'The Tides Rhyme with the Moon': The Impacts of ...

‘The Tides Rhyme with the Moon’: The Impacts of Knowledge Transmission and Strong Spring Tides on Rice Farming in Guinea-Bissau Joana Sousa & Ana Luísa Luz

Human Ecology An Interdisciplinary Journal ISSN 0300-7839 Volume 46 Number 2 Hum Ecol (2018) 46:147-157 DOI 10.1007/s10745-018-9980-3

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Author's personal copy Human Ecology (2018) 46:147–157 https://doi.org/10.1007/s10745-018-9980-3

‘The Tides Rhyme with the Moon’: The Impacts of Knowledge Transmission and Strong Spring Tides on Rice Farming in Guinea-Bissau Joana Sousa 1,2 & Ana Luísa Luz 3 Published online: 23 March 2018 # Springer Science+Business Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature 2018

Abstract Mangrove rice farmers in Guinea-Bissau are facing climatic changes (i.e., seawater flooding and decreasing rainfall) that threaten their livelihood. In addition, cultural transformations (e.g., abandonment of bush initiations) have affected inter-generational knowledge exchange and elders’ control over youth. Our ethnographic research documents the construction of a dam in a village in southern Guinea-Bissau to protect rice farms from seawater flooding. In a struggle for increased access to land, the youth of the village formed an association to ensure the availability of labor and promote knowledge exchange. Inter-village expert knowledge of mangrove rice farming is disseminated through networks of reciprocity that exist alongside village, household, and agebased knowledge transmission. Farmers’ capacity to experiment with technological solutions and expand the connections in regional knowledge networks is crucial to ongoing adaptation. Multidimensional rural development strategies are of importance to respond to changing climatic and socio-cultural conditions. Keywords Knowledge . Technology . Climate change . Spring tides . Mangrove rice . Guinea-Bissau

Introduction Agro-environmental knowledge, often referred to as traditional, informal, local, or indigenous (all contested terms, see e.g., Nygren 1999), has always been fundamental to rural livelihoods. Understanding different types of agroenvironmental knowledge and their transmission connects the centrality of local knowledge to the outcomes of resilience and adaptation.

* Ana Luísa Luz [email protected] Joana Sousa [email protected] 1

Uni Carl Vogt, Université de Genève, Faculté des Sciences de la Société, Département de Géographie et Environnement, Boulevard Carl Vogt, 66, 1211 Genève 4, CH, Switzerland

2

Department of Environmental Sciences, Universidade Lusófona da Guiné, Bissau, Guinea-Bissau

3

Faculdade de Ciências Sociais e Humanas, Universidade Nova de Lisboa, Centro Interdisciplinar de Ciências Sociais – CICS.NOVA, Av. de Berna, 26, C 1069-061 Lisbon, Portugal

Our analysis is situated in the agro-ecological landscapes of West African mangrove rice fields currently facing social and climatic challenges, specifically the village of Kablola1 located in the Cantanhez National Park in the region of Tombali, an area known for rice production. In Kablola, knowledge of mangrove rice farming has consolidated in a context of socio-ecological change, technological adaptation, intervillage exchange, and altered age-based power relationships. We describe rice production in Guinea-Bissau, and provide an overview of the climatic challenges affecting mangrove rice farming and a brief review of the literature on the production and transmission of knowledge in rural contexts.

Rice, Cashew and Youth Mangrove rice farming is a central food production strategy in Guinea-Bissau and along the West African coast, where rice accounts for more than 30% of the caloric intake (Pandey et al. 2010). Fields-Black (2008) suggests that mangrove rice has been grown in the region for over 1000 years, and it remains a staple of the daily diet. In the Tombali region of southern Guinea-Bissau, mangrove rice production has and continues to face various constraints and threats: the bombing of rice fields by the 1

A pseudonym.

