses of endemic species. The NPV analysis above showed that the private opportunity costs of conservation (the potential benefits from deforestation foregone) for certain forests may in fact cover a wide range (US$300±2000/ha). For Ecuador as a country, it cannot be a wise strategy to ignore deforestation externalities (such as watershed degradation, soil erosion and biodiversity loss) across the board and apply market discount rates of 5±10 per cent that justify large-scale habitat destruction and land degradation. Advocates of the precautionary principle argue that Ecuadorean deforestation has already gone too far (Vogel 1998): the irreversibility of ongoing species distinction, the instability of human preferences over generations and therefore the unknown future value of biodiversity and ecosystem services would generally imply that economic analysis is an unsuitable tool for determining `optimal deforestation levels'. Instead of cost±benefit analysis, ecological criteria of representativeness and viability should thus be used to make informed land-use decisions, whereas economics should rather have an instrumental role, designing incentives that help implement these decisions in a cost-effective way within sustainable forest-use strategies (Vogel 1997).

National policy implications What should the rational policy response be in the light of this intricate and contradictory framework? At the one extreme, given the present markets, prices and incentives, further rapid deforestation would seem bound to occur and ± according to the quotation above ± should from the national perspective even be stimulated by Ecuadorean policy-making. At the other extreme, irreversibility, the precautionary principle and future-generation concerns would dictate a halt to deforestation entirely. This can be seen as a problem of planning under extreme uncertainty ± in this case, uncertainty about future biodiversity and ecosystem values (such as future social preferences, number of species, habitat-extinction relations, conservation compensations, the emergence of global markets for bioprospecting and carbon storage). Assuming that different stakeholder interests can be aggregated into one single national strategy, a guiding principle for its design is offered by Kenneth Arrow: `In general, an optimal decision under uncertainty will give reasonably good performance under all except highly improbable outcomes.'12 In adjusting this principle specifically to insecure

Conclusions and Re¯ections 223

environmental outcomes, Killick (1992) suggests a set of policy rules, inter alia:13 O to reduce uncertainties through increased investigation O to avoid policies with irreversible outcomes that reduce society's flexibility O to anticipate adaption problems and market failures by aiding responsiveness through incentives O to search for multiple or versatile strategies. If these are accepted as sensible planning criteria, an optimal land-use strategy in a forest-rich developing country should probably not aim at halting deforestation immediately and entirely, which in the short run is likely to produce excessive social costs, sectoral biases and political unrest: `A dynamic and growing society cannot be expected to live with a static land use pattern' (Laarman 1997: 4). The sheer number and variety of pressures on forests that have been identified in this book, and the range of actors that have a stake in forest conversion, show that halting deforestation is an extremely demanding task. On the other hand, the strategy hitherto of actively promoting large-scale deforestation (frontier expansion without priorizations, extensive landuse strategies, natural-resource mining, as discussed in Chapters 5 and 8) should be abandoned, because it accelerates the exhaustion of Ecuador's unique `natural capital' of biodiversity-rich forests. Fortunately, intermediate alternatives for more cautious and far-sighted development strategies can be devised which would allow deforestation to be limited to those areas where a combination of high conversion benefits and low potential forest benefits exists. However, this would demand a politically determined change in development strategies and effective spatial planning, which has not been implemented hitherto in the country. In many ways, frontier expansion constitutes an `escape valve' (see Chapter 2) that provides an easy institutional response to social pressures, a feature with decade-long roots in Ecuador. A conspicuous example is the extraordinary expansion in the Ecuadorean road network over the last two to three decades, which has had a powerful, lasting impact on deforestation (see Chapter 8). For many years, road construction has been a rational strategy for achieving regional integration in a fragmented country with poor infrastructure. However, it seems that a point has been reached where certain road projects not only trigger exorbitant environmental but also excessive financial costs, and net development benefits appear highly dubious, except for a range of vested interests. Ecuadorean politicians are eager physically to

224 Highland Land-Use Patterns

`deliver works' (entregar obras) to their voters that document a `politically correct' entrepreneurship, but this comprises even road projects of ambiguous social value. What if some of these financial resources were shifted towards agricultural research, primary education, rural extension and other fields of `development software', areas that internationally have proved to produce high social rates of return and which are so evidently badly needed in Ecuador to raise efficiency in production? There are vast opportunities to shift emphasis towards a more resource-intensive development path that combines the promotion of growth, equity and environmental safeguards. At the macro-level, this strategy could involve a range of non-forestry tools, such as integrated rural development and agricultural intensification (Rudel 1993: ch.8), human-capital investments and reforms of open-access tenure regimes (Southgate 1997; Whitaker and Colyer 1990), population policies (Vogel 1998: 11±12), land taxes and the elimination of subsidies encouraging speculative forestclearing (LoÂpez 1996). These measures could eventually be combined with reforms in the proper forestry sector, such as changed logging-concession policies (Laarman 1997), subsidies for positive forestry externalities (Haltia and Keipi 1999), and a more effective management of Ecuadorean protected areas, including a legal revision of park-dwellers' land tenure (Amend and Amend 1995), but also controversial enforcement measures such as intensified use of the Ecuadorean military (Harcourt and Sayer 1996: 50), including the prompt expulsion of new squatters (Vogel 1998: 15).

Increasing conservation incentives In terms of using these approaches in the design of site-specific projects and strategies for sustainable forest use, it seems useful to make two basic distinctions where a critical balance has to be struck: actions inside and outside the forest, and actions in frontier as opposed to non-frontier areas. The last two sections will discuss suggestions for conservation and sustainable-use strategies in the light of the above results, focusing on measures in the economic and productive sphere. Box 9.2 provides elements for discussing the most straightforward action to the benefit of forest conservation: to create more value inside the forest and to ensure that forest owners capture (part of) this value, so that they obtain effective incentives not to degrade and/or convert the land to other uses, and even to defend it actively against outsiders who may wish to do so.

Conclusions and Re¯ections 225

Box 9.2 O O O O O

Augmenting forest values: pros and cons

Non-timber forest products Sustainable timber management Eco-tourism Bioprospecting/genetic biodiversity values Carbon-sequestration market

Potential advantages O higher current values attached to forest ecosystem provide direct conservation incentive O reversing traditional prejudices by demonstration effects, creating a belief in forests as a valuable resource O local resource managers may become conservation allies against externally induced degradation Potential risks often no existing tradition among local dwellers over-exploitation and/or resource-domestication may occur markets undeveloped or obstacles to commercialization prevail `sustainability trade-offs' in multiple forest use: promoting one forest benefit may reduce others O legal-administrative obstacles may jeopardize local value generation O O O O

f Suggestion

O In principle, the most direct and efficient option, but short-run application may be difficult. Should be combined with other measures in order to `win time' ± given current deforestation rates ± for their long-run implementation. Application as pilot projects may often be more realistic than on a sector-wide basis.

