Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption

This book explores how tourism co-opts, constructs, and distorts animal identities. In the context of ever-increasing mobility, the continued loss of biodiversity, and climate change, the ethics of eating animals will continue to be a critical topic for consideration. This book explores a range of ethical issues associated with the production and consumption of animal foods for tourism. It highlights the different ways in which animals are valued and utilised within different cultural and economic contexts. The heritage and current practices of eating animals in tourism are illustrated using a variety of perspectives and international case studies. Contributors explore how tourism and eating animals fuel one another, making it even more imperative for individuals and collective institutions to define and perhaps (re) consider their ethical positions. This is a timely contribution that will appeal to scholars, students and advocates interested in animal studies, food, tourism, geography, environmental studies, sociology, law and the political sciences.

Carol Kline is an Associate Professor of Hospitality and Tourism Management at Appalachian State University in the Department of Management. Her research interests focus broadly on tourism planning and development and tourism sustainability, but cover a range of topics such as foodie segmentation, craft beverages, agritourism, wildlife-based tourism, animal ethics in tourism, tourism entrepreneurship, niche tourism markets, and tourism impacts to communities. Routledge Ethics of Tourism Series edited by Professor David Fennell

This series seeks to engage with key debates surrounding ethical issues in tourism from a range of interdisciplinary perspectives across the social sciences and humanities. Contributions explore ethical debates across socio-cultural, ecological, and economic lines on topics such as: climate, resource consumption, ecotourism and nature-based tourism, sustainability, responsible tourism, the use of animals, politics, international relations, violence, tourism labour, sex tourism, exploitation, displacement, marginalisation, authenticity, slum tourism, indigenous people, communities, rights, justice, and equity. This series has a global geographic coverage and offers new theoretical insights in the form of authored and edited collections to reflect the wealth of research being undertaken in this sub-field.

1 Animals, Food and Tourism Edited by Carol Kline

2 Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption Contested Values, Morality and Ethics Edited by Carol Kline

3 Wild Animals and Leisure Rights and Wellbeing Edited by Neil Carr and Janette Young

4 Domestic Animals, Humans, and Leisure Rights, welfare, and wellbeing Edited by Janette Young and Neil Carr

Forthcoming 1 New Moral Natures in Tourism Edited by Kellee Caton, Lisa Cooke and Bryan Grimwood Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption Contested Values, Morality and Ethics

Edited by Carol Kline First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Carol Kline; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Carol Kline to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-138-29161-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-26518-6 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC Contents

List of figures vii List of tables viii Notes on contributors ix Acknowledgements xiv Reviewer acknowledgements xv

1 Introduction: animal ethics, dietary regimes, and the consumption of animals in tourism 1 ERIK COHEN

2 Feasting on friends: whales, puffins, and tourism in Iceland 10 EDWARD H. HUIJBENS AND NÍELS EINARSSON

3 Consuming Shangri-la: orientalism, tourism, and eating Tibetan savory pigs 28 TAO ZHOU AND BRYAN GRIMWOOD

4 Who pays for our cheap meat? the impact of modern meat production on slaughterhouse workers: considerations for tourists 42 BECKY JENKINS

5 Examining the correlation between tourism and the international trade of peccary: ethical implications 58 MARINA ROSALES BENITES DE FRANCO AND JESÚS ABEL MEJÍA MARCACCUZCO

6 Eating insects and tourism: ethical challenges in a changing world 73 ROBERT TODD PERDUE vi Contents 7 Making a meal of it: a political ecology examination of whale meat and tourism 87 BENEDICT E. SINGLETON

8 Barbecue tourism: the racial politics of belonging within the cult of the pig 102 DEREK H. ALDERMAN AND JANNA CASPERSEN

9 Fat duck as foie gras? Axiological implications of tourist experiences 119 ELISE MOGNARD

10 The ethical implication of tourism on guinea pig production: the case of Cuenca, Ecuador 135 JOSÉ PRADA-TRIGO

11 Agritourism providers’ reflections on post-carbon treatment of the wild white-tail deer 149 CHRISTINA T. CAVALIERE AND RACHAEL VISCIDY

12 The metaphysical background of animal ethics and tourism in Japan 165 YOKO KITO

13 Consuming the king of the swamp: materiality and morality in South Louisiana alligator tourism 179 ADAM KEUL

14 Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival: a shift in focus 193 HANNAH BROWN

15 Abstracting animals through tourism 208 CAROL KLINE

Index 218 Figures

2.1 The puffin as a delicacy to be tried while also marketed to be viewed (alive) on the same page 15 2.2 Visitors going whale watching in Iceland from Húsavík, Reykjavík and other places 16 2.3 Puffin and sea-bird watching tour heading to Ingólfshöfði, SE Iceland 17 2.4 Collage of puffins from Icelandic souvenir shops 18 5.1 Peccaries 59 5.2 Indigenous communities and regions providing peccary bushmeat 62 7.1 An advertising sign on the main tourist street in Reykjavik, Iceland 92 8.1 Pork barbecue sauce regions of South Carolina 108 10.1 Location of Cuenca 139 11.1 Tourism and hospitality connections to the white-tail 150 11.2 Stakeholder motivations and ethical considerations summary 161 Tables

2.1 Key indicators of tourism growth in Iceland, 2009 and 2014 12 2.2 Harvesting of whales and puffins, 2009–2014 14 5.1 International trade of collared peccary and white-lipped peccary, 1986–2011 63 5.2 Main regions of origin for collared peccary and white-lipped peccary bushmeat 66 5.3 United Nations World Tourism Organization Global Code of Ethics of Tourism 67 5.4A Surveys carried out on September 23–28, 2016 at 28 restaurants in Lima 70 9.1 Characteristics of ‘tourist-eaters’ interviewees 124 9.2 Relationships between changes in attitudes toward ‘naturality’ of force-feeding and socio-demographic and tourist experiences variables 127 9.3 Relationships between changes in attitudes toward ‘culturality’ of force-feeding and socio-demographic and tourist experiences variables 129 10.1 Technical sheet of the research 141 10.2 Average rating of motivations for consumption of guinea pig by local and visitors, applying ANOVA (significance) and the Brown–Forsythe test 143 10.3 Knowledge of the origin, consideration, and satisfaction with the guinea pig by Cuencanos and visitors, applying ANOVA (significance) and the Brown–Forsythe test 144 Notes on contributors