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Portuguese army during the independence war (1963–1974) (Sousa 2014), increased seawater flooding and decreased rainfall (Sousa et al. 2014; Temudo and Abrantes 2013), and the urban migration of rural youth (Bivar and Temudo 2014; Temudo and Abrantes 2015). In coastal Guinea-Bissau, the production of mangrove rice (Batista 1948; Ribeiro 1989) has often been combined with upland rice farming and groundnut and/or cashew production (Lundy 2012a, b, 2009; Sousa 2014; Temudo 2011, 1998). When local rice production is insufficient, rice can be acquired through exchange, often of cashew nuts ― the country’s foremost cash crop (Lundy 2012a, 2009). However, the cashew-rice terms of trade are variable and unpredictable (Temudo and Abrantes 2014). In Tombali from 2009 to 2013 cashew-rice exchange was largely unable to meet household rice demands and local rice production became critical to guarantee sufficient rice (Sousa 2014). From 2015 to 2017 the price of the cashew nut reached the highest levels ever (300–1000 CFA/kg2). However, rice prices remain high from the cashew season (April–June) until rice harvests (October–December) as farmers producing surplus rice refuse to sell it before it reaches maximum value. In Kablola households were more immediately affected by the unavailability of rice in the region rather than the lack of money to purchase it (Sousa et al. 2014). In addition to local unavailability of rice, increased rice prices and fluctuating cashew-rice terms of trade (e.g., Lundy 2012a; Sousa 2014; Temudo and Abrantes 2014), the comparatively higher yields of mangrove rice when compared to upland rice and recently implemented national park policy prohibiting upland farming have led to a growing interest in the cultivation of mangrove rice (Sousa et al. 2017a, b; Temudo 2012). Mangrove rice farming demands considerable labor and knowledge that is not always readily available. Given the proximity to the ocean, a main dam (or a front dike) is sometimes necessary to separate rice fields from the brackish mangrove swamp. The dam prevents seawater flooding and regulates the level of fresh water accumulating in the rice fields. For instance, excess rainwater is drained into the sea during low tides to allow ploughing and to prevent flooding of seedlings. However, seawater is occasionally used as fertilizer or to kill weeds. Acting as a permeable frontier, the dam serves multiple functions which, if adequately controlled, boost rice development. Rice fields are planted in rows perpendicular to the dam (korda), and divided by secondary dikes depending on where water accumulates and flows. Culverts allow water to flow from one field to the next, linking the upper areas of the rice fields to the main dam (Gonçalves 1998; Ribeiro 1989; Temudo 2011, 1998). 2 0,54–1,81USD https://www.oanda.com/currency/converter/ 3 September 2017

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Facing Climatic Challenges BThis vast surface of erosion immerses smoothly underneath the ocean, establishing there a large coastal platform, scattered by islands and banks, and entangled by the deep grooves of the long estuaries of the rivers^ (Orlando Ribeiro 1947: 31) The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) estimated a rate of sea-level rise of 2.0 mm/year during 1970–2010 and 3.2 mm/year during 1993–2010 (IPCC 2013). Nineteen percent of Guinea-Bissau is in a low elevation coastal zone (i.e., a contiguous area along the coast that is less than 10 masl) (McGranahan et al. 2007) and the effect of the tides reaches more than 100 km inland (Pons-Ghitulescu 1986) making the region Bhighly affected^ by sea-level rise (Hinkel et al. 2013). In Kablola, informants noted that their parents and grandparents crossed the sea canal in front of the village using a wooden bridge, whereas today it can be crossed only by canoe (Sousa et al. 2014). Data collected in 2009–2011 in two villages in Tombali show that seawater flooding led to 97.2–99.6% of rice loss, corresponding with a decrease in production of 2% to 51% (Sousa 2014; see also Ribeiro 1989; Temudo 2011). Both local farmers and researchers have noted a shortening of the rainy season and/or a decrease in rainfall in Guinea-Bissau (Dai et al. 2004; Embaló 2008; FAO 2007; Mendes 2018). The mean annual rainfall for the city of Bissau decreased from 1953 mm during 1960–1970 to 1521 mm during 1971–1983 (Marius and Lucas 1991). Gonçalves (1998: 21) noted that mangrove rice farming ‘requires a minimum of 1,500 mm regular precipitation.’ If stronger tides breach a dam and flood rice fields, limited rainfall may make it impossible to wash away the salt in time for cultivation, and decreasing freshwater inflow into the estuaries can increase the salinity of all coastal areas (Saenger and Bellum 1995).

Production and Transmission of Expert Knowledge Berkes and Berkes (2009) argue that the most relevant feature of Bindigenous knowledge^ is the holism resulting from the long-term monitoring of qualitative variables and the analysis of their combinations, while scientific knowledge depends more heavily on the precise measurement of a smaller number of quantitative variables. In fact, the premises and outputs of scientific and local knowledge often overlap, and are both situated in particular power relations and schemes of governance (Agrawal 1995; Nygren 1999).

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In this paper we use Blocal knowledge^ to refer to a permeable social geography of ideas, persons, and places where knowledge is shared and formulated through a continuous analysis of accessible experience. We examine knowledge transmission and cultural change through analysis of the networks of expertise and labor arrangements established in West African swamps and saltwater floodplains. Hewlett and Cavalli-Sforza (1986: 922) define cultural transmission as a Bprocess of social reproduction in which the culture’s technological knowledge, behaviour patterns and cosmological beliefs, etc., are communicated and acquired.^ Understanding mangrove rice farming involves the historical study of knowledge, technology (tools, techniques, seeds), and the social contexts that determine knowledge transmission and labour allocation. In the past in Kablola, initiations under the guidance of elders played a central role in the control of labor and the transmission of knowledge. More recently, the youth of Kabloba have created a new institutional platform that promotes knowledge transmission differently. We argue that the weakening of elder-to-youth knowledge transmission has strengthened other forms of sharing that may accommodate change more rapidly, potentially relevant to an increasingly urgent need to respond to climate change. We describe local expertise on mangrove rice farming, its holistic nature and particular ontology, examine contemporary and historical social processes involved in knowledge transmission along with age-based disputes, and conclude with a discussion of the possibilities of effective response to climate change.