Non-timber forest products, traditionally denominated as `minor' compared to timber, can yield significant values for both subsistence and commercialization; however, in the Sierra study areas current uses were limited except for a few villages. Local value generation from innovative products is often frustrated by under-developed markets and inadequate legal-administrative frameworks. Subsistence uses tend to decline with

226 Highland Land-Use Patterns

higher village income. For example medicinal forest plants were gradually replaced by synthetic substitutes: the labour-time used for collection in the wild tended to be too large, compared to the rise of other employment options. Another labour-time-reducing response is the domestication of non-timber products, for instance in home gardens. This may alleviate existing over-exploitation pressures on commercially valuable species, but it also deprives the natural habitat of an in situ conservation incentive, except as a source of subsequent genetic enrichment of the domesticated varieties. Sustainable timber management of natural forests has recently received much attention, though few successful Latin American experiences have been documented. One is mahogany extraction in Quintana Roo, Mexico (Vollmer 1994); however, cases in the Brazilian and Peruvian Amazon are less encouraging (Southgate and Elgegren 1995; Southgate 1997). A root problem is that ongoing forest conversion provides cheap timber as an (unsustainably produced) by-product, which makes it difficult for sustainably produced timber to compete. Compared to Southeast Asia, tropical forests in the Americas tend to contain a larger diversity of species, only a few of which are marketed at present. Even if the commercial spectrum is widened, fundamental problems concerning the sustainability of logging within a multiple-use framework remain. For instance, for sustainable timber production in Chimanes, Bolivia, timber-harvesting and regeneration demand major forest disturbances with considerable biodiversity costs (Rice et al. 1997). In other words, there may be clear trade-offs between the respective `sustainability' of timber and non-timber benefits, which should serve as a note of caution on the indiscriminate use of the term. Genetic bioprospecting and carbon sequestration share the characteristic that financial resource values still largely remain potential, in the sense that international agreements and corresponding markets for forest benefits have not been fully developed. For both options of future forest value generation, analysts are divided between optimists and pessimists. Vogel (1994) argues for the creation of an international supplier cartel of genetic information, including the preconditions for a marketled pilot-application in Ecuador (Vogel 1995). Aylward (1993) stresses the huge quantitative range of value estimates ± including severe over-estimates ± and, like Southgate (1998), he is doubtful of bioprospecting as a currently applicable financial tool. As long as open-access regimes prevail, biodiversity-generated values will clearly remain modest. The same is partly true of carbon sequestration. Political willingness to provide international finance for joint implementation-type arrange-

Conclusions and Re¯ections 227

ments is rising, and sequestration is often found to constitute a large share of total economic value in forest valuation studies (e.g. Kumari 1995). Yet the optimal mode of implementation remains unclear ± should only incremental sequestration be rewarded or also static carbon storage values (LoÂpez 1996)? For Ecuador, Chapter 4 draws attention to the severe impediment that no reliable base line of forest cover and deforestation exists,14 which makes it almost impossible to devise plausible national incentives. Once these problems were resolved, a major challenge in Ecuador (and other developing countries) would be how effectively to transform donor funding accruing to national agencies into financial incentives for forest owners without overwhelming leakages to rent-seekers. Eco-tourism has been a fast-growing sector in Ecuador and has proved useful for both community development and conservation (PROBONA 1995). Even when local inhabitants receive only a minor share of tourism revenues, these may still be substantial compared to alternative income-generation options in remote, marginalized areas and may actually provide efficient conservation incentives, as shown for the Cuyabeno Reserve in the Oriente (Wunder 1996b). However, for many of the Sierra study areas in the present book, large obstacles for tourism development exist: a wet and cold climate, large distances with unreliable dirt-road access, no previous tourist infrastructure, the native population having little or no experience with foreigners, and the natural settings being biologically rich but visually rather similar. Generally, one can also ask how much forest protection successful eco-tourism justifies: Costa Rica has experienced a `striptease' of its forest cover over the last three decades, but this has not prevented eco-tourism from becoming the main foreign exchange-generating sector as the showcase for tourism development on the continent. Thus, the amount of preserved forest needed for the eco-tourism industry may be very limited, although this apparently depends on what is the main attraction.15 On the whole, one may agree with Southgate's conclusion (1997: 42) that the potential of non-timber benefits for conservation and sustainable use are limited at present to a number of `niches' ± in both product and geographical terms ± which favour the implementation of pilot projects instead of the large-scale financing of mega-projects. However, with the continuous worldwide reduction in tropical natural forests and the predictable continuous rise in demand for certain forest benefits (eco-tourism, biotechnology, carbon sequestration, selected non-timber products), this will hopefully become an increasingly important strategy. Indeed, if forest areas are unable to compete in the long run with

228 Highland Land-Use Patterns

alternative land uses in value-generation terms, it may prove impossible to conserve more than limited forest fragments.

Reducing demand for converted lands The increasing demand for agropastoral land is the dominating motive for deforestation in the Ecuadorean Sierra. It is thus logical also to look outside the forest for deforestation-curbing options, to the sectors where pressures originate (cattle, agriculture). In fact, for most Integrated Conservation and Development Projects (ICDPs), the starting-point has been precisely to generate alternative farm incomes, to alleviate poverty and push-deforestation pressures and thus, hopefully, to reconcile conservation with local development needs. Nonetheless, ICDPs globally have proved to be much more successful in reaching development than conservation targets (Gilmour 1994). One reason has been underlined throughout this book: poverty alleviation per se has ambiguous impacts on conservation. Empirically, push-deforestation was not found to be the dominant feature in the Sierra. Yet rural-development strategies need not focus exclusively on push-alleviation, but can also increase options for the pull-led rural entrepreneurs in the established settlement areas of rural Ecuador, thus limiting their incentives to migrate to forest frontiers (Southgate 1997; Rudel 1993: 166). Box 9.3 summarizes some of these measures: technological improvements in production functions, labour substitution and alternative income-generating options, the principal aim being to reduce the demand for land clearance. Examples are increases in cattle-carrying capacity and in crop yields through new varieties, agroforestry and silvopastoral systems that retain tree cover, or erosion-control measures that prolong soil use and reduce the push for clearing new plots. To what extent can these measures reduce deforestation? If technological progress is Hicks-neutral (i.e. saves an equal proportion of each input to produce the same output), its impact is equal to an output price increase. For instance, a new pasture-grass variety is introduced locally which with the same land and labour input induces cows to produce more milk. If milk prices stay unchanged,16 this means `less push, more pull' (just as in Table 9.3). If the inhabitants are `full-belly' farmers, they will reduce labour and land inputs, cash in the same milk value as before, enjoy increased leisure time and leave surplus land plots fallow. Conversely, in the more common case of pull incentives, they will actively shift land, labour and capital towards cattle-ranching,

Conclusions and Re¯ections 229

Box 9.3 Reducing the demand for converted forest lands: pros and cons O Increased per-hectare productivity in agriculture and cattle-

ranching

O Value added to existing rural products O Agroforestry and silvopastural systems O Slowing-down land-degradation processes

O O O O

Potential advantages local experience and interest in cattle and agriculture change in overall production function is a powerful tool short-run labour absorption and substitution possible creating a culture of intensification that may become

self-sustaining

Potential risks O indirect approach to forest conservation may lack focus

O increases land-use rentability gap at the frontier

O may induce frontier immigration in the medium term

Suggestion fO An indirect option with potentials to reduce migration pressures and create alternative rural-development options in established agricultural areas. Should be applied cautiously and selectively in frontier areas to `win time', but may increase long-term pressures when frontier labour supply is elastic. Application on a sector-wide scale is often preferable to isolated pilot projects.

produce more and gain higher incomes. Obviously, this may also induce further deforestation of areas needed for the booming cattle sector. An application of this package in established agricultural areas with few forests left may reduce emigration and cause little local forest loss. By employing labour more efficiently in the farm sector, certain pressures may be alleviated in the short term. This may also help to `win time' for the conservation of forests ± at present rates of accelerated forest loss, this may be an important and necessary benefit. However, applying these measures in frontier areas can easily turn into a two-edged sword.