Jesús Abel Mejìa Marcacuzco is an agricultural engineer with a Master’s Degree in Water Resources Engineering from the Universidad Nacional Agraria la Molina-UNALM, Peru. Master in Hydrology obtained at the Free University of Brussels, Belgium. Doctor of Hydraulic Engineering obtained at the Univer- sity of Sao Paulo, Brazil. Expert in Water Resources and Environment related with ecosystems services. Derek Alderman is Professor of Geography at the University of Tennessee, where he teaches and conducts research on the cultural and historical geographies of the American South. His specific areas of interest include African American history and memory, the politics of southern heritage and identity, and the tourism landscape as an arena for struggles over social justice and racial belonging. Dr. Alderman is a co-founder of the RESET (Race, Ethnicity, and Social Equity) Initiative and the (co)author of over 110 peer-articles, chapters, and other essays published in journals such as Current Issues in Tourism, Journal of Heritage Tourism, Journal of Travel Research, Journal of Travel & Tourism Marketing, Tourism Geographies, Tourism Recreation Research, and Tourist Studies. Hannah Brown is a solicitor specializing in animal advocacy and litigation. She is the Legal and Project Manager for the Association of Lawyers for Animal Welfare (a UK-based organization of lawyers working for the benefit of the animal protection community) and leads a number of projects seeking to better animal protection law through legislative and judicial engagement. Hannah also lectures internationally on the legal status of animals and animal protection law. Janna Caspersen is a doctoral candidate in the Department of Geography at the University of Tennessee, after having received an MA in Geography from East Carolina University and a BA in Geography from the University of Wisconsin– Eau Claire. Her interests include sustainable tourism, memory studies, civil rights, social justice, qualitative geographic information systems, and social media’s role within the geographies of memory. Christina T. Cavaliere is an environmental social scientist and international sustainable development specialist focused on linking tourism and bio-cultural x Notes on contributors conservation. She currently serves as an Assistant Professor within the programs of Hospitality and Tourism Management and Sustainability at Stockton University. Her research interests include tourism and climate change, local economies, sustainable agriculture and ecogastronomy, permaculture, agritourism, critical thinking for sustainability, and community re-development. Christina earned a PhD from the University of Otago in New Zealand. She has designed and implemented numerous international field trainings, conservation, and research projects and has published in several A-ranked journals. Erik Cohen is the George S. Wise Professor of Sociology (emeritus) at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He has conducted research in Israel, Peru, the Pacific islands, and, since 1977, Thailand. He has published more than 200 publications on a wide range of topics. His recent work focused on the sociological theory of tourism, space tourism, ethnic tourism in Southeast Asia, and animals in tourism. Cohen is a founding member of the International Academy for the Study of Tourism and the recipient of the UN World Tourism Organiza- tion’s Ulysses Prize for 2012. Níels Einarsson is an anthropologist and Director of the Stefansson Arctic Insti- tute in Akureyri, Iceland. His main professional interests include the social, cultural, and environmental dimensions of marine resource governance; climate change, whale watching, and whaling in Iceland, and North Atlantic Arctic sustainability and social change issues. He has led and participated in numerous international research and scientific assessment projects with a focus on the circumpolar region, including co-editing the first Arctic Human Devel- opment Report, and as co–principal investigator on the current ARCPATH (www.ncoe-arcpath.org) and GREENICE (https://greenice.b.uib.no/) projects, with the primary goal of investigating environmental and social change in Arc- tic coastal communities. Bryan Grimwood is Associate Professor in the Department of Recreation and Leisure Studies at the University of Waterloo. His research analyzes human– nature relationships and advocates social justice and sustainability in contexts of tourism, leisure, and livelihoods. Trained as a human geographer and engaged scholar, Bryan specializes in tourism and Indigenous Peoples, tourism ethics and responsibility, northern landscapes, and outdoor experiential education. His research is informed theoretically by relational perspectives of nature and morality and draws on diverse qualitative methodologies and principles of community-based and participatory research. Since joining UWaterloo as a faculty member in 2011, Bryan has grounded his research in settings ranging from Arctic communities and protected areas to urban outdoor programs and green spaces. Edward H. Huijbens is a geographer, scholar of tourism, and professor at the school of business and science, University of Akureyri. Edward works on tourism theory, innovation, landscape perceptions, marketing strategies, health and wellbeing, and polar tourism. Edward is the author of articles in several Notes on contributors xi scholarly journals in both Iceland and internationally and has co-edited Tech- nology in Society/Society in Technology (2005, University of Iceland Press), Sensi/able Spaces: Space, Art and the Environment (2007, Cambridge Schol- ars Press), The Illuminating Traveller (2008, University of Jyväskylä), Tour- ism and the Anthropocene (2016, Routledge) and Icelandic Tourism (Forlagið, 2013). Rebecca Jenkins holds an LL.B Degree from Trinity College Dublin School of Law and an LL.M Degree from Lewis & Clark Law School. Rebecca is the firstAquatic Animal Law Initiative Fellow at the Center for Animal Law Stud- ies at Lewis & Clark Law School. Rebecca has been published in Lewis & Clark’s Animal Law Journal and has presented at the Oxford Center for Ani- mal Ethics’ Summer School. Rebecca’s research interests include food law and policy, critical race and gender studies, intersectional approaches to animal law, and aquatic animal law. Adam Keul serves as the director of the program in Tourism Management and Policy at Plymouth State University in Plymouth, New Hampshire. He is trained as a human geographer and his research focuses on the production of tourism spaces at the confluence of land and water. He has written about tourism and geography covering a variety of topics, including animals and tourism, tourism in wetlands, the politics of coastal access, and resource development in the globalized Arctic. Throughout his research, Keul applies critical theories addressing political economies and ecologies. Yoko Kito is Associate Professor of Ethics and Theology at the National Institute of Technology Nagano College (Japan). Her research is mainly in the area of the thought of Paul Tillich, the thought of the Kyoto school, political philosophy, animal ethics, and Christian ethics. Her publications include Animal Ethics and Feminism in Japan, Time and Space in the Thought of Paul Tillich: The Relation of Ontology and History, Keiji Nishitani and Paul Tillich: About History as Kū and History as Kairos, Friedlaender und Tillich: Zur Interpre- tation von Kants Religionsphilosophie, and The Concept of Transcendence in Charles Taylor: Religion and the Political. Carol Kline is an Associate Professor of Hospitality and Tourism Management at Appalachian State University in the Department of Management. Her research interests focus broadly on tourism planning and development and tourism sustainability but cover a range of topics such as foodie segmentation, craft beverages, agritourism, wildlife-based tourism, animal ethics in tourism, tourism entrepreneurship, niche tourism markets, and tourism impacts to communities. Elise Mognard is a Senior Lecturer in Tourism at Taylor’s University (Malaysia). After receiving her PhD in sociology from Université de Toulouse, CERTOP- CNRS (Toulouse, France) – of which she still is an associate member – she joined Taylor’s University (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia) and is involved in the International Associated Laboratory (LIA) “Food Studies: Food, Cultures and xii Notes on contributors Health.” Her research focuses broadly on the socio-anthropology of food. More specifically, she is interested in the regulation of the relations between humans and animals in food, food controversies and ethics, and cosmopolitan food socialization. Rob Todd Perdue is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Sociology at Appalachian State University and a faculty affiliate with the Center for Appala- chian Studies at the same institution. He received his PhD from the University of Florida. He teaches courses on Environmental Sociology, Social Inequality, Sociological Theory, and Peace Studies. His research centers on environmental inequality, with the goal of highlighting how topics that have traditionally fallen outside the purview of environmental social scientists are in need of sustained engagement. As such, he has published research that connects topics as diverse as breastfeeding, artificial intelligence, and strip coal mining to environmental and social inequality. His current work attempts to link environmental and criminal justice by examining the ecological impacts of mass incarceration in the United States. José Prada-Trigo works as Associate Professor in the Faculty of Architecture, Urbanism, and Geography at the University of Concepción, Chile. He holds a PhD in Geography and Tourism and has participated in different national and international research projects. He has won some research grants and prizes and has published several books and papers about city, territory, and tourism. At present, he is conducting two projects about tourist motivations and imma- terial cultural heritage, tourists, and territory. Marina Rosales Benites de Franco is a Professor at Federico Villarreal National University, Lima. She is a member of the International Union for Conserva- tion of Nature (IUCN) Commission on Environmental, Economic, and Social Policy Theme on Environment, Macroeconomics, Trade, and Investment, the IUCN World Commission on Protected Areas and the IUCN Commission on Ecosystem Management. She is a Doctor on Environment and Sustainable Development, and an expert on conservation and sustainable use of biodiversity and ecosystems services. Benedict E. Singleton is a postdoctoral researcher at the Swedish Biodiversity Centre at the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences. He has recently begun a project examining how the embodied experiences of nature feed into the social construction of biodiversity, utilizing the case of marine mammal science. In December 2016, he defended his PhD thesis in environmental sociology entitled “From the Sea to the Land Beyond: Exploring Plural Perspectives on Whaling.” He first became interested in the global whaling debate as a social anthropology undergraduate at Queen’s University Belfast. An experienced researcher, he has carried out fieldwork in settings as diverse as Zambia, Jamaica, the UK, Belgium, and Malta. Falling within the broad field of political ecology, he has diverse research interests on the theory of Notes on contributors xiii socio-cultural viability; science, technology, and society studies; and international development. Rachael Viscidy is an undergraduate student at Stockton University in the Hos- pitality and Tourism Management Studies program. Her interests include culinary arts, community development, local foods, and international relations. She has experience in the food and beverage industry and in non-governmental organization event management. Rachael plans to continue to study sustainable tourism and would like to pursue a career in international development. Tao Zhou is a PhD student studying tourism in the Department of Recreation and Leisure Studies at the University of Waterloo, Canada. His research applies the theory of post-colonialism to tourism study, specifically in the region of Tibet. In particular, his research studies how Tibetans are marginalized and silenced in tourism development. Another research interest is to examine the representation of Indigenous culture within the policy and planning landscape of Indigenous tourism in Canada. Acknowledgements

I first wish to acknowledge David Fennell’s support with the two books Animals, Food and Tourism and Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption: Contested Values, Morality and Ethics. Without his endorsement of the concept and assistance with the early framing, I would have never known the joy of working with such an outstanding cadre of authors or bringing to bear a project of this mag- nitude. Between these two volumes and 26 chapters, I have gotten to work with authors supremely skilled in critical scholarship. I am grateful to them for entrust- ing their work to me as well as being patience as the project moved through its various stages. Thank you to Faye Leerink at Routledge for her keen guidance at the outset of the project. My colleagues at Appalachian State University have been nothing but supportive of my research stream on animals and tourism, and in particular I must name Dr. Jacqui Bergman and Dr. Dana Clark. I am also fortunate to have lifelong friend-mentors, both retired and from other institutions, who continue to generously provide professional guidance and inspiration, as well as new friend- colleagues I met through attending the Oxford Centre for Animal Ethics’ 2016 summer school on the topic of Eating Animals. My mom instilled an ethic of care in our family regarding animals and my dad demonstrated how much fun a creative and intellectual project can be. My hus- band, Brian, shares my interest in animals and is tremendously encouraging of my work. Most importantly, however, I thank Hamilton, Ursa, Private, and Makana for all their love. Reviewer acknowledgements

Animals, Food and Tourism and Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption: Contested Values, Morality and Ethics could not have been completed without the expertise of our reviewers. Thank you to the following individuals for offering their time and guidance, and lending a careful eye to the project.

Suzanne Ainley, Senior Consultant Rural Research, The Ainley Group Adam PH Amir, Earth, Ocean & Atmospheric Science Department, Florida State University Sean Beer, Department of Tourism and Hospitality, Bournemouth University Tracy Berno, Department of Culinary Arts, Auckland University of Technology Azade Ozlem Calik, Tourism and Travel Services, Ankara University Neil Carr, Department of Tourism, University of Otago Kellee Caton, Department of Tourism Management, Thompson Rivers University Christina T. Cavaliere, School of Business, Stockton University Gülsel Çiftc, Tourism and Hospitality Management, Namık Kemal University Lauren N. Duffy, Department of Parks, Recreation, and Tourism Management, Clemson University Tricia Dutcher, Conservation Education Division, Nevada Department of Wildlife José-Carlos García-Rosell, Multidimensional Tourism Institute (MTI) and Fac- ulty of Social Sciences, University of Lapland Brian Garrod, Aberystwyth Business School, Aberystwyth University Bryan S. R. Grimwood, Department of Recreation and Leisure Studies, Univer- sity of Waterloo. Hannah C. Gunderman, Department of Geography, University of Tennessee, Knoxville xvi Reviewer acknowledgements Guðrún Helgadóttir, School of Business, University College of Southeast Norway and Department of Rural Tourism, Hólar University College Patrick J. Holladay, School of Hospitality, Sport and Tourism Management, Troy University Lee Jolliffe, Faculty of Business, University of New Brunswick Leah Joyner, Department of Health, Kinesiology, and Recreation, University of Utah Tori A. Kleinbort, Department of Parks, Recreation and Tourism Management, Clemson University Tamara K. Kowalczyk, Department of Accounting, Appalachian State University Matthew Liesch, Department of Geography and Environmental Studies, Central Michigan University Ziene Mottiar, School of Hospitality Management and Tourism, Dublin Institute of Technology Todd C. Patterson, History and Geography Department, East Stroudsburg Uni- versity and Humanities & Social Sciences, Northampton Community College Lisa J. Powell, Institute for Resources, Environment, & Sustainability, University of British Columbia and Department of Geography, University of the Fraser Valle Andrea Presotto, Department of Geography and Geosciences, Salisbury University Paul C. Quigley, Environmental GIS and Agricultural Sustainability, Independent Scholar Dirk Reiser, Faculty of Society and Economics and Sustainable Tourism Manage- ment, Rhine-Waal University of Applied Sciences Jillian M. Rickly, Nottingham University Business School, University of Nottingham R. Cody Rusher, Industrial-Organizational Psychology and Human Resource Management, Appalachian State University Tarja Salmela, Multidimensional Tourism Institute (MTI) and Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Lapland Christopher Serenari, Wildlife Management Division, North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission Susan L. Slocum, Tourism and Events Management, George Mason University Kristin L. Stewart, Independent Scholar Caroline Winter, Faculty of Higher Education, William Angliss Institute 1 Introduction Animal ethics, dietary regimes, and the consumption of animals in tourism

Erik Cohen

This collection opens new territory in the study of animal ethics in tourism. While food became in recent years a much discussed topic in tourism studies (Cohen & Avieli, 2004; Goolaup, Solér & Nunkoo, 2017; Kim, Eves, & Scarles, 2009; Sims, 2009), and tourism ethics also gained growing attention (Caton, 2012; Fennell, 2006; Lovelock & Lovelock, 2013; Mostafanezhad & Hannam, 2014), the ethics of eating animals is as yet a little explored topic (but see Bramble & Fisher 2016; Chignell, Cuneo, & Halteman, 2015), while the ethics of eating animals in tourism remains practically untouched. The initiative to examine the ethical issues inherent in the eating of animals in a touristic context, in a series of concrete case studies, is thus a welcome initiative. This volume covers a wide range of issues, from the ethics of the direct consumption of animals by tourists in the course of trips or during particular events to the ethics of the farming of domestic animals in factory farms, and even the ethics of the employment of human workers engaged in the killing and slaughtering of domestic animals raised in factory farms, which are eaten by tourists as well as other consumers. In these introductory remarks, I will first attempt to place these diverse issues into a wider context of fundamental ethical dilemmas raised by the killing and eating of animals, discussed in the contemporary philosophy of ethics. I will then turn to the various dietary regimes which impose ethical restrictions upon the eating of animals in modern societies. Finally, I will sketch out an agenda of ethical issues involved in eating animals in tourism, some of which are discussed in the case studies in this volume.