Research Methods The people of Kablola in southern Guinea-Bissau identify as Becubé, a group within the Nalé (Nalu in Kriol) belonging to Kacubé (Kubucaré in Kriol), a socially and ecologically varied peninsula that, in 2008, was designated the Cantanhez National Park and whose northern coastal fringe remains important in rice production. In Kablola, as elsewhere (Curtis 2013; Lundy 2016, 2012c), Nalu cultural beliefs and ceremonies have undergone considerable changes. Three to four generations ago, people converted to Islam (Sousa 2014), which today coexists with spiritism, a term defined by Crowley (1990) to refer to reciprocal contracts with bush spirits able to influence human and non-human lives (Sousa 2014). In this context, a changing cosmology influences the way in which cultural forms are Bencoded in the landscape^ (Ingold 1992: 21). Changes in local cosmology (see Crowley 1990) and ceremonies (e.g., bush initiations) also influence the processes of transmission of knowledge and technologies. Our data collection took place over 18 months. During 2009–2011 we followed a group of young farmers forming an association and in 2013 we documented the construction of

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a dam initiated by the youth association in order to increase rice production. We were invited to join the association as regular members, which allowed us unique insights into the issues being negotiated between elders and the youth. During the dam construction tensions arose between elders and the youth resulting in individual disputes over local power relations. We conducted semi-structured interviews, participated in work in the mangrove rice fields and in constructing the dam, and held many informal conversations (for data on tides see http://legacysite3.timeanddate.com and http://www. hidrografico.pt/guine-bissau.php). The people of Cabloba speak one of four Nalu dialects as well as Guinean Kriol, the national lingua franca. For Kriol we follow Scantamburlo (2018, 1999: 125–129). The abbreviations ‘kl’ and ‘nl’ are used to mark terms in Kriol (or Guinean Creole) and Nalu (or Nalé), respectively.

The Institutional Context of Knowledge in Mangrove Rice Farming Elders’ Initiations, Knowledge and Authority In interviews conducted between 2009 and 2011, elders frequently expressed a sense that the youth do not want to work or to be close to the elders. The youths themselves often confirmed this view that they do not work as their elders did (cf. Berliner 2005). At the same time, when recalling memories of parents and grandparents, one elderly woman stated that Bthere are no elderly anymore, they all died^ (2010). Another elderly woman quoted a song in Nalu asking BWhere is the place to ask the spirits? The elders are gone.^ The elders of the past are recognized to have performed the great initiations of n’tchaper (nl), the first initiation of Nalu men, held in some Nalu villages but abandoned in others, and mantchol (nl), the second male initiation, which has been more broadly abandoned. Traditionally, these ceremonies introduced a new phase in a man’s life and produced important and powerful authority. Nowadays, in the villages where n’tchaper takes place it lasts for three months and is centered on the circumcision of young boys. In the ‘n’tchaper of before,’ as it is described locally, the initiates stayed in the bush for around three years, deprived of the comforts of their homes in order to gain access to Nalu secret knowledge (see Murphy 1980: 199 for similar initiations in Sierra Leone). Among other activities during this period the initiates worked in the mangrove rice fields on different days from the uninitiated so that they would not meet. In Kablola, n’tchaper is still conceptually based on elderly authority and access to exclusive information and status; nonetheless, interviewees describe it as having less power. Mantchol, the second initiation, reserved for a select cohort of men, is currently described as a fearful ceremony of the past and the only way to learn the most powerful secrets of the


Nalu. Initiates learned a language that only they would speak. They also learned all the names of the rivers and the borders of the various territories (tchon, kl), received instruction on the spirits of the tchon and where they live, and were taught to understand and interpret messages from the spirits sent by animals (see Sousa 2014). N’tchaper and mantchol were both exclusive circles of centralised authority represented by the most knowledgeable and magically powerful men, but seem to have lost importance alongside the breakdown of elderly rule. Associated with the great magic power that these initiations evoked, the past is also portrayed as a time of abundant rice and hard working people. But one interviewee complained BNow if the youngsters go to plough they arrive at 9 am in the field, they work 30 minutes, they put the plough down and they start chatting about Real Madrid beating Barcelona.^ Another teased her grandchild singing: BSerifo, I want you to go to the mangrove rice fields. No, my grandma, I won’t go.^ The memories of a once energetic youth population could be explained as mere nostalgia, but these memories also seem to meaningfully parallel the decreased control that the initiations hold over the youth. A Nalu elder from a neighbouring village and a member of the founding lineage, described the initiates of the old days: They worked! They did not stay without working, they worked, they worked! They couldn’t go home but they worked. They could pabi [slash a plot of forest for farming]. Before (…) they were many, they cooked their own food, they did everything. If someone had workers in his mangrove rice fields, initiates and lambes, they would plough a lot (tok), when they got tired they would come back. During n’tchaper, initiates spent time farming mangrove rice and in contact with older initiated men. This period would have been a likely context for knowledge transmission between experienced and less experienced farmers. The secrecy and sacredness characterizing the initiations would have constructed a social ground that enabled the transfer of fundamental knowledge used for agriculture. Moreover, elders would thus be able not only to control the reproduction of knowledge but also to assure their command over labor. Today n’tchaper has been abandoned in several Nalu villages, as it requires investment of both rice and money. According to Sousa (2014), in 2011 n’tchaper took place in a Nalu village of southern Guinea-Bissau and the children stayed in the forest for almost two months. Each household had to contribute a certain amount of rice daily to be cooked and sent to the n’tchaper’s sacred grove to feed the children as well as the initiated men looking after them and the many guests that visited. Clothes, artefacts, beverages, and cookies