230 Highland Land-Use Patterns

An illustrative example is the investigation and adoption of new livestock techniques in the Brazilian Amazon that prolong the lifetime of pastures on deforested lands from approximately five to twenty years (SerraÄo and Toledo 1990; Alvim 1994). From the viewpoint of natural resource management, this increases land-use sustainability. But it may also deprive conservationists of their traditional argument of the `wasteful use of deforested lands'. Moreover, longer pasture use adds to pulldeforestation by raising the profitability of the deforestation cycle (Schneider 1995). This may eventually also affect Sierra forests in a considerable manner; many rich soils can potentially provide good pastures for a considerable period. What can be deduced from these examples? First, from a conservationist perspective, land-saving but labour-using techniques should be favoured (e.g. pasture types that increase yields but need more maintenance), because they limit the options to channel idle production factors into deforesting activities. Secondly, research and investments in cattle and agriculture will ceteris paribus increase the profitability gap with respect to sustainable forest uses. In principle, this worsens a core problem identified in this book: once road access has been gained, forest conservation cannot compete in economic terms with land uses requiring conversion. Thirdly, if labour supply to frontier settlements is elastic (through high fertility or immigration), every type of investment in local development projects, including infrastructure or input-saving technologies, will provide a net subsidy for further settlement. Hence, long-term pressures on forests may easily increase instead of decreasing as intended. A fourth point is that rural technological progress should preferably be diffused to the entire production sector, which would reduce output prices. For the example from above: if the new pasture grass is introduced in most of Ecuador, national milk production will increase considerably and milk prices will fall correspondingly, which also, ceteris paribus, will reduce the overall demand for pasture land. In a way, this is what has happened in developed countries: efficient production, low agricultural output prices, stable population numbers and high wages have together reduced the pressure on marginal soils. Of course, this brings us back from the level of local pilot projects to the much more intricate task of changing Ecuadorean policy-making vis-aÁ-vis the agricultural sector.17 Finally, the analysis here has shown that considerable gaps between stakeholder interests prevail. For local resource managers, deforestation currently tends to be the most rational option. Ecuador has a national interest in directing an ongoing conversion process away from certain

Conclusions and Re¯ections 231

regions and preserving biodiversity-related forest-development options for the future. The global society would probably prefer to bring the country's deforestation process to a complete halt. Consequently, the claim that all stakeholders have an equal general interest in forest conservation, as the objectively rational land-use strategy, is balanced between wishful thinking and hypocrisy. The gaps between internal stakeholder interests have traditionally been confronted in Ecuador by command-and-control policies which have proved to be increasingly inefficient. As an alternative, incentives and compensations for local resource managers controlling positive forest externalities is an area where little experience exists in Ecuador, or even in the rest of Latin America. Both research and pilot applications are urgently needed to receive feedback on what types of implementation mechanism are appropriate tools for an efficient forest-conservation strategy, promoting benefit-sharing and a use of forest resources that can make all the major stakeholders better off. Notes 1 Chapter 5 showed that banana exports resumed their growth in the 1980s, though land-saving technological change meant that this did not necessarily translate into areal expansion and deforestation. 2 The discount rate expresses the individual household's time-preference for current versus future consumption, and thus implicitly the opportunity costs in production, i.e. the benefit lost by not investing in other incomegenerating activities than those displayed in Table 9.1. Real dollar interest rates in Ecuador ± an adequate comparative figure for passive investments ± have fluctuated greatly, from negative rates in the 1970s to 10±12 per cent in recent decades. The two percentages chosen ± 5 per cent and 10 per cent ± reflect the range of discount rates currently being applied in many development projects. 3 For instance, hired hands were valued at US$2 per day, household labour slightly below that (US$1.6). See Wunder (1996: 375±83) for a detailed description. 4 Land prices will internalize risks in the production process and thus be slightly lower. Vogel (1998: 5) estimates that the price of cleared agricultural land in Ecuador ranges more or less from US$100 to US$2000 per hectare; yet high-altitude paÂramo grasslands without road access may be as low as US$50, whereas flat farmland in the Cuenca±Azogues valley may be sold at more than US$4000 (S.White, pers.comm.). 5 The rigid phase structure means that NPVs for the alternative scenarios are slightly underestimated: temporal substitution in land use would be an optimal response to altered model parameters. 6 Alternatively, one may assume the risk of land loss to decrease over time or with declining forest cover. This may change the land-use cycle significantly and thus produce conclusions different from those in scenario B.

232 Highland Land-Use Patterns 7 Chainsaw purchases are the only investment necessary, and even these may be borrowed between neighbours. Other outlays (oil, petrol) are short-term and may be financed by sale receipts. 8 E.g. LoÂpez (1996: 11): `The poor seem to play a role in deforestation . . . but their role seems to be minor compared to the effects of commercial interests.' 9 Policy options from Table 2.1 have been deleted here, but will be treated below. 10 Originally, Simon Kuznets described the relation between development and income distribution as an inverted U: inequality tends to rise in initial phases of development and decline later on (Kuznets 1955). The environmental version of this curve has mostly been utilized for matching air-pollution levels to growing national income in both time-series and cross-country versions (see Grossman and Krueger 1995 for an overview). 11 Cropper and Griffiths (1994) find a cross-country Kuznets curve for both African and Latin American countries. Shafik (1994) finds a similar bellshaped but statistically insignificant relationship between per capita income and deforestation rates. 12 Arrow (1987), cited in Killick (1992: 35). 13 Killick analyses developing countries' adjustment to the (highly insecure) impacts of global warming. 14 This features applies to most developing countries. 15 Certain large mammals will typically need a large and undisturbed protected habitat; simple appreciation of nature and selected flora may well occur in colonized areas with forest remnants. 16 Output prices will fall if the new technique is introduced on a broader scale so that market supply is affected. 17 As discussed by Angelsen and Kaimowitz (1998), the complex impact of technological progress in agriculture on deforestation depends a whole range of factors, such as the uniform vs. partial applicability of new technologies, price elasticities, household production characteristics, labour and capital mobility, demand effects from increased income, and so on. The topic was elucidated more fully in a recent CIFOR international workshop in Costa Rica (see Wunder 1999); selected, revised contributions from the workshop will be published by CIFOR and CAB International in January 2000.