Ethical dilemmas The high point of many documentaries on animal life on television is the pursuit, killing, and devouring of prey by predators. This might be distasteful to some viewers, but few would consider the slaughter ‘immoral.’ Neither would depic- tions of the hunt by ‘primitive’ hunter-gatherers be generally perceived as ethically repugnant, as even some ethicists who tend to disapprove of eating meat concede (Yudina & Fennell, 2013). We tend to dismiss such instances of killing animals for food as ethically irrelevant, since they exemplify a survival ‘need’ of preda- tory animals or humans imbricated in a natural eco-system. Ethical judgments 2 Erik Cohen regarding eating other-than-human animals become relevant only when the killing is not a survival need, but a choice between alternative dietary regimes. Humans are animals, evolutionarily contiguous with the animal world but separated from it by some distinct ‘human’ traits, such as reflexivity and morality. The equivocality surrounding our consumption of meat is a poignant example of our duality as human animals, suspended between nature and culture. Hence we face a fundamental dilemma: Should we follow our ‘natural’ inclination to eat other- than-human animals, or, as conscious (and conscientious) humans, abstain from it? As omnivorous animals, eating meat comes to us ‘naturally’ and unreflectively; but as reflective humans, we face disturbing ethical questions. However, for most people, eating, and specifically eating meat, is a non-reflective activity,- anor mal or ‘natural’ routine; hence a conscious effort is needed to become aware of the ethical dilemmas it poses. These dilemmas have been elucidated in a branch of contemporary philosophy known as ‘animal ethics,’ which has flourished in recent decades.

Animal ethics On the most fundamental level we are faced with two related ethical questions, which are not always clearly distinguished in the literature: the ethics of killing animals for food, and the ethics of eating their meat. The distinction is necessary, since in practice many moderns abstain from killing animals, even as they tend to eat their meat, if the animals were killed by someone else. The principal Western animal ethics theories in philosophy differ regarding the permissibility of killing animals in general, and specifically of killing animals for food. (For some Asian approaches to these matters, see Kito’s and Brown’s chapters in this volume.) The theories span a wide range of positions, from a total prohibition of killing (and hence eating) animals to total permissibility. Animal rights theory (Fennell, 2012a) claims that animals have inherent value, i.e. are ends-in-themselves, and opposes all use of animals as instruments or commodities for human ends; consequently, some of its protagonists expressly oppose killing animals for food (p. 161). Utilitarian animal ethics theory (Fennell, 2012b) is also opposed to the killing of animals for food, on the basis of a utility calcu- lus, which takes account not only of human, but also of animal interests. Both theories advocate vegetarianism (Singer, 1980). Animal welfare theory (Fennell, 2013b) is primarily concerned with the quality of life of living animals, particularly those farmed by humans or used by them for work, entertainment, or sport but is not explicitly opposed to killing them for food. Ecofeminism (Yudina & Fennell, 2013), which abstains from general precepts and favors considering ethical issues in context, is not opposed to killing and eating animals in principle, but its ethics of ‘care’ implicitly prefer vegetarianism to the consumption of meat, circumstances permitting. Ecocentrism (Fennell, 2013a) takes a holistic approach, favoring the greater good of biotic communities over individual beings, and is hence prepared to sacrifice individual animal lives for preserving biotic equilib- rium, thus accepting ecologically sound hunting, fishing, and trapping of animals (for food) (Cavaliere & Viscidy in this volume). Finally, there is the neo-Kantian Introduction 3 position that animals have no moral rights and that it is consequently permissible to kill them (for food) (Baranzke, 2016). While not explicitly invoking Kant, Hsiao (2015) has recently proposed an explicit philosophical defense of eating meat on Kantian lines. Arguing that animals lack moral status, possessed by humans, Hsiao claims that causing pain to animals is not morally bad (p. 279) and that the interests of moral beings (i.e., humans) precede those of non-moral ones (i.e., animals). He hence concludes that moral human welfare interest in eating meat takes precedence over the non-moral welfare interest of animals (p. 280), reflecting a position common in China (Brown in this volume). A lively controversy between philosophers representing the various approaches to animal ethics is continuing. However, much of it is highly abstract and cerebral. The extent to which these philosophical controversies actually impact upon modern peoples’ eating habits is not known but is probably not very significant, with the exception of Singer’s utilitarian approach, popularized in his Animal Libera- tion (1973). Notably, the authors of the papers in this volume, devoted to the ethics of eating animals in tourism, rarely refer to these controversies.

Vegetarianism The most fundamental ethical dilemma in dietary choices is whether to consume other animals or abstain from it: to be meat-eaters or vegetarians. This is the issue with which most of the contemporary animal ethics theories are, at least implicitly, concerned, with the principal ones tending toward vegetarianism; however, these theories differ in the specific reasoning supporting that preference. It might seem that in a book devoted to the eating of animals, a discussion of vegetarianism would be out of place. But it always lurks in the background as the alternative, against which meat-eaters have to defend their dietary choices. Vegetarianism is a popular movement, supported not only by abstract reasoning but also by ideologies invoking compassion for animals, health benefits, or social and environmental considerations. An important point to note is that an increasingly powerful motive for vegetarianism in contemporary Western societies is the opposition to factory farming, the industrialized production of animals, such as chicken, pigs, and cattle for food, claimed to be causing unacceptable suffering to the mass-produced animals and even to the employees in the meat processing industry (Jenkins this volume). The focus of the discourse on vegetarianism, to no small extent under the influence of Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation (1973), hence moved from the killing of animals to their suffering during their (often short) lifetimes. That issue is also discussed in several chapters in this collection, although only one of the authors (Brown) relates expressly to vegetarianism. The antagonists and protagonists of meat consumption seek to buttress their respective positions with ideologically tinted versions of human evolution, alleged to prove the naturalness of their respective dietary choices: the vegetarians stick to an early pre-historical period, when our predecessors were still herbivores, their opponents to a later period, starting about 2.5 million years ago, when they began to eat meat; the latter also point out the significant role which meat had played in the evolution of homo sapiens (e.g., Lee & DeVore, 1968; Kaplan, Hill, 4 Erik Cohen Lancaster, & Hurtado, 2000). However, from an ethical perspective, the prehis- tory of the human animal seems to bear no significant weight upon ethical positions regarding the consumption of meat by contemporary humans. It is important to stress that the historical rise of an ethics of vegetarianism is not bound to a scarcity of animal food resources. People who are forced to subsist merely on vegetables, owing to poverty or harsh environmental conditions, are not ‘vegetarians’; only people who choose voluntarily to abstain from eating meat, even though it is accessible and affordable, can be considered ‘vegetarians.’ Consequently, it appears that vegetarianism was historically, as it is con- temporaneously, practiced primarily by the better-off, higher social strata, rather than the lower ones. Perhaps the most salient historical example is Hinduism, in which the religious injunction of ahiṃsā, which prohibits the taking of life, has been followed to varying degrees of strictness in the caste system, with only the highest caste, the Brahmins, practicing strict vegetarianism. In the contemporary West, vegetarianism appears to be spreading particularly among the middle and higher-middle classes, rather than among the lower ones – paradoxically, among the very classes that could most easily afford meat. The practice of vegetarianism can thus be seen as an expression of moral supremacy, an elitist choice of self- denial, endowing the individual with social prestige. There are several vegetarian regimes in contemporary society, distinguished by the strictness of their respective dietary precepts:

• The so-called veggies, or vegans, abstain not only from eating animal meat, but also from all animal products, such as eggs, milk, or even honey. • Strict vegetarians abstain from eating animals but consume animal products. • Semi-vegetarians abstain from eating sentient beings (i.e., animals which feel pain), while eating what they consider non-sentient ones; this often takes the concrete form of abstaining from animal meat (in the narrow sense) while eating fish and seafood, even though it is as yet unclear whether these animals, or even insects (Perdue in this volume), are sentient or not. • Finally, there is a wide penumbra of partial vegetarians, who prefer a vegetarian diet but sometimes eat meat.