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were also bought to celebrate the n’tchaper when the children came back to the village. Today, in several villages circumcisions are performed at home. A Nalu man from another village said, Bwe do not follow n’tchaper because we want to spend our time on other issues^ (Sousa 2014). Elders in Kablola do not recognise themselves as a reflection of their own elders, leaving the interface between elders and youngsters subject to new forms of negotiation. The loss of the initiation ceremonies enhances the vulnerability of the gerontocracy and increases young people’s ability to challenge it. In the process, the youth have also taken on greater responsibilities to respond to the village rice needs. The founding of the youth association played an important part in this endeavour. The Youth Association — Staying in Kablola At its foundation on September 5 2010, the youth association had 49 members: 19 women and 30 men. The stated goal was ‘to improve the standards of life in the village’ particularly by ensuring local rice stocks. During the months before rice harvest (June–September) it was often hard to find rice in the region. During the cashew season (April–June), the cashew trade heavily influences the price of rice, which is kept high. As a result, people are often willing to sell surplus rice before it reaches maximum price. The youths imagined the association stockpiling rice that could be sold to villagers at a fair price once household stocks were depleted. In turn, sales of rice would enable the creation of a fund for the association to be used in future endeavours. The youth association in Kablola was formed at a time when several factors seem to have contributed to a reduction of the appeal of migration to the capital or other cities (e.g., Davidson 2010; Temudo and Abrantes 2015). While this trend has been conspicuous in several contexts of rural GuineaBissau, somewhat different factors bind the young people of Kablola to their birthplace. First, in 2010, young people were beginning to push towards an individual division of the land (Sousa et al. 2014); second, stories circulated about the lack of success of several people who had earlier migrated to Bissau. Indeed, people often claim it is difficult for a Nalu to stay away from Cacubé. Still, several households have family members who have left and when youngsters go abroad, the elders of the household ask for their protection at the barime (nl, altar of the dead) in the kasa garandi (kl, big house) of the household. The barime is responsible for making the village a welcoming place for guests, protecting those who migrate and guaranteeing fertility (banbaran, kl). Elders and youngsters negotiate the future within the community and among themselves, but it is left to the dead to validate, support, or oppose the choices made by the living. Men are responsible for the barime, while women control the n’beleket (nl, women’s shrine), where they can call their children to come back even if they are far away.


Matrilineal bonds are cited as one of the reasons for the youth to remain in, or return to, the village. Despite this common explanation for youths’ attachment to their birthplace, we should also keep in mind their interests in an ongoing process of land contestation. In 2010, youth began pushing for individual division of land (Sousa et al. 2014) and founded their association, Youth Unite. In 2010, there were seven male elders in Kablola, the youngest was 51 years old and the eldest approximately 65– 70 years old. Despite the changes explained above, elders retain a privileged role in village and family level decisionmaking, especially concerning initiations and other ceremonies, land allocation, and interaction with other institutions (e.g., state officials, NGOs). Youth Unite maintained a connection to their village elders through the inclusion of one of the elders in the association’s meetings in order to facilitate the exchange of information between youngsters and elders. He was described by the youths as a counsellor. Prior to the foundation of the association, a major struggle of young people in the village had been to gain individual ownership of land. Since ownership of fruit trees is a widely accepted way of claiming property in southern Guinea-Bissau, one of the first plans of the association was to gain access to a plot of land to plant an orchard for the association. In 2010, during an association meeting, members returned to a previously discussed plan to plant a potato field and an orchard with oil palm, coconut, and lime. The elder present at the meeting informed the association that the elders had decided to postpone the decision about the allocation of land for the orchard but were willing to provide land for growing potatoes in the bas-fond. At the end of the meeting, he tried to assuage the discontent with this decision by saying BYou're the motors of the future for everything in this village.^ After the meeting a young man commented, BThey gave it [the potato field] to us because it is to the association, otherwise they would not have given it.^ During the first year, the association worked to earn the respect of village elders and consolidate as a group. They engaged in the clearing of paths around the village, reconstructing the mosque, renovating an old house that became the association centre, preparing the potato field, and supporting the women’s garden. Youth Unite appeared to be an embracing and integrated group while at the same time contesting generational power relations. Between 2010 and 2011, the meetings of the association analyzed their failures and planned future work. Later in 2011, a plan for the recovery of mangrove rice production that had decreased with the independence war (1963–1974) was proposed. Again, the association sought plots of land, this time in the mangrove swamps, to be divided among young people and to be administered by the association. This new and ambitious goal required significant harnessing of knowledge and labor, two areas in which, according to elders, young people did not excel. In the absence of the authoritarian elderly elite direction