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Name Index Abrams, E.M., 636 Amacher, G.S., 53 Amelung, T., 167 Andersen, L.E., 81 Andrade, J., 164, 169 Angelsen, A., 53, 55, 232 Arrow, K., 222 Atahualpa, 93 Aylward, B.A., 226 Bajracharya, D., 32 BaleÂe, W., 64 Barbier, E.B., 28 Bedoya, E., 37±8, 67 BenalcaÂzar, R.R., 92 Boserup, E., 37±9, 151±2, 218 Brokensha, D.W., 42 Bromley, R., 109, 113, 116 Browder, J., 55 Brownrigg, L.A., 154, 162, 183

Edberg, R., 1, 3

Ehrlich, A.H., 39

Ehrlich, P.R., 39

Ekstrom, J.P., 154

Febres-Cordero, 120 Graham, E., 63

Granja, A.S., 203

Griffiths, C., 232

GuerroÂn, F., 4

Guillet, D., 143

Haagensen, J.O., 4

Hansen, E., 115

Hardin, G., 20, 21, 42

Heltberg, R., 53

Hofstad, O., 53, 181

Holdridge, L.R., 92, 162

Hyde, W.F., 42

Cabarle, B.J., 98 Camacho, C., 203 Capistrano, A.D., 13, 52 Cardoso, F.H., 82 Casagrande, J.B., 129, 187 Chambers, R., 29, 38 Chayanov, A., 53 Christiansen, T., 4 Collins, J.L., 37, 71 Commander, S., 127 Conforti, 187 Costa, J.P. de Oliveira, 75 Cropper, M., 232

Izko, X., 4

Daly, H., 65 Dean, W., 1, 2 Diamond, J., 21 DõÂaz, P., 59, 60 Diehl, M., 167 Dorner, P., 44 Dubos, R., 2

MacLeod, M.J., 61±2, 82 Maldonado, F., 163 Malthus, T., 35, 37, 48, 71, 221 Mao Zedong, 38 Matras, J., 62 McNeely, J.A., 21 Mearns, R., 32, 53, 182, 184 Moran, E.F., 46, 81, 164, 169 Myers, N., 10, 15, 73, 92

Eckholm, E., 32, 34, 53

Jensen, S., 4

Jones, J.R., 36, 54, 72, 86

Kaimowitz, D., 5, 45, 232 Kiker, C.F., 13, 52 Killick, T., 223 Kuznets, S., 232 Larenas, L., 204 Laso, E., 4 Leach, G., 32, 53, 182, 184

250

Name Index 251

Myrdal, G., 34, 39, 48 Nielsen, S.R., 4 Olsen, C.S., 4 Ostrom, E., 43 Painter, M., 37, 71 Parkin, R., 4 Peek, P., 127 Pendergast, D.M., 63 PinchoÂn, F.J., 129, 159 Ponting, C., 21, 38 Reardon, T., 36 Reed, D., 36 Resosudarmo, I.A.P., 37, 53 Riber, A., 5 Richards, M., 42 RodrõÂguez, J.A., 36 Roper, J., 12 Rowe, R., 10, 39 Rùdgaard, U., 5 Rudel, T., 12, 23 n., 36, 38, 115, 129, 130, 133, 141, 154, 157, 187 Sainz, J.L., 163 SaÂnchez, R., 96, 99 Sayer, J.A., xii, 48 Schmidt, R., 105

Schneider, R.R., 81, 84 Seve, J.E., 42 Sierra, R., 98, 157, 183 Singh, K., 42, 54 Shafik, N., 232 Skov, F., 5, 114 Soussan, J., 33 Southgate, D., 104, 115, 131, 187, 226±7 Sponsel, L.E., 64 Steinlin, H., 28, 38 Stonich, S., 72 Sunderlin, W., 5, 36±7, 53 Thiesenhusen, W.C., 44 Tobar, A., 4 Toro, B., 96, 99 Uquillas, J., 203 van Buren, A., 32 Vitale, L., 59±60 Vogel, J.H., 4, 226, 231 È nen, J.H., 50, 55 von Thu Vosti, S.A., 36 Westoby, J., 29, 37, 52, 79 Whitaker, M.D., 104, 115, 131 White, S., 4, 163 Williams, M., 15 Wood, H.A., 129, 187

Subject Index Africa, 13, 15, 19, 30, 32, 41, 42, 53, 56, 67, 84, 182, 183, 232 North, 21 agricultural research, 224 agriculture, 10, 20, 21, 32, 44, 47, 53, 58, 64, 71, 208±10, 215, 220, 228±30 in Brazil, 76 conversion of, 53 in Ecuador, 93, 94, 107, 110, 121±3, 125, 142, 147, 155±6, 193, 203, 207±8 extensification of, 152, 203, 221 intensification of, 18, 23, 38, 49±50, 58, 63, 81, 203, 215, 220, 224 permanent, 74, 83 rotational, 35 sedentary, 20, 35, 106 slash and burn (see also shifting cultivation), 2, 20, 53, 63±4, 75, 106, 147, 214 slash and mulch, 124, 149 subsistence, 35, 46, 50, 60, 85, 206 sustainable, 50 agroforestry, 10, 228 aguadiente, 108 Alliance for Progress, 72 Amazon, 19, 21, 23, 24, 27, 37, 38, 45, 64, 65, 67, 70, 74, 76±81, 83±7, 187, 221, 226, 230 Ecuadorean, 94, 96, 97, 103, 105, 110, 122±4, 133, 136, 141, 154, 162, 206, 221 Ambato (Ecuador), 128, 173, 174, 178±9 Ambrosio Laso (Ecuador), 145, 151, 162, 163 Andes, 22, 32, 51, 57, 63, 70, 76, 83, 84 Ecuadorean, 93, 96, 97, 103, 110, 116, 129, 143, 145,

148±50, 154, 159, 161, 169, 176, 177, 183, 206, 213 and biodiversity, 221±2 Angkor Wat, 21 anthropocentrism, 2 anthropology, 50 Araucaria pine, 87 Argentina, 57 arrayaÂn, 168 Ashuar, 187 Asia (see also South Asia, Southeast Asia), 13, 15, 30, 41, 56, 67, 69, 84 Azogues (Ecuador), 143, 163, 173, 174, 179, 231 Aztecs, 21, 63 Azuay (Ecuador), 154 Babahoyo (Ecuador), 101, 109 Baeza (Ecuador), 110 Bahia, 75 Bali, 44 balsa wood, 108, 126, 167 bananas, 72, 93 in Ecuador, 108±9, 111, 112, 117, 120±3, 125±6, 129, 133, 149, 206, 231 Cavendish variety, 108 Gros Michel variety, 108 bandeirantes, 76 Bara, 64 bauxite, 77 beef, 20, 54, 72, 73, 79, 83 Belize, 63, 71, 86±7 biodiversity, x, xii, 11, 15, 20, 24, 52, 64, 86, 92, 103, 154, 220, 222, 223, 226, 231 bioprospecting, 222, 225, 226 biotechnology, 227 bodegas, 178 Bogor, 5 BogotaÂ, 63 BolõÂvar (Ecuador), 143, 151 BolõÂvar University (Ecuador), 204