An important emergent dietary regime, related to this issue, is that practiced by so-called locavores, namely people whose diet consists mainly of locally grown or produced food, as one expression of ‘neo-localism’ in advanced industrial societies, exemplified in this volume by Alderman and Caspersen’s chapter on barbecue tourism in the U.S. South. Locavores access local products by ‘alternative food networks’ (Sims, 2009) and abstain from food transported across great distances by major distributors. This is not a vegetarian regime, but a form of protest against the treatment of domestic animals in industrialized, large-scale ‘factory farming’ (whose products are widely distributed), while favoring small-scale, more traditional animal farming methods (whose products are locally distributed). From an ethical standpoint, vegetarianism can be seen as a personal decision, an act of conscience, not to take part in the killing or exploitation of animals for Introduction 5 food, irrespective of whether that decision has any effect on that social practice (though some of its proponents maintain that it might help reduce the number of animals slaughtered for food [e.g., Singer, 1980]). It signalizes a personal refusal to bear co-responsibility for the pain and death of animals owing to the human desire for meat. This raises two questions: (1) to what extent do we bear co- responsibility for the acts of those who are directly involved in the exploitation and slaughter of animals for food? and (2) how consistent is this abstention with the vegetarians’ conduct in other spheres of consumption? Few ethicists have expressly addressed the first question; Martin (2015) maintains that buyers of meat produced by factory farming are complicit in animal suffering. However, it appears that the longer the chain of intermediary stages in the processing and transformation of an animal’s meat between the slaughter and the final product, the less people feel personally responsible for the killing of the animal (e.g., for the slaughter of a head of cattle in Argentina, which was transported as meat to Europe, made into sausage in a factory, and purchased in a supermarket). Mognard (in this volume) maintains that tourists tend to dissociate between the living animal and the food, thus as foie gras, made of its carcass. This apparent ‘cascading down’ of co-responsibility for the suffering or killing of animals for meat is a significant ethical issue, in need of further examination. This issue gains further salience when the ethical decisions of vegetarians are examined for consistency of conduct in other spheres of consumption: for example, huge numbers of mice and rats are exterminated in warehouses in countries like Thailand to safeguard stored rice; they are thus killed to preserve rice as food for humans, but it is doubtful whether any vegetarians in the West would abstain from Thai rice for this reason (see also Perdue in this volume). To go even further afield: the building of dams on big rivers like the Mekong for the production of electricity is destructive of riverine life; but no vegetarian probably refuses to use the electricity produced by the dams to prepare his/her meals. It could thus be argued that if we accept that in other spheres our co-responsibility cascades downward from the original killings, then the vegetarian prioritization of the sphere of food to express opposition to the killing of animals is ethically inconsistent. I suggest that it is the repulsion from the concrete act of eating meat, the incorporation of animals into the human body, which makes people prioritize vegetarianism over abstention from other forms of consumption involving animal death, in which there is no corporeal contact between the consumers and the killed animals. Personal responsibility of consumers for the exploitation and killing of animals is a broad issue in the contemporary discussions of animal ethics. It is also an important, though often implicit, issue in the ethics of eating of animals under the specific circumstances of tourism, to which we now turn.

Ethical issues of eating animals in tourism While the general theories and topics in animal ethics discussed above have a bearing on the ethical issues regarding the eating of animals in tourism, those issues remain on the whole unexplored in the literature. I will therefore attempt 6 Erik Cohen below to sketch out an agenda for the study of this topic, by conceptualizing some specific ethical issues regarding the eating of animals against the background of distinctive traits of touristic situations. Since modern tourism is a vast and highly differentiated field, I shall refer here mainly to contemporary Western mass tourists, with a relatively low culture capital, with whom the chapters of this book are also predominantly concerned. That the eating of animals in tourism remains an unexplored topic might be largely due to the perception of tourism as a zone of permissiveness and indul- gence, which should not be judged by the ethical criteria deployed in daily life. Indeed, the issue of ethics in tourism has a paradoxical aspect: the fun and enjoyment, which endows a vacation with its charm, might be antithetical to the moral prescriptions regulating ordinary life. Akrasia, the conscious transgression of ethical precepts (Fennell, 2015), seems to be intrinsic to many modes of touristic enjoyment, and particularly to eating and drinking. Overeating (Ph. Brown, 1996), binge drinking (Tutenges & Hesse, 2008), or slackening of personal dietary regimes during vacations are common occurrences. Mkono (2015, p. 222) states the question blandly: ‘To what extent do people leave their ethics at home and participate in activities out of the norm for them, when they are displaced in time and space?’ Though tourism researchers have recently pointed out that tourism practices increasingly resemble those of ordinary mundane life (Edensor, 2007; Franklin & Crang, 2001), tourists frequently entertain fantasies of exciting novel experiences on their trip. Local food is an ambiguous topic in their expectations: Tourists might be eager to taste local cuisines, as some of the contributions to this book (e.g., Prada; Zhou & Grimwood) point out, but might be challenged or turned off by unfamiliar or scary dishes (Cohen & Avieli, 2004, pp. 759–760; Gyimóthy & Mykletun 2009, and Perdue in this volume), even as they are often unable to find the foods with which they are familiar. Western tourists may also be ignorant, or indifferent, about the manner in which animals are locally farmed, slaughtered, and prepared for food, particularly in the emerging regions of the world; but once exposed to local practices, they might find them unacceptable or abhorrent (Brown in this volume) in light of their conventional precepts regarding the ethical treatment of animals. I shall now offer a potential agenda of some principal issues concerning the ethics of food, and specifically of eating meat, on the basis of these distinctive traits of touristic situations.

1 Dietary dilemmas. Tourists adhering to religious dietary restrictions, such as observant Jews, Muslims, or Hindus (Moira, Mylonopoulos, & Kontoudaki, 2012), or adherents of the various forms of vegetarianism may encounter difficulties in finding foods made of the ingredients and prepared in the manner which correspond to the rules of their respective dietary regimes (Kansanen, 2013). They are thus facing an ethical dilemma: to go hungry or relax their religious or ethical standards and consume dishes which are not prepared strictly according to their religious or ethical precepts. A notable example Introduction 7 of such relaxation is a quote from Peter Singer, a leading animal ethicist and author of Animal Liberation: ‘I am a vegan when it is not too difficult to be a vegan, but I am not rigid about this, if I’m traveling for example’ (Reddit, 2015). The extent to which such relaxation is actually practiced is unknown, and ought to be empirically investigated. 2 Dietary akrasia. More significant in the present context is the issue of akrasia in eating: the willful infringement upon religious or vegetarian regimes, not as a consequence of sheer need but of the enticing opportunities to taste forbidden foods under the relaxed circumstances of a vacation. However, while such conduct might be quite common, we possess no information on the extent to which, for example, observant Jews or Muslims on vacation eat, or at least taste, pork (or consume alcoholic drinks), or strict vegetarians occasionally eat meat dishes. 3 Breaking taboos. Tourists might encounter an ethical problem when offered local traditional foods, made from domestic animals tabooed by their home culture, such as dog meat in South Korea (Oh & Jackson, 2011) or China (Brown in this volume), horsehead in Norway (Gyimóthy & Mykletun, 2009), or guinea pigs in Ecuador (Prada in this volume), or produced in ethically unacceptable ways, like by force-feeding ducks for the production of foie gras (Mognard in this volume). 4 Feasting on attractive animals. A particular ethical dilemma is posed by the hosts’ offer to tourists to eat the meat of wild animals, which the tourists had previously observed in their natural habitat. The paradox inherent in this issue is brought out in the title of Huijbens and Einarsson’s chapter, ‘Feasting on Friends,’ describing the contradictory commodification of whales and puffins, which are first offered to tourists as a natural attraction, only to be feasted on as meat afterward. Singleton (in this volume) refers to the same issue from a political ecology perspective, while Keul (in this volume) discusses it in the context of alligator tourism in South Louisiana. A similar paradox emerges in some African destinations visited by tourists to observe the local wildlife in its natural preserves, even as they are offered ‘bush meat’ for dinner (Mkono, 2015; de Franco in this volume). 5 Eating endangered species. A more serious ethical dilemma emerges in situations where the meat of endangered animal species is offered to tourists as a customary local dish; in such situations the tendency of tourists to taste local specialties conflicts with their realization that they thereby contribute to the extinction of endangered species, as in the case of eating ‘bush meat’ in Africa (Mkono, 2015, p. 222) or tasting whale meat in Iceland (e.g., Hui- jbens & Einarsson; and Singleton in this volume). 6 Environmental impacts. An indirect version of the preceding ethical dilemma emerges where the farming of animals for a local food popular with tourists has problematic environmental consequences, as, for example, the increased farming of Tibetan pigs, in response to tourist demand, which threatens the integrity of mountain grasslands (Zhou & Grimwood in this volume). 8 Erik Cohen This is a broad agenda, which will hopefully be treated in future research. The chapters of this book offer a promising beginning in the examination of some of the diverse ethical issues raised by the farming, slaughtering, and consumption of animals in a broad range of touristic contexts.

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Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson

Introduction This chapter focuses on the island nation of Iceland (population 333,000) and considers the ways in which charismatic marine fauna such as cetaceans (whales, dolphins, and porpoises) and puffins have become iconic and symbolically significant objects of exchange in tourism marketing on the island. Cetaceans and puffins are used to market wildlife tourism and specific regions and to sell souvenirs, and in the process are personified and made amicable. Thriving alongside this commercial anthropomorphism is their commodity status in Iceland as food and sustenance, as these animals have traditionally been, and still are, eaten by the inhabitants. Paradoxically, the eating of whale and puffin meat has become a tourist attraction in itself, in tandem with the very rapid growth of the tourist industry in the country and the concomitant growth in whale and puffin watching in the most recent years. The discussion in this chapter draws on these contradictory practices of commodification set within a flourishing tourism industry. Understanding the dynamics of interaction among tourists and marine mega- fauna is an established research field in tourism (Desmond, 1999; Fennell, 2012; Higham & Lück, 2008; Higham, Bejder, & Williams, 2014; Orams & Lück, 2014). Enhancing the tourist experience, informing product development, creating awareness of conservation issues, and getting humans more attuned to the rhythms of marine life all contribute to understanding this interaction. The theoretical point of departure of this chapter rests on cultural interpretations of animals as food and the ethical dimensions of human/wildlife encounters in tandem with explorations of the link between consuming animals in a variety of ways and current environmental concerns framed under the notion of the Anthropocene, in recognition of the dominance of global environmental change by the human race (anthropos meaning “man” in Greek). The chapter draws inspiration from the contention cited herewith:

[T]hat [wilderness and] ‘wild’ animals have been, and continue to be, rou- tinely imagined and organized within multiple social orderings in different times and places. Their myriad (re)positionings within these networks . . . Feasting on friends 11 [allow us] . . . to resist the moral vortex that [they have] come to represent in conservation discourse and practices. (Whatmore, 2002, p. 14)

As a recreational and cultural activity, tourism developed around watching whales and puffins is repositioning these animals as commodities under a strict tourism management regime. What we aim to show is how tourism is “shifting the moral geographies of wildlife from the utopian confines of the sanctuary or the ark of wilderness” (Whatmore, 2002, p. 31) to that of a marketing symbol and consumables, set within the specificities of destination development. In the Icelandic case, destinations are developing in the struggle of different regions to develop and diversify their economies under the terms of financial/asset consolidation and marine policy disrupting settlement patterns. The ways in which whales and puffins have been changed into friends, or anthropomorphized, in tourism marketing efforts and consumed, literally or figuratively, relate various cultural classifica- tions to divergent notions of morality and ethics. Moreover, whale and puffin watching interlaces with ecosystem dynamics, providing a space for us to unravel this interaction under the terms of the Anthropocene, providing unfolding perceptions on environmental conservation discourse and practices. The latter half of this introduction will be devoted to a brief outline of tourism and regional development in Iceland. The chapter is then structured in two parts in addition to a conclusion. The first part of the chapter explores the consumptive practices of whaling and puffin hunting along with whale- and puffin-watching activities. We will show how whales and puffins have become a tourist attraction but at the same time a delicacy in the Icelandic context. We will also show how their preparation as food and feasts has become a tourism experience and thus provides a reason to travel to Iceland for some people, but a reason to not go there for others. Following this scene setting in Iceland, the chapter will draw on presented theories concerning cultural interpretations of animals as food and the ethical dimensions of species encounters in the Anthropocene. Lastly, a summary conclusion will be made querying the notion of hospitality in the theoretical context set out in the latter half of the chapter.