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of the past, the allocation of labor and knowledge was indeed a major challenge. Ultimately, though, the youth association’s project to recover mangrove rice cultivation created new pathways for knowledge transmission in Kablola, not exclusively between elders and youth but also between more experienced and less experienced farmers.

Damned to Face the Sea: Knowledge and Technology The recovery of mangrove rice farming in Kablola required the construction of a dam, a structure roughly 800 m long, demanding sources of expert knowledge and labour. Such a large dam had never before been constructed in Kablola but was recognized as necessary as a consequence of ‘too much seawater’ (farmers’ expression). The completed structure closed three passages that previously allowed seawater to sporadically flood the rice fields. A few elders had skills and experience in mangrove rice farming and played an important role in planning the construction of the dam. However, only one was locally recognised as an enjenheru (kl, engineer): an expert in mangrove rice technology. His knowledge and that of other nearby enjenheru, to whom he was related through a local network of expertise, were important for the technical and technological decisions required during dam construction. Building a Seawater Dam In 2011, people in Kablola were discussing the best location for the dam. The dam’s length was re-analyzed and adjusted in 2012 according to the funds and labour predicted to be available. The fine-scale evaluation of the location was then conducted in conjunction with the enjenheru. The clearing of the mangroves took place in late 2012, and the dam was completed by the first fortnight of June 2013. The first task involved cutting mangroves (pabi, kl) in a 5 m wide corridor of approximately 800 m where the dam would be constructed. The second phase was removal of the dead roots using ploughs and axes. The third phase, tchaboka (kl), considered one of the most important, involved piling up mud in a strip defining the dimensions and exact location of the final structures — dam, ditch, and baranda (see Fig. 1). Repeated compression of this strip, achieved by extensive stomping, compacted the layers of mud under the dam to ensure structural integrity. The actual construction of the dam, the longest phase, demanded the heavy work of piling up mud with a short hand plough (n’gope ka maboan, nl). The dam was finished with the closing of three sea canals (fitcha riu, kl) using sticks, mud, and rice straw. The final stage was the installation of culverts for water management made of either PVC tubing (bumba, kl) or trunks of cibe (kl, Borassus aethiopum), a local palm tree, hollowed by termites (mainly used in inner dykes). In the dam, PVC tubes are preferred, however, because they last longer and allow for more effective drainage.


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Fig. 1 Illustration of the frontier mangrove-rice fields

All construction phases demanded significant technical guidance. During construction, the local elder recognised as an enjenheru received advice from enjenheru from surrounding villages, particularly two experts from a Balanta village. Balanta mangrove rice farmers are locally recognised as masters of this farming technique (Temudo 2008). These enjenheru provided assistance at the start of each new work phase, when planning the structure of the dam, and when specific technology or techniques needed to be applied. Since strong ties already existed as a result of long-standing relationships based on mutual assistance and shared land rights (see Sousa et al. 2014) the Kablola villagers did not have to pay for this consulting assistance. Ecology, Topography, Hydraulics and Oceanography The knowledge of enjenheru about topography, hydraulics, and oceanography provided guidelines for the technical aspects of the dam construction and generated predictions about the biophysical components that would affect and be affected by the dam. Firstly, the dam has to be sufficiently high to prevent the high spring tides from breaching it and sufficiently wide to resist the daily pummeling of the tides. The width is particularly crucial, according to farmers, not only to reinforce the dam’s stability but also to decrease the infiltration of seawater passing underneath the dam into the fields (iagu na pasa bas, kl). According to an informant farmer, when the level of seawater in contact with the outer surface of the dam is higher than the level of freshwater inside the dam, the seawater will filter through the dam. Eliminating holes left by crabs and mangrove roots helps decrease erosion and porosity to reduce seawater seepage through the base of the dam. Knowledge of mud types is also important, as they have different cohesive features. Specific factors such as the