252

Subject Index 253

Bolivia, 27, 54, 70, 86, 116, 126, 157, 226 Boolean algebra, 24 Borneo (see also Kalimantan), 53 Brazil, 2, 13±15, 19, 24, 27, 44, 45, 52±4, 56, 59, 63, 64, 69, 70, 80, 84, 85, 187, 200, 201, 206, 219, 221, 226, 231 deforestation in, 74±82, 87 Brazil wood, 64, 75 British, 71 Brundtland Report, 34, 55, 214 Buenos Aires, 85 caatinga, 87 CABI, 232 cacao, 76 canelo, 174, 176, 180 cambiamano, 163, 191 Cambodia, 21 Äar (Ecuador), 143, 151 Can Äari, 93, 106 Can cane alcohol, see aguardiente carbon sequestration, 225, 226±7 carbon storage, 222 Caribbean, 15, 57, 68, 69, 83, 84 Carthage, 21 Cashca-Totoras (Ecuador), 143, 150, 151, 156±8, 162, 173, 178±9, 184, 192, 203, 204 cattle, 35, 45, 50, 54, 62, 66, 73, 82, 85, 87, 207±11, 215, 218, 220, 228±30 in Brazil, 77, 79, 80 in Central America, 71 in Ecuador, 91, 94, 105, 106, 110, 124, 128, 129, 131, 137, 142, 143±4, 146±51, 153, 155±6, 159, 161, 163, 167±8, 170, 178, 181, 192±5, 201, 203, 204, 206, 208, 216±17 Cayambe (Ecuador), 162, 186 cedar, 148, 180 Central America (see also Latin America), 21, 23, 35, 36, 37, 44, 45, 54, 56, 61, 70, 76±7, 79, 80, 84±7, 106, 108, 187, 201, 219

deforestation in, 71±4, 206 tropical forest cover in, 68 Centre for Development Research (Denmark), 4 Centre for the Economic Recovery Äar and Moronaof Azuay, Can Santiago (CREA, Ecuador), 133, 202 Centre for International Forestry Research (CIFOR), 5, 12, 48, 114, 232 Centre for Research on the Cultural and Biological Diversity of Andean Rainforests (DIVA), 5, 99, 114 cerrado, 87 Cerro Azul (Ecuador), 151, 162, 163 charcoal production, 30, 32, 33, 53, 75, 77, 78, 163, 208, 212±13, 221 in Ecuador, 128, 142, 147, 148, 161, 164±84, 191, 198, 204, 207, 214±17 chilco, 180 Chile, 52 Chimanes (Bolivia), 226 Chimbo (Ecuador), 173, 179 Chimborazo (Ecuador), 163, 198 China, 53 Chiriboga (Ecuador), 184 ChocoÂ, 69, 92 cinnamon, 76, 110 clear-felling, 27, 29, 69, 83, 123, 125, 196 cloves, 76 Club of Rome, 37 Co2 fixation, 24 coca, 38, 54, 86 Coca (Ecuador), 103, 110, 162 cocoa, 20 in Ecuador, 93, 107±8, 109, 111, 120, 123, 129, 133 coffee, 20, 75, 83, 94, 109, 117, 122, 125 CojimõÂes (Ecuador), 110 Colepato (Ecuador), 151, 190, 203 Colombia, 64, 69, 70, 92, 109, 115 colonialism, 57, 66, 74, 91

254 Subject Index

colonization, 44, 60, 72, 79, 81, 212, 218 in Ecuador, 94, 97, 98, 103, 106 ±10, 112, 124, 129, 130, 135, 150, 167, 186±7, 192, 194, 198, 201, 206, 216 of forests, 11, 28, 30, 41, 46 Law of (Mexico), 59 Spanish, 185 colorado, 174, 180 commercialization, 18, 145, 146, 155, 161, 171, 174±7, 183, 190, 213, 216±21, 225, 226 common pool resources (CPRs), 43, 54, 145, 189±90, 217, 219±20 common property rights, 54 community forestry, 30 compadrazco, 203 Companhia Vale do Rio Doce (CVRD, Brazil), 77 conservation, 2, 3, 12, 18, 132, 133, 161, 200, 201, 222, 224±9 conservationists, 26, 214, 230 consumption, 21, 22, 39, 51, 57, 66, 67, 82, 146, 163, 169 co-operatives, 188 CopaÂn (Honduras), 63 Cordillera del Condor, 103, 124 Coronado, 106 corruption, 183, 195, 199, 200 cost±benefit analysis, 222 Costa, La (Ecuador), 92, 93, 97, 101±15, 120, 123, 125, 128±30, 143, 154, 157, 165, 167, 183 Costa Rica, 24, 72, 73±4, 227, 232 Cotopaxi (Ecuador), 143, 151 cotton, 20, 54, 64, 72, 83 credit, 44±5, 54, 72, 74, 80, 81, 85, 211±12 in Ecuador, 131±4, 155, 157, 159, 161, 190, 192±4, 199±200, 202, 204, 206±7, 216±17 cross-country model (see also data, cross-country), 24, 28, 220, 232 Cuenca (Ecuador), 133, 162, 169, 173, 174, 176, 179, 203, 231

CutucuÂ, 103 Cuyabeno Reserve (Ecuador), 227 Cuyes (Ecuador), 162, 203 Cuzco, 106 Danish Environmental Research Programme, 99 Danish International Development Assistance (DANIDA), 4 Dar es Salaam (Tanzania), 53, 181±2 data cross-country (see also crosscountry analysis), 18, 23, 136 cross-section, 9, 23, 37, 76, 81, 143, 187 in-country, 19 model-generated, 9 time-series (see also time-series analysis), 9, 23 debt, 45, 54, 133, 194 debt-for-nature swaps, 61 deforestation, xiii, xiv, 1, 2, 9±25, 69, 72, 91 in Brazil, 70, 74±82 in Central America, 71±4 in colonial period, 62 cross-country, 54 cycles of, 71, 73, 160, 207±10 data, 11±19, 97, 104 definitions, 3, 9±11, 15, 22, 27, 28, 31 and development, 3, 4 in Ecuador, 91±232 gross, 9±10 hill, 63 history of, 19±22, 59±67 measurement, 9±11 model, 19 net, 9±10 on-farm, 11, 46, 49, 130, 188, 199, 215 rates, 13, 15, 40, 96 theories, 3, 18, 19, 26±55, 185; schools of, 46±52, 215±19; impoverishment, 26, 48, 49±52, 55, 122, 213, 217±18;

Subject Index 255

neoclassical, 26, 48±52, 55, 84, 122, 160, 202, 217±19; political ecology, 26, 49±52, 56, 58, 71, 83±4, 154, 160, 201, 215, 217±19 deglaciation, 19, 98 dependency theory, 56, 60±1, 74, 85, 219 depopulation, 62±3, 83, 96, 107, 111 Desana, 64 devaluation, 45, 126 development, 2, 44, 76, 91, 120, 160, 173, 201, 214, 223±9, 232 and deforestation, 3, 4, 219±22 in Ecuador, 185, 187, 194±200, 217, 231 sustainable, 2, 38, 58, 65, 219; UN Commission for, x domestication (of plants and animals), 22 donor funding, 227 double C-double P game, 20 drought, 60, 66, 154, 189, 215 Dudas (Ecuador), 143, 146, 150, 151, 156, 158, 163, 173±80, 201, 204 Dutch-disease model, 120±3, 125±7, 130±7 dye-wood, see Brazil wood Earth Summit (Rio 1992), 1 ecology, 50 Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (ECLAC), 61, 86 economics, 3 ecological, 50, 52 ecosystem regeneration, 22 eco-tourism, 212, 220, 225, 227 Ecuador, 3, 4, 22, 24, 46, 58, 66, 70, 86, 116 agricultural exports from, 106 ±10, 111 deforestation in, 91±232 passim industrialization in, 111 labour in, 153±4, 160±1