On tourism development in Iceland Tourism in Iceland has firmly established itself as the third pillar of the Icelan- dic economy along with fisheries and the export of processed alumina. Table 2.1 sums the development of key indicators of tourism development for the years 2009 and 2014. The growth of the tourism industry escalated greatly in the wake of the Eyjaf- jallajökull eruption of May 2010. This eruption had two kinds of implication for tourism. On the one hand, it produced the disruptive ash cloud that threatened to end modern air mobility as we know it; on the other hand, this same threat prompted the tourism authorities in Iceland to counter the ash with a multiplicity 12 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson Table 2.1 Key indicators of tourism growth in Iceland, 2009 and 2014

Source Indicator 2009 2014 Growth

Iceland Tourist Board Departing foreign nationals 464,536 969,181 109% counted at KEF international Statistics Iceland Foreigners bed nights 2,134,245 4,404,937 106% in all accommodation establishments Keflavík International Total number of passengers at 1,832,944 3,867,418 111% Airport KEF international airport Icelandair Total number of passengers 1,319,207 2,606,013 97.5% carried by the airline of media images. These, added to the existing extensive network of flight connections operated by the dominant corporation of the Icelandic tourism industry, Icelandair, allowed all those inspired by this eruption to come, up close and personal, to Iceland’s wilderness allure, which remains the key reason why people travel to the island (Icelandic Tourist Board, 2014). Year on year, growth in visitor numbers since the eruption has been around 30 percent, and 25 airlines in the summer of 2016 flew to the island’s main international airport, Keflavík, some 40 kilometers from the capital, Reykjavík, up from 7 in 2009. Tourism is not, however, equally distributed around Iceland. Compounding the disruptive settlement patterns brought about by financial consolidation and Iceland’s marine policy, Keflavík remains the only functional entry point to the island, and moreover sits unhinged from other transport routes on the southwestern corner of the island. As a result, this southwestern corner, known as the Capi- tal Region, holds 70–80 percent of all bed nights each month from October to April and it is only in the summer that the rest of the country exceeds 50 percent of all bed nights as its share (Statistics Iceland, 2016). It is not only through this disarticulated system of transport focused on the southwestern corner that the rest of the country suffers. Iceland’s demographic transition and economic restruc- turing, mainly through the introduction of a neoliberal governance system into fisheries and the commodification of the harvest through the transferability andde facto privatization of fishing rights, has produced regional and local community disparities and social inequities (Benediktsson & Karlsdóttir, 2011; Einarsson, 2011, 2012, 2015). Within these parameters of change and the evident growth of tourism, all of the regions outside the southwestern corner have identified tourism as the key alternative source of revenue and employment, commodifying Ice- land’s wilderness allure in a variety of ways (Office of the Prime Minister, 2011). The economic activity is welcome and alternative economic opportunities such as those offered in relation to marine tourism have contributed to job and income diversification for people of an entrepreneurial nature in many rural villages which have suffered from the effects of fishing rights being sold away from them. In tours developed by retired fishermen, puffins and whales have been instrumental, described by Margaryan and Zherdev (2011, p. 30) as two of Iceland’s ‘Big Feasting on friends 13 Four,’ along with horses and seals (also both eaten on the island), analogous to the African ‘Big Five’ (Dyer, Kuhn, & Huhn, 1996).

Whales and puffins Icelanders were, until the twentieth century, members of one of the poorest nations in Europe and heavily reliant on adapting to a harsh northern environment and climate. This environment was the source of sustenance yet also the main threat to survival through the centuries, a kind of uncompromising ally. Adapt- ing to it developed around harvesting land and marine resources, mainly through fishing and sheep and cattle farming, but on smaller islands around Iceland and in some coastal communities seabirds were eaten in addition to their eggs. However, industrial whaling was not practiced by Icelanders until the twentieth century. This section will map the practice of harvesting whales and puffins for consumption and the development of tourism around viewing them. Seen as a marine tourism product in peripheral regions, whale and puffin watching is a specific form of commodification of these animals, resting on specific processes of anthropomor- phization: the humanizing of the non-human.

Whale and puffin harvesting The hunting/harvesting of cetaceans has long and deep roots in Icelandic history. Whales, dolphins, and porpoises have, from the age of settlement in Iceland (ca. ad 870), been part of the mixed economy and subsistence activities of the inhabitants and foreign hunters. Whales were sometimes hunted but mostly scavenged as food by locals, contributing to food security and human welfare (see Geirsson, 2015). A common hunting method was to harpoon the whale, usually without a rope tied to the harpoon. Then the animal was located and retrieved when dead. This method avoided a highly risky pursuit, whereby small boats would be dragged along and down by the wounded animal. Spear-drift whaling was practiced from as early as the twelfth century and continued in a relic form until the late nineteenth century. From the beginning of the seventeenth century Basque whalers operated large-scale whaling in Icelandic waters, particularly off the Westfjords region, harvesting the whales for oil and meat (Geirsson, 2015). Hunting notwithstanding, whales were mostly used for food if beached. A beached whale could mean the difference between survival and starvation and still today the Icelan- dic term for a beached whale, hvalreki, is used in everyday language, meaning a windfall or stroke of good luck. Beached whales were viewed as important resources for farms, and the Sagas of Icelanders reflecting the early settlement period contain numerous accounts of whales being harvested, albeit always on, or close to, the shore. Elaborate customary rules and legal stipulations governed the ownership rights and distribution of the whale products (see Lindquist, 1994). In the early twentieth century, Norwegian industrial whaling began around Ice- land, almost exterminating the whale stocks. The scale of the Norwegian operation led the Icelandic parliament to declare the first-ever whaling moratorium in 14 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson 1913, enacted to start 1 October 1915. The ban was imposed in order to preserve whale stocks for Icelandic interests due to a perceived Norwegian threat. The law was repealed in 1928, and in 1935 the government of Iceland issued a permit for one whaling station at Tálknafjörður (in the Westfjords), at the same time declaring that whales in Icelandic territorial waters could only be hunted by Icelanders. After the Second World War, Icelandic large-scale whaling took over from that formerly practiced by the Norwegians. In 1948, the Hvalur H/F company purchased an American naval base at Hvalfjörður (Whale Fjord) and converted it into a whaling station. Norwegian crews were involved in training Icelandic whalers into the early 1950s. In 1982, the International Whaling Commission (IWC) voted in a moratorium on commercial whaling to go into force in 1986. Iceland com- plied until 2003, when research whaling was resumed due to local political pressure and in preparation for full-blown commercial whaling by Hvalur in 2006, and is practiced to date. The catch from 2009 is shown in Table 2.2, but more information can be found from Whale and Dolphin Conservation (WDC, 2016). The harvesting of puffins dates back to the time of first settlement. For centuries, the hunting relied on two methods. The most common of these was the use of elongated hooks to gaff the puffins in their burrows, but they were sometimes snared with small traps. By the mid-nineteenth century, the use of nets to catch the birds became common, resulting in over-harvesting and the eventual ban on puffin hunting in 1869. Over 4.6 million birds were caught in the years after net use became common, but the catch quickly dwindled until the ban. This ban was lifted, however, after the introduction of a new harvesting technique in 1876 from the Faroe Islands. This technique entailed catching the puffins as they flew in or out of their burrows in a pocket net attached to a 3.5-meter-long pole. By 1889 this became the only lawful means to catch the puffin and to date is the method still practiced (Árnason, 2012). The puffin catch has fluctuated throughout the twentieth century in accordance with natural cycles, but since the turn of the last century Iceland’s puffin stock has been in steep decline due to food shortages in the sea, in particular along the southern coast of Iceland. The puffin stock around Iceland has decreased by 50 percent since 2002. In the 1990s, almost a quarter of a million puffins were caught every year, but as Table 2.2 clearly shows, this catch has severely diminished. Puffins are mainly harvested in the Westman Islands archipelago, where the bird has been a staple in the local population’s diet for centuries, and in Grímsey Island to the north of Iceland, on the Arctic Circle. The near collapse of the puffin stock in the

Table 2.2 Harvesting of whales and puffins, 2009–2014

2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014

Minke whales 81 60 58 52 35 24 Finback whales 125 148 0 0 134 137 Puffins 43,570 33,119 43,398 38,325 39,387 32,473

Source: Directorate of Fisheries, 2015, p. 18 and Statistics Iceland, 2016a Feasting on friends 15 former explains the decline in harvesting figures. In light of this, biologists warn strongly against any harvesting, yet the practice continues (Hansen, 2015). The whales provide a source of meat and oil, and the meat is prepared like beef, fried in a pan or barbequed. With the resumption of commercial whaling around the same time as tourism started escalating in Iceland, whale meat has been put on menus around the country, promoted as a traditional culinary delight, and even for a period sold at the Keflavík International duty-free store. There and in some grocery shops and restaurants in Reykjavík and around the country (most notably Húsavík), where whale watching is pursued, the sale of whale meat has been ousted through lobbying efforts of local tourism entrepreneurs and the Interna- tional Fund for Animal Welfare (see IFAW, 2016). Puffins are harder to obtain and people require personal connections to acquire them. They are traditionally prepared fresh or smoked. If smoked, they are usually boiled first, or they can be eaten raw, when the breasts are usually sliced like carpaccio and used with salad (Figure 2.1). The fresh puffin can be prepared in a variety of ways. On the home- page of the hunting association of Bjarnarey, one of the islands in the Westman Islands archipelago, 34 recipes are listed for the preparation of puffin, but these are in Icelandic and aimed at locals. More recently, tourism marketing and promotion have turned to the puffin as something to be feasted upon. The website Guide to Iceland, representing over 500 travel companies and individuals in Iceland and

Figure 2.1 The puffin asa delicacy to be tried while also marketed to be viewed (alive) on the same page (right) Source: Gunnarsdóttir (2016) Guide to Iceland (Reykjavík’s official tourist information centre) 16 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson dedicated to providing travelers with “the best possible time, services and prices available” lists puffin as one of 20 traditional Icelandic foods any guest must try, while at the same time promoting tours to see them in their Westman Islands habitat (Figure 2.1).