humidity determine optimal conditions for constructing a dam: ‘It is better to build dikes when there is still some humidity in the air (sereno, kl) because the mud does not crack (findifindi, kl) as when it receives too much sun (sutadu pa sol, kl)’. The behaviour of the mud (kuma ku lama ta conporta, kl) in different environmental conditions also determines the way the structure binds (kola, kl). For example, accumulation of water in lower areas during dam construction increases the fluidity of the mud and prevents it from sticking together: ‘you pile it up and it trickles,’ one farmer noted. A skilled enjenheru needs to time the work according to neap tides to ensure that the lower areas are adequately dry during construction. Water often accumulates in lower-lying places (kau mas bas, kl), threatening the integrity of the dam. These areas have to be reinforced during construction and monitored frequently during the maintenance of the structure. Local topography also determines the drainage patterns of freshwater entering the rice fields from the upland areas, which has to be taken into account when designing the secondary dikes, ditches, and the dam. Some culverts are positioned in the lowest areas where water accumulates to ensure that excess water is drained effectively. Others are placed at different heights, depending on the water level needed in particular places at particular times. Culverts are opened or closed depending on the tides and agricultural schedule. After the construction of the dam, the spring tides have to be predicted so that farmers know when to be attentive to the level of the highest tides and when to monitor the dam for damage. The specific case of predicting spring tides illustrates local knowledge and the social conditions that enable its production and transmission. Reading the Moon, the Sun and the Tides The sea is a key source of nutrients to the muddy soils where rice grows, but it is also a threat to the soils’ viability for


agriculture. As a result, the ability of local farmers to predict the high spring tides capable of breaching a dam is crucial for successful cultivation. A combination of variables including the movement and phases of the moon and the movement of the sun are used as reference points in the spring tide calendar. Parameters such as (i) the days of the lunar calendar,3 (ii) the timing of non-threatening tides, and (iii) the occurrence of greater tidal ranges during the day or the night are all used by farmers to manage the spring tides. One youngster claimed that to practice mangrove rice farming one has to know Bhow the tides rhymes with the moon^ (kuma ku iagu ta rima ku lua, kl). After the dam’s construction, in 2013, a young farmer involved in the association provided some insight into how spring tides are predicted in Kablola (see (a) in Fig. 2):

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then they know the moon will come on the 29th. On the 29th the tide comes up until midday, if it [the tide] is not completely full until midday, then the moon appears on the 30th. (…) On the 30th, whether the moon is seen or not it does not matter, there is no 31 days.4 Then on the 30th the tides start losing their strength again, and the moon starts showing up on this side [points to the sky]. In each month there are two waters [two cycles of spring tides], there's one at half-way [of the moon cycle] and another at the end (Fig. 2). The first signal of a spring tide is a slight increase in tidal range, which happens around the eighth or ninth day of the moon calendar, as explained by the enjenheru from Kablola:

There is a need to calibrate the moon cycle with the spring tides’ calendar, particularly important during the frequently overcast rainy season when it is often difficult to monitor the moon. The day on which a new moon cycle starts is calculated by crossing the day that the moon is expected in the sky with the time at which the high tides reach the slack water, as follows:

This is the ponta di iagu sibidu, the spring tide starts when the water has been coming up until 18h00, and it continues to increase, then you can be sure than the spring tide is coming [see (c) in Fig. 2]. From today, tomorrow when you come very early, you'll see the remaining water in the low tide, from then on you'll see more water, more water. Then from the day after tomorrow you'll come to the canal and you see it is flowing faster, during the high tide it has more speed. A high tide that starts in the morning is a neap tide, [it means] the spring tide is over, it lost its strength, and the tide continues to rise later and later. There is the water that increases at night, the water that increases at 2h00 or 3h00, that will be a strong water [see (e) in Fig. 2] (…) The water that starts rising in the morning, 8h, 9h, 10h, 11h00… until midday, when it goes until 12h30 then it loses its strength, and it starts again [see (f) in Fig. 2]. Then, there are those two 'waters,' when one goes, the other comes, if one increases in the morning, the other increases at night. When the 'water' of the night starts to increase in the morning, the other increases in the night, (…) that is the way it changes, always.

On the 25th day you will see the moon on this side [pointing at the sky], but small, on the 26th it becomes smaller, 27th, it goes. On the 25th the water increases when the moon is close to disappearing, one day before it disappears because water starts on the 25th, it comes, 25th, 26th, 27th, the moon goes, on the 28th the tides continue increasing, 29th. On the 29th it is possible that the moon will appear. On the 29th, the tide is coming up at night, (…) when the tide is high at midnight, or half past midnight, then some people say that the moon will appear the next day [see (b) in Fig. 2], that is day 28,

During a given month, one spring tide is greater than the other (see Fig. 2): "This 'water' [meaning spring tide] to come will be greater because the one that has just finished was not ‘big.’^ It is also said that the strongest spring tides occur during October and March (which correspond to the perigean tides). In September spring tides are also stronger because they occur with heavy rain, high waves, and wind (two enjenheru, one from Kablola, the other from a neighboring village, 2013). Regular observation of the timing and behaviour of various elements produce an in-depth understanding of both the micro-environment and larger-scale processes.

The local lunar calendar, dias di lua (kl), is similar to descriptions of lunar calendars given elsewhere, which are also based on the principle of lunar crescent visibility.