Ecuadorean Centre for Agricultural Services (CESA), 169, 184 Ecuadorean Centre for the Integrated Survey of Natural Resources through Remote Sensing (CLIRSEN), 96, 99, 101, 113, 115, 136 Ecuadorean Electrification Institute (INECEL), 195±6, 200, 204 Ecuadorean Institute for Agrarian Reform and Colonization (IERAC), 130, 133, 163, 185±9, 192, 199±201, 203 Ecuadorean Institute for Forestry, Natural Areas and Wildlife (INEFAN), 97±8, 115, 145, 165, 167, 194, 196, 199±200, 204 education, 224 El Alisal (Ecuador), 151, 162 El Empalme (Ecuador), 109 Äo, 25, 53, 120 El Nin El Oro (Ecuador), 108, 110, 154, 162 El Salvador, 71 El Triunfo-Chico (Ecuador), 162 emigration, see migration energy conversion, 53 energy substitution, 213 Engel effect, 136 England, 22 environment, 136, 137, 223, 232 degradation of, xiii, 35, 36, 38, 57, 85, 189, 198, 214 safeguards for, 77, 224 environmentalists, xiv, 59 Esmeraldas (Ecuador), 93, 95, 97, 98, 101, 127, 129, 165 Ethiopia, 30 ethnicity, 157±9, 161, 194 eucalyptus, 77, 126, 145, 170, 180 Eurasia, 22, 62 Europe, 13, 19, 21, 220 central, 20 eastern, 13 European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC), 77 European Union (EU), 79

256 Subject Index

faique, 170 fire, 20, 24, 29, 63, 64, 83 firewood, 28, 30, 32±5, 41, 42, 47, 54, 69, 75, 78, 212±13 in Ecuador, 128, 142, 156, 164 ±84, 190±2, 202, 208, 213, 217 Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), 10, 23, 24, 30, 74, 86, 92, 97, 99, 101, 114, 115, 165, 183 Forest Resources Assessment, 11±15, 17, 19, 22±3, 24, 96, 97, 205 food security, 64, 155, 207 foot-and-mouth disease, 79 forest conservation, 52, 67, 220±2, 229, 231 forest conversion, 9±11, 15, 18, 20, 28, 30±4, 41, 48, 85, 209, 212, 214, 223, 226 in Brazil, 75 in the Caribbean, 83 in Ecuador, 111, 135, 141, 189±90, 206, 231 forest decline, 9 forest degradation, xiv, 1, 3, 9, 10, 11, 20, 22, 29, 32, 33, 42, 48, 50, 54, 83, 213, 219, 225 in Central America, 71 in Ecuador, 127, 132, 152, 164, 167, 182, 183, 190, 202, 217 forest depletion, 28, 52 forest fragmentation, 9 forest loss, xiv, 2, 3, 9, 11, 13, 21, 23, 26, 30, 32, 39, 46, 47, 50, 53, 54, 209, 214, 220, 229 in Brazil, 76, 77 in Central America, 71 in Ecuador, 9, 92, 109, 111, 122, 123, 128, 164, 188±9, 199, 202, 216±17 forest management, 29, 42, 43, 59 forest modification, 29 forest regeneration, 10, 20, 29, 62, 64, 111, 147, 170, 226 forests boreal, 15, 22 closed, 17, 18, 23, 87

dipterocarp, 27 dry, 15, 16, 18, 22, 23, 29, 33, 83 deciduous, 16, 96, 97 fragmented, 11, 17, 23, 101 frontier, 11 Intergovernmental Forum on, xiii neo-tropical, 67 open, 17, 18, 23, 87, 101, 149 primary, 28, 30, 148, 207 secondary, 28, 52, 148, 149 state, 42 temperate, 15, 22 tropical, xiii, 23, 42, 67 moist, 22, 29, 33, 35, 93, 94 upland, 23 French Guiana, 65 frontier expansion, 20, 46 fuelwood trap, 26, 30±4, 48, 213 in Ecuador, 154, 164±84, 213, 216±17 full-belly economy, 35, 53, 218, 229 FundacioÂn Natura, 86, 137 GalaÂpagos Islands, 102, 114, 115 Geographical Information systems (Ecuador), 99 global warming, 232 gold, 75, 77, 92, 107, 110, 129 Grande CarajaÂs Programme, 77±8 Guallabamba (Ecuador), 184 Guamote (Ecuador), 186, 197±8 Guanabara, 85 Guaranda (Ecuador), 173, 179, 204 Guatemala, 72 guayacaÂn, 180 Guayaquil (Ecuador), 93, 94, 101, 108, 109, 115, 122, 128, 129, 151 Guayas river (Ecuador), 93, 97, 108, 111, 128 guõÂas de movilizacioÂn, 195 Gulf countries, 125 Haiti, 69 hamburger connection, 35, 73, 79, 85, 201, 206 Hicks-neutrality, 229 Himalayas, 32, 33, 51

Subject Index 257

Holdridge system, 92, 162 homesteading, 11, 41, 159, 186±7, 190, 202, 209, 214±18 Honduras, 36, 54, 63, 72, 137 horticulture, 64 Huaquillas (Ecuador), 174 Huashapamba (Ecuador), 189 huasipungueros, 151, 185 hunter-gatherers, 58, 64, 83, 98, 221 hydroelectricity, 77, 85, 220, 221 idealism, 2 idle lands, 59, 84, 215 in Ecuador, 152, 188±9, 193, 196, 201 Law of (Ecuador), 186 Illinizas (Ecuador), 145, 146, 149, 156±9, 162, 173±5, 178±81, 197, 201, 203, 211 Imbabura (Ecuador), 93, 98 Imbana (Ecuador), 148, 174 immigration, see migration import-substitution, 45, 58, 93, 121 impoverishment theory, see deforestation theories Incas, 64, 65, 93, 106, 206 income, 155±6, 232 India, 19, 32, 51, 54 indigenous knowledge, 58 Indonesia, 5, 13±15, 28, 37, 41, 52, 74 migration in, 44, 72 inflation, 80, 120±1, 123, 131 infrastructure, 10 input±output structure, 18 Integrated Conservation and Development Projects (ICDPs), 228 International Monetary Fund (IMF), 136 International Tropical Timber Organization (ITTO), 28±9, 97±8, 115, 165, 167 invasor, 186, 203 IPAT equation, 39 iron ore, 77, 78 irrigation, 21

ishpingo, 180 Ivory Coast, 36, 55, 220 JadaÂn (Ecuador), 163 Japan, 52, 77, 79 JatuÂn Loma (Ecuador), 162 Java, 44 Jima (Ecuador), 162 Jimbilla (Ecuador), 148, 156, 158, 173, 174, 180 JõÂvaro, 106 Kalimantan (see also Borneo), 41 Katmandu, 33 Kayapo, 64 Kenya, 32, 38, 42 Khora (Bolivia), 163 kinship, 157, 191, 203 Kuznets curve, 220, 232 La Cantera (Ecuador), 162 La CofradõÂa (Ecuador), 203 Lago Agrio (Ecuador), 103, 110 land access to, 40±3, 46, 190±2, 202 degradation, 48, 51, 72, 79, 83, 109, 131, 147, 151, 161, 228 redistribution in Ecuador, 186 reform in Ecuador, 185, 189, 201 prices, 81 land tenure, 11, 26, 32, 33, 40±3, 46, 50, 51, 57, 67, 85, 86, 210±11 in Brazil, 79 in Central America, 73 in Ecuador, 154, 185±92, 198±202, 206, 216±17, 224 communal, 42 insecurity of, 40±3, 212, 217 open-access, 43, 46, 47, 48, 52, 54, 58, 84, 126, 202, 217±19, 224, 226 private, 42 and tree-planting, 41 land-titling, 73, 133, 155, 157, 163, 186±7, 192, 198, 199±200, 203, 207, 219