Watching whales and puffins Whale watching began in Iceland in 1991 and although it includes porpoises and dolphins, it is marketed as whale watching. Often complemented with puffin watching, it has since grown enormously in popularity among visitors to the country. This growth has mirrored, yet lagged behind, the increasing number of tourists to Iceland (see Table 2.1 and Figure 2.2). Although puffins have complemented whale-watching tours and were an integral part of some of these in the beginning, the whales have proven to be quite the attraction in themselves. Figure 2.2 shows the growth in the number of participants in whale-watching tours from Húsavík, Reykjavík, and other places. Anderson, Gothall, and Wende (2014, p. 108) claim that after 2002 there was a noticeable change “when whale watching no longer represents a growing tourism activity relative to other activities.” Indeed, year-on-year growth of whale watching has not kept pace with the growth of inbound tourism numbers in 2009–2014. Some puffin specialty tours do, however, exist and have been the mainstay of marketing and tourism operators in the Westman Islands and at, for example, Ingólfshöfði headland. There, in a hay-cart pulled by a tractor over the tidal water plains connecting the headland to land, hundreds of thousands of visitors have been ferried since 1991 (Figure 2.3). They go to the headland primarily to see

Figure 2.2 Visitors going whale watching in Iceland from Húsavík, Reykjavík, and other places Source: Rögnvaldsdóttir, 2016, p. 57, based on data from the Icelandic Whale Watching Associations, 2014, 2015 Feasting on friends 17

Figure 2.3 Puffin and sea-bird watching tour heading to Ingólfshöfði, SE Iceland Source: Nónhamar puffins and the great skua, but with the puffin in decline along the south shore of Iceland, places on the northern shore are picking up the marketing and promotion of puffins and sites of puffin viewing and are gaining in popularity there. In Húsavík, the company North Sailing has been in business since 1995 and has always offered tours that combine whale and puffin watching (see for example North Sailing, 2016). A recently established firm, Arctic Trip Ltd., offers what it calls Arctic Snorkeling at Grímsey Island, where the puffin plays a role. They state: “Our snorkeling camp is close to the puffin cliff so we will be able to see when they dive down and swim/fly in the ocean” (Arctic Trip, 2016). Compounding the fact that the puffin stock is in decline, the puffin is elusive. It only breeds on land for a short period in the summer from mid-June until mid- August. Thereafter the birds spend their time at sea, mostly south of Greenland. This is a source of bitter disappointment to many who have come to see the puffin and arrive too early or too late. Most tourists coming to Iceland thus never see the actual bird but encounter it in a variety of guises in other places, mainly in marketing material, but also souvenir shops and sometimes restaurants, in addition to posters that decorate, for example, hotel lobbies. Thus a thriving souvenir industry has sprung up in Iceland around the puffin. Figure 2.4 gives an indication of how the puffin has been processed as souvenirs, adorning aprons, cushion covers, gloves, hats, fridge magnets, paintings, postcards, and as figures or stuffed animals. 18 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson

Figure 2.4 Collage of puffins from Icelandic souvenir shops Source: E. Huijbens

Not as prominent in the souvenir shops, but often highlighted in marketing, are the whales. They are, however, not as elusive as the puffin. Whale-watching tours are now operated year round from Reykjavík, but mainly from April till October in other parts of the country. Whale sighting is the rule rather than the exception on these tours, especially in summer, when the Icelandic Whale Watching Asso- ciation (2016) claims over 90 percent sighting success in tours. The main species sighted are the minke whale, dolphins, and humpback whales, but 23 species of whales are found in Icelandic waters.

Anthropomorphic tourism In order to promote whale and puffin watching and tourism more generally in Iceland, these animals have become iconic of the country’s wilderness allure. However, in order to relate to the visitor, they have been rendered human-like in promotion material. The humanizing or anthropomorphing of both whales and puffins for marketing purposes represents, however, a shift in our moral registers. What becomes deemed as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ when relating to these animals is becoming more complex than simply perceiving them as food or sustenance. Indeed, “[g]rub first: then ethics” is the opening quote of Fennell’s (2015, p. 133) chapter on the moral imperative when dealing with ecotourism development; he is in turn quoting the German novelist Berthold Brecht. Therein the dilemma of ecotourism development worldwide is captured, whereby people are starting to perceive more than sustenance in their surroundings and are seeking self-actualization and spirituality through their travel experiences and wildlife encounters. Feasting on friends 19 Indeed, in the span of a few decades, whales have been transformed from being perceived as meat and blubber into non-resources, endowed with human-like properties, thoughts, and motives (Einarsson, 1993, 1996, 2011). Lawrence and Phillips (2004) emphasize the role of popular culture in influencing the ways in which we view whales, imbuing them with personality traits through movies such as Free Willy. Ong (2016) explains how Chinese theme parks lift marine mammals completely from their wildlife habitat, in the process of ‘cuteifying’ them for education and entertainment purposes (edutainment). Commodifying cetaceans through systematic sentimental anthropomorphism has been skillfully used as an engaging metaphorical and cognitive device by the Save the Whale movement, making it more and more difficult to justify the hunting of whales as food. Indeed, whale watching has developed to become “viewed as an extension of the great victories of the environmental movement of the later twentieth century” (Higham et al., 2014, p. 3). Emblematic of our growing environmental awareness, cetaceans now hold great visual and experiential value as unique animals and indeed moral persons worth traveling long distances and spending much money to watch and witness. As such, the humanizing of whales has laid the ground for a very profitable marine tourism industry all around the world (Cunningham, Hui- jbens, & Wearing, 2012; Higham et al., 2014). At the same time, puffins have not enjoyed such international acclaim, nor become so emblematic for the environmental movement. Up to 60 percent of the Atlantic puffin stock breeds in Iceland, and for bird enthusiasts, the island is the place to go to see them. “The clown of the sea” (Cornell University, 2015) or “the small monk of the Arctic,” as the Latin name (Fratercula arcticus) would indicate, may come across as slightly cute, droll, and humorous in its wildlife habitat but has not enjoyed similar concerted efforts of anthropomorphizing. While we see from comparing Table 2.1 and Figure 2.2 that around a quarter of those coming to Iceland go whale watching, confirmed by figures from the ITB (2014) border surveys, puffin viewing holds no such status. Puffin viewing is not queried in the border survey and no specialized operators gather numbers of visitors going to see them. The puffin is more “just there,” complementing the whales and subject to the growing souvenir industry around Icelandic tourism (Figure 2.3). Therein they have become as much our friends as the cetaceans. Feasting on animal species that have acquired amicable personhood and become emblematic of our environmental consciousness can indeed be highly problematic in ethical and cognitive terms, but their traditional harvesting and eating and viewing in Iceland is weighted in utilitarian terms. The ongoing debate revolves around the economic rationale for harvesting as opposed to tourism developed around viewing them. The case in point here is the sub-arctic coastal community of Húsavík, which is struggling to diversify its economic foundation. Whale watching was not seen as a likely winner when it was started in the mid-1990s, no more so than the proposed alligator farming in that community (Einarsson, 2009). Some inhabitants, not least local fishermen, have never accepted what they view as an alien way of using whales and making this a living. For them this has been a question of forced adaptation. They express misgivings about the new industry 20 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson aggressively encroaching on the limited space at the harbor and in the Skjálfandi Bay. There is an underlying tension between the local fishing culture and the new enterprises; the former having practiced whale hunting and perceiving whales as competitors for the limited fishing resources; the latter tapping into the humanizing rhetoric commodifying whales and puffins as tourist attractions (North Sail- ing, 2016). Indeed, whale watching in this traditional fishing community is mostly a success, contributing significantly to the community’s economy and supporting manifold opportunities opposed to the dwindling fishing industry (Guðmundsdót- tir & Ívarsson, 2008). So it is that the question about the legitimacy of activities that have implications on the welfare of individual animals as well as populations is framed purely from a pecuniary gains perspective. The point is the entrenched narrative surrounding the notion that animals must pay for their own survival; that is, wildlife must have some utilitarian function (Fennell, 2015). The tension between the two sides in Húsavík has found a peculiar outlet in the fact that whales and puffins are eaten in Iceland and produced as culinary manifestations of Icelandic culture. They are served with pride in restaurants, and the hospitality staff will refer to stories of traditional harvesting and consumption as outlined previously in this chapter. Thus whales and puffins become iconic of a society of yesteryear, and consuming them allows those mourning the demise of traditional livelihoods to relive times gone by and nurture their nostalgia. So, puffins and whales manifest competing utilitarian cultural valuations in times of tourism development in Iceland. As tourism settles to become a mainstay of the Icelandic economy and the beacon of hope for peripheral communities in decline, the two species are put on display and anthropomorphized for marketing sightseeing tours into their wilderness habitat. They become consumables in a literal and figurative sense.