4 For the Temne people in Sierra Leone, a month cycle - which followed the moon - had 29.5 days (see Lamp 1988).

The water goes along with the days of the moon. When the moon shows up in the sky, you will not count that day, just the second day. (…) In that day the spring tides are already there, after day one the tides decrease, it decreases its strength until the ninth day, after day 10 it starts again, day 9, 10, 11, 12, 13. (…) On the day 15 the moon is already round, after the 15th day the tides start to lose strength, also the moon, after the 15th day, starts to lose its shape, it was round and it starts decreasing, the water also decreases (…). Water loses its strength until the 20th day, in the 20th it is finished, and then it starts again, 21st, 22nd, 23rd, 24th… on the 25th it starts again, 26th it comes out.

3


Hum Ecol (2018) 46:147–157

Fig. 2 Tidal range (m, y axis) of semi-diurnal tides during March/ April 2013 (x axis) and represented against a moon cycle as defined in Kablola. References farmers use for the prediction of spring tides are shown by (a) to (f): (a) days of the local moon calendar (gray bar in the middle of the graph); (b) time reference for a high tide (00 h00) defining the beginning of neap tides; (c) time reference for a high tide (18 h00-18 h15) defining the beginning of

spring tide; (d) moonset after sunrise as a reference for spring tides; (e) nocturnal high tides’ range greater than diurnal high tides’ as reference for increasing or decreasing tidal ranges, respectively (squares are high tides reaching the slack water after sunset and before sunrise, and circles are high tides reaching the slack water after dawn and before sunset); and (f) time reference for the peak of high tide (12 h00) defining the beginning of neap tides

The Pathways for Knowledge Transmission

farming tasks of the household hosting him and shared knowledge with those who showed interest. During the construction of the dam in Kablola it was common to see young farmers learning how to build dikes, install drainage culverts, close rivers, and attending to discussions of the elders and enjenheru regarding the best techniques, material, places, and timing for certain tasks. The two Balanta enjenheru from a neighboring village played roles not only in the construction of the dam but also in the transmission of accumulated experience and knowledge. In Kablola, expert knowledge shared in contexts of close proximity is made more generally accessible through household or age-based working groups. Knowledge is transmitted between elders and youth in the contexts of household and

In Kablola, there is at least one young farmer (approximately 30 years old) familiar with the knowledge described above. He learned from his father (who died in 2011), from the enjenheru who participated in the Youth Unite meetings, and also from an old Balanta man who came to Kablola looking for healing and who ended up staying in the village until his death in 2012. Our informant remembered him as "a great man in that field, when he said 'the water to come is not big,’ you could stay calm, it was not big. (…) If he told you 'the next water will be big, get ready, if you have any place with a problem go and fix it.' It was like that." In exchange for the hospitality received, the old man participated in mangrove rice


village activities (e.g., building and maintaining dikes), and shared among the youth on work days organised by the youth association. Elders often recalled the authority held over youth as a condition for the efficiency of knowledge transmission. However, the social processes we describe show that rather than disappearing, the mechanisms of knowledge transmission are being reinvented by new elderly and youth populations following an uncertain path between continuity and disruption.

Discussion The rice fields and mangrove swamps of Guinea-Bissau are agro-ecosystems situated in an interface of climatic variables and long-term transformational trends (Davidson 2016). In Kablola, the recovery of mangrove rice took place alongside cultural and climatic changes and depended on the selfmotivation of youth labor as well as access to regional, interethnic and inter-generational knowledge networks. Local mangrove rice experts are farmers experienced in the design and construction of dams, the interpretation of topographies and ecologies and the prediction of hydraulic regimes and strong spring tides ― all crucial for the decisions taken during the establishment of mangrove rice fields. Theoretical predictions (e.g., spring tides’ calendar) are required for technological arrangements (e.g., building dams, ditches, etc.), which in turn create changes in the micro-environment generating new situations to be analysed and integrated into local knowledge. Knowledge of mangrove rice farming in Kablola encompasses multiple variables (Berkes and Berkes 2009) that are continually updated in reaction to changing environmental and technological conditions. Local knowledge of mangrove rice cultivation in southern Guinea-Bissau is constructed from the experiences of traveling, observing, and acting upon different mangrove geographies. Davidson (2010) describes a similar process among the Diola of northwest Guinea-Bissau. As in villages in northern Guinea-Bissau, in Kablola most knowledge relevant to mangrove rice agriculture is transmitted during the practice of farming activities. However, some expert knowledge is also shared away from practice, such as local oceanographic models, particularly the prediction of spring and perigean tides. The contexts that allow for knowledge exchange with experts depend on various social relations, including reciprocal benefits, hospitality obligations, and agreements based on healing and land tenure. All of these relationships create scenarios that accommodate the exchange of ideas, experiences, and practices. In the past, initiations may have worked as effective platforms for knowledge exchange, since the knowledge shared would have exceeded the secret information associated with