258 Subject Index

land-use change, 43 and deforestation in Ecuador, 146±50 Las Pampas (Ecuador), 145, 149, 150, 156, 158, 163, 174, 180, 192, 197 Latacunga (Ecuador), 107, 173, 174, 178±9 latifundia, 57, 94, 185±6 Latin America (see also Central America, South America), 30, 41, 42, 51, 206, 221, 226, 231, 232 deforestation in, 9, 13, 15, 56±87, 91, 219 land-use in, 61±7 Law of Fallow Lands (Ecuador), 203 Law of Forestry and Conservation of Natural Areas (Ecuador), 195 LimoÂn (Ecuador), 110 Limones (Ecuador), 110 Ilamas, 22 logging, xiii, 10, 13, 26±30, 33, 35, 44, 47, 52, 53, 83, 213, 226 by Asian companies, 69, 70 in Ecuador, 124, 129, 164±84 logwood, 71 Loja (Ecuador), 143, 150, 151, 154, 156, 170±4, 179±80, 182, 189, 203 Los Bancos (Ecuador), 129 Los RõÂos (Ecuador), 169 Macas (Ecuador), 103, 110, 197±8 Machalilla (Ecuador), 101 Machiguenga, 65 mahogany, 27, 71, 148, 226 malaria, 107 Malawi, 42 Malaysia, 28, 52, 54 ManabõÂ, 97, 169 manganese, 77 Manta (Ecuador), 93 Marxism, 60, 61, 85 Mato Grosso (Brazil), 64, 78, 79, 87 Maya, 21, 59±65, 83, 106

Mazar (Ecuador), 143, 147, 150, 175, 190, 192, 197, 203, 204 Mediterranean, 20, 21, 25 MeÂndez (Ecuador), 103 Mesoamerica, 15 Mesopotamia, 21 Mestizos, 67, 157±9, 194, 221 metallurgy, 22 Mexico, 19, 22, 36, 55, 59, 63, 66, 85±6, 118, 220 middlemen, 173±7, 182, 213, 216±17 migration, 20, 29, 32, 38, 40, 41, 63, 64, 84, 215, 218±19, 221, 229±30 in Brazil, 76, 77, 80 in/from Ecuador, 94, 106, 122±8, 134, 135, 150±3, 158±61, 178, 193, 203, 204, 214, 217, 219, 228 in Indonesia, 44, 72 minga, 153, 163, 203 minifundia, 57, 94, 185 mining, 29, 40, 44, 62, 77, 105, 107 Ministry of Agriculture (Ecuador), 98, 104, 106, 115, 194 Ministry of Environment (Ecuador), 204 miombo, 181 molloÂn, 174, 180 Monterrey, 85 morado, 180 Morona-Santiago (Ecuador), 95, 115, 124, 198 Mozambique, 30 multinationals, 60, 61 Nanegal (Ecuador), 184 Napo (Ecuador), 95, 114, 124 Naranjal (Ecuador), 109 naranjilla, 110 National Colonization Institute (INC, Ecuador), 185, 186 National Development Bank (BNF, Ecuador), 133, 192±4, 199±201, 204, 211 National Energy Institute (INE, Ecuador), 164

Subject Index 259

National Institute for Agrarian Development (INDA, Ecuador), 187, 192, 203 National Institute for the Colonization of the Ecuadorean Amazon Region (INCRAE), 203 National Institute of Statistics and Censuses (INEC, Ecuador), 104, 106, 115, 150, 165, 169 national parks, xiv natural gas, 121 neoclassical theory, see deforestation theories Nepal, 32, 38, 42, 44, 53, 54 net present value, 206±9, 222, 231 Netherlands, 121 Nicaragua, 32, 54 nickel, 77 Nigeria, 122 North America (see also United States of America), 13, 19, 204 Ocotea infrapovedata, 184 oil, 29, 53, 56 crises, 30 in Ecuador, 92, 93, 94, 105, 110, 117±37, 146, 153, 178, 183, 192, 197, 206 oil palm, 94, 109 Olancho (Honduras), 36, 137 olivewood, 180 Oriente El (Ecuador), 92, 94, 101±6, 110, 115, 117, 118, 120, 123±5, 128, 129, 134, 135, 143, 145, 151, 154, 157, 160, 165, 167, 173, 187, 198, 203, 227 Orinoco, 67 Oyacachi (Ecuador), 162 pa boi system, 41 Pacific, 19 Panama, 72 Panama hat industry, 154 Panama Canal, 107 panela, 108 Papua New Guinea, 52 Para (Brazil), 77, 78 paÂramo, 98, 105, 143, 231

Paraguay, 54, 92 Paraiba do Sul, 75 Pastaza (Ecuador), 95, 124 pastoralism, 66 pasture, 10 degradation of, 149±50, 163 Patate (Ecuador), 186 Paute watershed (Ecuador), Management and Conservation Unit (UMACPA), 204 Paute dam (Ecuador), 204, 221 Pernambuco (Brazil), 75 Persea mutisii, 184 Peru, 38, 54, 63±5, 67, 70, 86, 115, 116, 124, 143, 198, 226 Pichincha (Ecuador), 93, 97, 98, 128, 129, 208 PilatoÂn (Ecuador), 143, 173, 195, 199 pincheros, 178 plantations, 17, 31, 55 in Brazil, 75 in Surinam, 69±70 plywood, 183 political ecology theory, see deforestation theories pollution, 123, 232 POLOAMAZONIA Programme (Brazil), 77 POLONOROESTE Programme (Brazil), 78 Polylepis, 98 population (see also depopulation), 4, 51, 74, 91, 159, 205, 220 density, 12, 38, 64, 69, 83, 85, 96, 106, 145 in the Caribbean and Latin America, 57 growth, xiv, 12, 20±3, 26, 27, 30, 32, 34±40, 44, 46±8, 58, 70, 213±15; in Brazil, 75±6; in Central America, 71, 86; in Ecuador, 93, 109, 128, 141, 150±4, 157±8, 160±1, 164, 206, 216±18; in Latin America, 62, 85

260 Subject Index

population (contd ) pressure, 18, 63 Portuguese, 64 posesionario, 186, 203 posseiros, 79 poverty, 4, 31±9, 47, 48, 50, 53, 71, 213±15, 228 in Ecuador, 133, 151, 154±7, 160±4, 169, 174, 182, 205, 217 pragmatism, 2 prestamano, 163 privatization, 41, 42, 50, 190, 217 Programme for Native Andean Forests in Ecuador (PROBONA), 4, 99, 141±2, 145, 162, 204, 227 Protected Area System (Ecuador), 132 Protector Forests (Ecuador), 145, 162, 194±6, 199, 204 PuruhuaÂs, 106 Puyo (Ecuador), 103, 110, 128 Quevedo (Ecuador), 109, 110, 129 Äa (Ecuador), 146, 156, Quilotun 158, 162, 167, 173, 174, 178, 180±1, 197, 198, 201 Quininde (Ecuador), 110 Quintana Roo (Mexico), 226 Quito, 63, 93, 97, 106±8, 110, 122, 128, 129, 142, 143, 146, 151, 162, 186±7, 193, 196, 204, 207±8 market for wood products, 173±84 Quitu, 93 radiation, 15 railways, 59, 108, 109 rainforests, xiii, 11, 15, 16, 18, 23, 77, 96 randimpa, 163 realism, 2 reforestation, 9, 24, 43, 97, 219 in Ecuador, 129, 206 in Kenya and Malawi, 42