Anthropocene wildlife In general, tourism’s interaction with whales and puffins represents the general fascination with nature and wilderness that drives visitors to Iceland. At the same time, nature, especially its arctic and sub-arctic ecosystems, is under environmental duress and undergoing a transformation in the ways in which it is conceptualized and understood. Anthropogenic climate change is making its presence felt, firstly in these zones, leading to their being framed as the ‘canary in the coal mine’ when it comes to global warming (Herrmann, 2015). Increasingly framing a host of issues related to environmental change, sustainable development, and various relationships between humans and non-humans on a planetary scale is the notion of the Anthropocene. This newly suggested geological epoch is the proposed name of the period following the Holocene, although this is still being scrutinized and debated. According to contemporary scientific knowledge, the current record levels of CO2 in the Earth’s atmosphere, fueling global climate change and partly absorbed by the oceans, will remain stratigraphically visible for geological times to come. Today the case is still open if it will be possible to mark a geological epochal shift as the “age of man,” which humanity, albeit differentially, is being Feasting on friends 21 recognized as a geological force, as well as one which is intimately entangled with the forces of the Earth (Gren & Huijbens, 2014, 2016). Regardless of its geological significance, the proposed shift is making its presence felt across the sciences and humanities. Extending our environmental consciousness to the planetary scale rests on the recognition of the anthropogenic character of climate and global environmental change. Indeed, the ever-growing geo-force of humanity is sculpting its earthly environment on a vast scale. As Paul Crutzen (2002, p. 23) states:

The Anthropocene could be said to have started in the late eighteenth century when analyses of air trapped in the polar ice showed the beginning of growing global concentration of carbon dioxide and methane. It seems appropriate to assign the term ‘Anthropocene’ to the present, in many ways human- dominated, geological epoch, supplementing the Holocene – the warm period of the past 10–12 millennia.

Morton (2013) goes further and dates the start of the Anthropocene precisely at 1784 with the marketing of James Watts’s steam engine—a sentiment approved by the Swedish ecologist Andreas Malm, who claims that investments in the carbon economy link modern-day capitalism tightly with global environmental change (Malm, 2016). Capitalism is booming, evident in our consumption of nearly everything, especially in the post-war era; a period that scholars of the Anthropocene name the ‘great acceleration’ (Steffen, Broadgate, Deutsch, Gaffney, & Ludwig, 2015). The post-war escalation of international tourism is an often cited example of this. As such, the Anthropocene entails

the spontaneous minima moralia of the current age. It implies concern regarding the cohabitation of the citizens of the Earth in human and non-human form. It calls upon us to cooperate in the network of simple and higher-level life circles, in which the actors of today’s world generate their being in the modes of co-immunity. (Sloterdijk, in Klingan, Sepahvand, Rosol, & Scherer, 2015, p. 271)

The Anthropocene thus implies a reconnection of human activities with the ecologies they co-produce with other species. Kristoffersen, Norum, and Kramvig (2016) detail the implications of this for whale watching in the Arctic. They argue that “encounters with whales in Arctic waters enact a particular concept of nature that is conflicted and unstable” (p. 108), yet one where

[t]he ethical frame of whale-watching as an Anthropocene tourism has thus been changed by the re-imagination of the whale as an earthly companion species with characteristics of personhood, and with rights and territories that require humans to behave in a new way and engage in new relationships. (Kristoffersen et al., 2016, p. 108) 22 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson Encountering animals as earthly companion species represents profound change in the global political, economic, environmental, and social order. As Gren and Huijbens (2012) argue, there is a pressing need to critically conceptualize the Earth in order to address contemporary relationships between tourism and the environment, transgressing the obsolete divide between Nature and Society, Earth and Man, and Man and Beast for the betterment and preservation of both human and non-human life on planet Earth. We are therefore asked to “engage more strategically with a trenchant materiality that is us as it vies with us in agentic assemblages” (Bennett, 2010, p. 111). Including the material and more earthlings, such as animals, invites expectancy and allows for the proliferation of the possible existing in more than human registers. Thus:

The task at hand for humans is to find a more horizontal representation of the relation between human and nonhuman actants in order to be more faithful to the style of action pursued by each. (Bennett, 2010, p. 98; see also Grosz, 2011, p. 16)

Recognizing “the creative presence of non-humans in the fabric of social life” (Whatmore, 2002, pp. 35–36) aligns with critical tourism geographies, addressing issues of environmental justice, sustainability, and environmental change (Williams & Lew, 2014). Thus whales and puffins emerge as earthly cohabitants disclosing “a forced and perilous reunification that spells the destiny of each” (Latour & Leclerq, 2016, p. 232). The key question is how this reunification can be brought about under the terms of tourism development in Iceland and elsewhere. The insights from the town of Húsavík, and Icelandic tourism in general, show how the humanizing of puffins and whales has made them into commodities for tourism, with both literal and figurative consumption—the former paying homage to cultural traditions of harvesting, the latter tapping into the tourism development imperative of Icelandic regional politics. In this sense, the puffins and whales represent yet another manifestation of our cohabitation of planet Earth under the terms of globalizing capital. At the same time, however, framing animals as our cohabitants of Earth and co-constitutive of our common future, whales and puffins are being befriended and brought close to our hearts. Thus they transcend utilitarian vagaries and become emblematic of our environmental sensibilities. Furthermore, they could represent an avenue to unravel the onto-epistemological conflation necessary to tackle our environmental predicaments, i.e., they can become agents in conflating our theories of knowing and being in a world currently transforming through global climate change (see Barad, 2007). In that sense, our moral registers are guided by a biocentric perspective whereby non-human species have the same rights to live and prosper as humans. But this perspective is merely part of an ecological holism or an ecocentric moral register, whereby the biosphere and the major ecosystems of the planet are morally considerable, thus including animal-centered ethics, where individual members of a species are the focus of life-centered ethics, where all living things are valued (Fennell, 2015). We would, however, like to go even further and claim a geocentric stance whereby animals, Feasting on friends 23 their material habitat, and humans are considered in relation to our common future on planet Earth. As such, moving beyond cultural and economic valuations and debates about which practice makes more money or more accurately reflects an environmental agenda, we would like to see our non-human friends considered part and parcel of our earthly future and valued as such, be they on a plate or in their habitat. There should not be an anthropocentric need to first turn them into pseudo-humans before we find them worthy of recognition. The question becomes how to perform their consumption, bundling together facts, concern, and care about history and our common earthly future.

Conclusion This chapter draws on considerations of contradictory practices of commodification set within a flourishing tourism industry. Our aim was to show how tourism is “shifting the moral geographies of wildlife from the utopian confines of the sanctuary or the ark of wilderness” (Whatmore, 2002, p. 31) to that of a marketing symbol and consumables, set within the specificities of destination development. In this chapter we have outlined the development of whale and puffin watching as part of the rapidly growing tourism industry in Iceland with a focus on the contradictory practices of eating them and at the same time viewing them. As the viewing of these animals in the wild and their anthropomorphized marketing is gaining in popularity, so is their consumption in restaurants, as well as their marketing as local culinary delights and nationalistic soul food. The former clearly represents shifting moral geographies of wildlife, while the latter harkens to a more utilitarian view of wildlife. Yet we see these divergent practices as competing utilitarian framings of wildlife, using insights from the town of Húsavík in northern Iceland. From our case we argue that there is a need for an open dialogue on animal rights, human rights, the ethics of harvesting or hunting, and ecosystem impacts as part and parcel of tourism destination development and management. We need to discuss the symbolism and different cultural perceptions of marine mammals and avifauna and their meaning for the politics of conservation and use, both consumptive and non-consumptive. Moreover we argue that the debate should be widened to include alternatives to their commodification, and these we argue for through the lens of the Anthropocene and geocentered moral registers. Developing responsibilities to our common earthly future and attuning to more than human rhythms of life are arguably afforded to those going whale and puffin watching. However, for this to happen, these affordances and encounters with marine and avifauna must be informed by storytelling recognizing this potential. The bodily consumption of this marine and avifauna arguably holds less potential for this attunement, yet informs us of our earthly cohabitation with non-humans from a more historical perspective. Both have particular values in developing ethics of hospitality, but it is imperative that these values be recognized if tourism’s encounter with wildlife in their habitat or on a plate is to be hospitable. The former affordances connect us to our common future on this Earth, while the latter prompts us to thinking how we are one with this planet and all that lives on it. 24 Edward H. Huijbens and Níels Einarsson Without beached whales, many communities would have suffered in Iceland, and many a person would not have survived to take part in the future Earth. Attuning our senses to this historical contingency will allow us to reformulate our earthly entanglements and through consuming whales and puffins, be it visually or bodily, we realize we are one with planet Earth.

Acknowledgements We wish to thank the Nordic Centre of Excellence NordForsk-funded project Arc- tic Climate Predictions: Pathways to Resilient, Sustainable Societies (ARCPATH) and the NordForsk-funded project Impacts of Future Sea-Ice and Snow-Cover Changes on Climate, Green Growth and Society (GREENICE) for supporting our research. We also thank the editor, external reviewers, and our colleague Dr Astrid Ogilvie for constructive comments and criticism.

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Tao Zhou and Bryan Grimwood

Because of Orientalism the Orient was not (and is not) a free subject of thought or action. —– Edward Said (1979, p. 3)