155

rationale for the initiation. Today, this vertical and age-based form of cultural transmission from elders to youth, which has been described as more conservative (Eyssartier et al. 2008), has escaped the control of elders. Instead, knowledge circulates in various ways in which both intergenerational and intra-generational forms of knowledge transfer coexist. First, the apprenticeship model of knowledge transmission, found within households, allows for conservative knowledge transfer from elders to youngsters. Second, participation in village work days allows for Ball-towards-one^ (Hewlett and Cavalli-Sforza 1986) knowledge transfer, in which several experienced farmers share their knowledge with less experienced farmers, allowing each farmer to access the dominant versions of the collective pool of knowledge. Finally, in age-based work groups the insights of different youths are shared among themselves in a horizontal exchange (knowledge transmission models drawn from Hewlett and Cavalli-Sforza 1986). Knowledge is circulated and eventually re-invented in the context of age-group activities (e.g., youth association or agebased work days), where collectivization, confrontation, and experimentation of knowledge shape the response to change. Despite the abandonment of long-term initiations and the reduced control of elders over inter-generational knowledge transfer, social mechanisms continue to disseminate knowledge from elders and/or experts to youngsters. Davidson highlights the fact that the abstraction of agriculture from its social, political, and cosmological contexts disregards the Bmultidimensionality of how farmers see, understand, and perform their work^ (Davidson 2016: 32). Discourses constructed around climate change as a globalscale phenomenon privilege a Bglobal ontology of detachment over the local ontology of engagement^ (Ingold 2008: 468). Drawing upon the ideas developed by Bateson (2008: 458), the scientific and development institutions external to Kablola warn of the risks that sea-level rise poses to coastal areas, but it remains questionable whether these actors (i.e., organizations and experts who do not have contact with specific coastal areas) have the socioecological information needed to push forward adequate adaptation processes in particular contexts. Even in cases in which science-based and indigenous knowledge provide similar outputs, their specific ontologies may not promote similar responses. Farmers’ knowledge is crucial in order to detect local environmental changes and experiment with technological designs that adhere to the specific socioenvironmental concerns of inhabitants of microenvironments. Although the borders between local ecological knowledge and scientific knowledge are blurred, we argue that it is worth understanding how a particular network is created and how knowledge circulates within it. In the case of Kablola, knowledge is not strictly regulated or centered in disciplinary realms, and multiple means are considered legitimate for its production and transmission. Under these social conditions,


knowledge can constrict or expand in different ways and directions. The institutional vagueness and inexplicit form of local knowledge is distinct from the control exerted in the production and legitimization of scientific knowledge. Furthermore, local knowledges are endowed with particular attributes for adapting to change because they are site-specific and less conservative than scientific knowledge. Berkes and Berkes (2009: 8) define Bholistic thinking^ as the production of local knowledge based on the combination of qualitative variables in order to understand micro-environments, as opposed to the quantitative approach of scientific knowledge. This perspective contributed to the deconstruction of long-standing views of local knowledge as unsystematic and unreliable. Despite the usefulness of thinking in terms of dichotomies for the sake of simplicity, some scholars suggest that it is impossible to define Bsharp boundaries between people’s science and scientists’ science^ (Nygren 1999: 282) since both follow particular processes of production that link to global hierarchies of knowledge and power. Accordingly, in spite of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) of 2007, indigenous people continue to be silenced and excluded from the formal United Nations climate negotiations (Raygorodetsky and Green 2010). Latour (2009: 63) considers uncertainty to be an inevitable ingredient of environmental crises and, instead of considering Bobjective science^ as the standard for legitimizing explanations and solutions, he argues that Bthe more realities there are, the more arguments there are^ and debate should push towards dealing with the Bsciences, with natures and with politics, in the plural^ (Latour 2009: 3). Mangrove rice farming in West Africa is deeply rooted in a local-to-regional framework of knowledge with varying capacities to respond to climate change. In this socio-ecological and technological kaleidoscope, ethnoscience (Richards 1985) and action -research (Luz et al. 2015) approaches could contribute to multidimensional rural development strategies capable of strengthening and expanding the connections within the global-regional knowledge networks. For the context of southern Guinea-Bissau such a goal would necessarily include local youth and local experts as key actors in processes, negotiations, and practices for climate change adaptation. Acknowledgements We are deeply thankful to the people in GuineaBissau who welcomed us, received us in their homes, and were keen to take part in our interviews. We are also thankful to Margaux Dauby, Gonçalo dos Santos, and Miguel Carmo who commented on this manuscript. Thanks are due to Liam Carney for the English revision, comments, and proofreading. We also acknowledge the two anonymous reviewers who commented on the manuscript. This work was supported by

Hum Ecol (2018) 46:147–157 the Foundation for Science and Technology (Portugal) under the grant SFRH/BD/45109/2008 and Future Agricultures Consortium.

Compliance with Ethical Standards Conflict of Interest The authors declare that they have no conflict of interest.

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