Regional Programme for the Development of Southern Ecuador (PREDESUR), 202±3 regression models, 18, 19, 24, 187 cross-country, 28, 45 remote sensing, 12, 18, 95, 96, 99 resins, 76 Rio‡5 group, 47 Rio de Janeiro, 70, 75, 85 Protocol, 115 Riobamba (Ecuador), 107 roads, 25, 28, 29, 33, 44±9, 54, 59, 83, 85, 123, 214±15 blocking of, 44, 129 in Brazil, 76, 79±81 in Ecuador, 94, 103, 105, 109±11, 121, 124, 128±30, 134, 135, 146, 153, 157, 162, 164, 167, 182, 196±9, 202, 206±7, 211, 216, 223±4 romanticism, 2 romerillo, 174, 180 à nia, 78 Rondo rubber, 41, 75, 76, 94 rural extensions, 224 Sahel, 32, 51 Salcedo (Ecuador), 186 Salinas (Ecuador), 101 salinization, 21 salt, 64 San Juan (Ecuador), 184 San Lorenzo (Ecuador), 110 San Lucas (Ecuador), 145 Sangay National Park (Ecuador), 195, 197±8 Santa FeÂ, 85 Santa Rosas de Totoras (Ecuador), 162 Santo Domingo de los Colorados (Ecuador), 110, 128±9 SaÄo Luis (Brazil), 77 SaÄo Paulo, 70, 85 Saquisilõ (Ecuador), 172, 175 Saraguro (Ecuador), 145, 157 sarar, 180 satellite imagery, 9, 12, 95, 96, 99, 101, 103, 113, 114, 162, 205

Subject Index 261

savanna, 22 sawnwood, 183 selva alta, 70 seringueiros, 76 sharecropping, 41 share ranching, 191 sheep, 66, 106, 143, 152, 155±6, 192, 204 shifting cultivation (see also agriculture, slash and burn), xiii, 10, 18, 35, 41, 53, 58, 83, 115 strategies of, 42 by Tupi, 63±4 ship-building, 20, 75 shrimp-farming, 93, 126, 136 Shuar, 106, 157, 187 Shyri, 93, 106 Sierra, La (Ecuador), 92±3, 96±7, 99, 101±12, 120, 127±8, 130±3, 136, 141±84, 185±7, 192±3, 198, 200, 203, 205±6, 215±17, 219, 221, 225, 227±8 Sigchos (Ecuador), 145, 150, 174±5, 178±9 silvopastoral systems, 228 skins, 64 slavery, 70, 76, 107 smallholders, 217±18 snakewood, 69 soil compaction, 149, 150 soil erosion, 21, 32, 57, 60, 62±3, 66, 215, 221 in Brazil, 75, 79 control measures, 228 in Ecuador, 147, 150, 154, 163, 193±5, 222 South America (see also Latin America), 24, 35, 61, 70, 74, 205, 221 tropical forest cover in, 68, 69 South Asia population density in, 57 technological change in, 39 Southeast Asia, 13, 15, 19, 23, 27±9, 76, 78, 226 soyabeans, 54, 80, 109 Spain, 22, 57, 151, 204

conquest of Latin America, 4, 94, 116, 206 Spanish, 63, 66, 67 Spanish cedar, 71 speculation, 80 squatters, 41, 42, 48, 73, 77, 81, 83, 212, 218 in Ecuador, 94, 124, 163, 186±9, 194, 196, 201, 203, 206, 209, 224 Sri Lanka, 54 stage hypothesis, 81 steel, 75 Stockholm, UN Environment Conference in, 37, 59 structural adjustment programmes, 45, 55, 120, 122 Subsecretariat for Forestry and Natural Resources (SUFOREN, Ecuador), 97, 98, 124 subsidies, 81, 85, 224 Sucumbios (Ecuador), 95, 114, 124 sugar, 20, 21, 41, 69, 75, 83 in Ecuador, 93, 94, 108, 110, 143, 149, 168, 170 Superintendency for the Development of Amazonia (SUDAM, Brazil), 80 Supermaxi, 178 Surinam, 69±70 surveys, 9, 12 sustainability (see also agriculture, sustainable; development, sustainable), 225±7, 230 Sweden, 2 Swiss Intercooperation, 142 Swiss Technical Assistance Agency in Ecuador (COTESU), 142 Tambo-Merced (Ecuador), 156, 158 Äalo (Ecuador), 151, 162 Tan tanning, 75 Tanzania, 32, 181 tea, 94, 110 technological change, 20, 21, 22, 38, 39 temperate zones, 13 Tena (Ecuador), 103, 110, 129 Terai (India, Nepal), 33

262 Subject Index

textiles, 71 Thailand, 36, 41, 54, 55, 220 timber, 26, 28, 41, 43, 45, 47, 52±4, 59, 60, 69, 83, 123, 207±9, 211±13, 220±1, 225±6 in Brazil, 78±9 in Central America, 71 in Ecuador, 93±4, 125±8, 134±5, 142, 147±8, 156, 161, 164±84, 190±1, 202, 207, 210, 216±17 time-series analysis (see also data, time series), 18 Toacazo (Ecuador), 163 Toachi (Ecuador), 143, 173, 195, 199 trade, 20, 22, 26±7, 35, 40, 44, 46, 51, 64, 69, 85, 107, 108, 111, 124, 151 liberalization of, 45 tragedy of the commons, 42, 190 Trinidad and Tobago, 122 Troncal (Ecuador), 109 Tropical Forest Action Plan (TFAP), 98 tropics, 13 Tupi, 63 U hypothesis, 220, 232 UNCTAD, 136 unemployment, 215 United Fruit Company, 72 United Nations Environmental Programme, 11 United Nations Research Institute for Social Development (UNRISD), 10 United States of America (see also North America), 21, 71, 79, 151, 201, 203, 204

urbanization 25 in Ecuador, 122, 127±8, 134, 151 Mayan, 62 Uritusinga (Ecuador), 151, 156, 158, 173, 178±9, 201, 211 Uruguay, 57 USSR, 13 Valle del Mezquita (Mexico), 66 Venezuela, 64, 69, 122 Vilcabamba (Ecuador), 149, 156, 158 Wales, 22 warfare, 83, 107 Wayampi, 65 wood products (see also charcoal), 4, 20, 25, 27 World Bank, 77, 78, 115, 136 World Conservation Monitoring Centre (WCMC), 12, 15, 74, 97, 101, 103, 114, 115 World Conservation Union (IUCN), 4, 12, 47, 122, 142 World Resources Institute (WRI), 12, 15, 24, 47, 96, 114 World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF), 47, 55, 122, 220 writing, 22 Yanomami, 64 yellow fever, 107 Yucatan Peninsula, 62±3 Zaire, 13±15, 19, 23, 53 Zamora-Chinchipe (Ecuador), 95, 124 Zaruma (Ecuador), 107 zoning, 81