Introduction What is “Shangri-la”? First appearing in the English novel Lost Horizon by James Hilton (1933) – a story of adventure and utopian fantasy situated on a high mountain valley in Tibet – the roots of the word Shangri-la are imbued with a myste- riousness, romanticism, and fictitious sense of purity, wisdom, eternal happiness, and spiritual awakening. The original representation of Shangri-la as a quixotic paradise has, over time, become entrenched in Western social and literary imaginations. It has been inscribed upon Tibet (though not exclusively) and has thus enrolled Tibetan landscapes and people in particular narratives and perceptions circulating within the West. Tibet’s association as Shangri-la is nothing short of a social construction. Before Tibetan Buddhism became popular in the second half of the twentieth century, both positive and negative images of Tibet existed in the West. Tibet was presented as noble, sublimely wise, and spiritual on one side, and backward and grossly superstitious on the other (Bray, 2001; Dodin & Rather, 2001). The exile of the Tibetan government in 1959 and the globalization of Tibetan Buddhism in the 1970s gained wide support from the West. Hollywood movies, novels, arts, and mass media inspired sympathy with and for Tibetans and recreated a dominant image of Tibet as Shangri-la. Trends in popular culture complemented a general Western crisis and search for new forms of spirituality (Kyabgon, 2001), pro-Tibetan movements and political unrest, and the charismatic appeal of the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. The Western representation of Tibet as Shangri-la has been internalized and reproduced in non-Western contexts, most notably in contemporary China. Over time, China’s relationship with Tibet has hinged upon different strategies of power and control. Tibet was considered a military threat to Chinese civilization during the Tang Dynasty, and Tibetan Buddhism was instrumentally respected by the Chinese empires to win the hearts of Tibetan and Mongolian aristocrats for Consuming Shangri-la 29 political stability during the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties. After the occupation of Tibet, China launched a socialist agenda there, portraying the “old” Tibet as hell on earth, a feudal serfdom with political corruption, economic stagnation, and cultural backwardness (Heberer, 2001). When China shifted toward arguably more liberal political aspirations in the 1980s, Chinese intellectuals began to regard Tibet as a mystic kingdom of spiritual inspiration (Slobodnik, 2006). Today, the Chinese government deliberately adopts the notion of Shangri-la created by the West to lure visitors to Tibet (Anthony, 2002). The government- supported documentary Roof of the World (CCTV, 2015) is illustrative of this agenda at work. The film, which depicts a romanticized image of Tibet as Shangri- la and emphasizes Tibetans’ happiness and their balance with nature, was broadcast on national channels with the clear intent of promoting visitation by domestic Chinese tourists. Such tourism promotion initiatives have had extraordinary influence during the past decade. According to the Tibet Statistical Yearbook (2015), the number of domestic tourists (mostly Han Chinese) swarming into the Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR, a narrow definition of Tibet) grew from 2.4 million in 2006 to 20.2 million in 2015, while the number of international tourists is maintained at levels of 200,000 per year. The government plans to accommodate at least 30 million domestic Chinese tourists by 2020, nearly ten times more than the local Tibetan population. The rapid development of mass tourism has stimu- lated considerable economic growth such that tourism’s 10 percent contribution to TAR’s GDP in 2006 grew to 27.5 percent in 2015 (Tibetan Statistics Administra- tion, 2015). This emphasis on tourism reflects the Chinese government’s aims of showing citizens a modern, progressive, and socialist Tibet and asserting Chinese occupation and control of Tibet. Arguably, for the majority of Chinese visitors to Tibet, the production of tourism fuels the drive to experience Tibet as Shangri-la. They arrive with expectations of viewing beautiful landscapes, immersing in a pollution-free environment, encountering cultural difference, and (re)connecting spiritually (Cui, Xu, & Yang, 2014; Gan, Lu, & Wang, 2013). Food plays a pivotal role in these touristic experiences, especially food that aligns with the Shangri-la image – that is, organic, local, exotic, and produced in clean and ethical ways. Tourists are particularly attracted to eating pork derived from Tibetan savory pigs. These pigs graze on high mountain grassland and live in small herds traditionally managed by mountain herders. Due to the relatively unspoiled environment in which Tibetan savory pigs are raised, the meat produced from their bodies is perceived as “green,” nutri- tious, clean, and consistent with the Shangri-la representation and experience. The pigs were traditionally consumed by Tibetans for subsistence, but tourism has transformed pig raising into market-oriented consumption. This has shifted the perceptions of pigs from necessary livestock to a source of luxury meat. Indeed, the term “savory” points to perceptions that these pigs exist mainly to provide food for humans. Large market demand for pork triggered by the swelling number of tourists results in increases in pig herding and harvesting (Zhou, 2015). In this chapter, we situate the consumption of Tibetan savory pigs by Han Chi- nese tourists within the theoretical context of orientalism. In doing so, our aim is 30 Tao Zhou and Bryan Grimwood to trace how ideas and representations of Shangri-la impel tourist desires to eat animals as an emblematic dimension of their Tibetan experience. Our analysis is not simply about showing savory pig consumption as something that is socially produced via tourism. It is also about showing the material and ethical consequences of such practices, some of which foreshadow a looming collapse of systems that make the very image and experience of Tibet as Shangri-la possible. We begin with the theoretical background of orientalism and its association with animals. Next, we describe the nature of savory pig consumption and explain how orientalism plays out in this touristic experience. We then move on to a discussion of ethical implications relating to economy, environment, and animals.

Orientalism The concept of orientalism has gained traction in postcolonial studies and among scholars influenced by the writing of Edward Said (1979). Said articulated orientalism as a discursive process that relies upon, and enforces, representational practices that subscribe to ontological and epistemological distinctions between the Orient and the West. In effect, orientalism marks a relationship between that which is understood to be, or is known as, the Orient and that which is understood to be, or is known as, the West. This relational process, however, renders the Orient not as an actual physical location or region, but as a place systematically represented, imagined, and reproduced by and for the West. Orientalism thus establishes and continuously constructs the Orient as a non-Western other. It subjects non-Western lands and people to the power, domination, and hegemony of Western representations, and therefore infringes upon the ability of non-Western subjects to participate in arenas of meaning- or place-making. Accordingly, orientalism reveals not the truth of the Orient, but rather a West- ern imagining of what the Orient is or should be. As Said (1979) explained, “that Orientalism makes sense at all depends more on the West than on the Orient” (p. 22). The Western discourse that Said critiques assumes that the Orient cannot represent itself, and therefore must be represented. It thus operates to deprive, mute, and submerge the voices of the Orient, which enables the West to subjugate counter-discourses, make the Orient silent, and seize the power to represent and control territory – briefly,to be imperialist. By inscribing the Orient as the West’s cultural opposite, orientalism provides the necessary rationale for the West to build its superiority and power over the Orient, including its resources (e.g., economic, technological, sociocultural, environmental, religious). Consequently, orientalism reveals Western attitudes toward the West itself. The West establishes itself as the manifestation of an advanced civilization (e.g., knowledge, technology, modernization, democracy, freedom), a beacon lighting the route for future human development – social, economic, political, and so forth. Tourism scholars have illustrated how orientalism can be reproduced by tourists and the services and experiences packaged for their consumption. Intruding into the “hermeneutic circle” (Urry & Larsen, 2011), orientalism makes it possible for Western tourists to reproduce pre-programmed images and narratives Consuming Shangri-la 31 toward destinations deemed other. Ponting (2009), for instance, demonstrated how the dream of nirvana was constructed through the four stages of meaning- making (propaganda, demand, quest, and reproduction) associated with surfing tourism in orientalized Indonesia. Caton and Santos (2008), who situated their study at the fourth stage of the hermeneutic circle, revealed that photographs from a study abroad program contained colonialist patterns of reasoning, represented dominant Western ideologies, and perpetuated taken-for-granted social norms, meanings, and practices related to othered people and places. Similar cycles of meaning-making and experience also propagate via the “background books” carried by tourists (Eco, 1998). Travel books communicate to travelers preconceived notions of the world and inform them about what they ought to interpret, discover, and see (Eco, 1998). Taking up the majority of space on the bookshelves of tourists are background books that mirror the cultural traditions of the tourists themselves (Eco, 1998); their language systems, attitudes, meanings, and perceptions inscribed upon destinations. Among tourists from the West, Western ways of knowing and engaging in the world are instilled into their minds before they start their trip (Eco, 1998; Urry, 1990). Any observation, experience, or learning of places experienced by tourists can thus intensify, reproduce, and maintain orientalist processes. To be sure, the process of orientalism is not restricted to relationships between the West and the rest. That is, orientalism can be internalized by people living in places typically represented as, or deemed to be, the Orient. Schein (1997) delineates internal orientalism as “a relation between imaging and cultural/political domination that takes place inter-ethnically within China” (1997, p. 73), which is suggestive of how orientalism is really about asymmetrical power relations that enable dominant social groups to identify and represent the other. Internal orientalism has operated for centuries in China, most notably in the ways that minority groups are constructed as exotic, colorful, primitive, romanticized, and eroticized (Gladney, 1994). This process of domestic othering has to do with the dominating group and their purpose of building a modern Han identity (Alles, 2015; Gladney, 1994). Internal orientalism is systematically realized through civilizing projects, which committed to civilize minority groups closer to the level of the civilizing center (Harrell, 1995). In this chapter, we look not strictly to orientalism historically created by the Chinese nation-state on minority groups, but to orientalism that is initially created by the West and later copied and internalized in China, particularly in the context of Han Chinese tourists traveling to Tibetan areas. We also aim to engage with an aspect of orientalism that, to date, seems to have received limited attention in the tourism literature – the role, or place, of non-human animals in orientalism. Internalized into othering ideas of the West, non-human animals are often positioned within power relationships that complement, or mirror, those enacted in Western imaginings of the Orient. For instance, so-called charismatic animals living in the wilderness, or being tamed for touristic performance, have aroused great interest among tourists and fit the exotic image of the Orient (Bone & Bone, 2015). Indeed, some tourists hunt and consume wild animals in order to cultivate 32 Tao Zhou and Bryan Grimwood an authentic oriental experience. Hoffman, Crafford, Muller, and Schutte (2003), for example, found that game meat, considered as healthy, organic, and natural, is the most favored type of meat for Western tourists to order in restaurants in South Africa. Tourists treat the consumption of exotic game meat as part of their African experience (Hoffman et al., 2003). Tourists also have the capacity to emplace animals into their views of authentic oriental culture, customs, and practices. The cobra snake provides an illustrative example. Often used in charming performances in India, the cobra is no longer considered by tourists to be dangerous and full of animality, but rather a mythical, exotic creature that satisfies motives of amusement and curiosity (Pheasant, 2014). This association generally aligns with Western tourists’ perception of India as an exotic country and economically impoverished (Liddle & Rai, 1998). In Vietnam, Western tourists visit snake villages to consume snake cuisine as a demonstration of audacity and strength. Through snake consumption (e.g., drinking snake blood), tourists enact masculine traits, express ideas of exotic culture, and seek out respect and honor (McFadden, 2014). Just as curiosity and a sense of exoticism can be cultivated through the consumption of animals in the Orient, so too can the image of oriental “brutality” and “animality” be reinforced. In these and other cases, animals, as orientalized subjects without voices, are subjected to human chauvinism (Fennell, 2012b), or animal othering (i.e., being used instrumentally and systematically), and deprived of the capacity and right to represent themselves. Whether animals are observed in the wild, cooked in restaurants, or used in touristic performances, they are instrumentalized as a source of pleasure for tourists and non-human representatives of the Orient. Animals are thus enrolled into the imaginings of the Orient and facilitate and reinforce orientalist images of being exotic, mythical, close to nature, and to some extent animalistic. Their subjectivities are emplaced within the material and metaphorical process of orientalist surveillance and control.

Eating desires: Tibetan savory pigs and consuming Shangri-la Tibetan savory pigs – also known as ginseng pigs – a primitive and unique species living on the Tibetan plateau, have recently caught tourists’ attention. They have small heads with pointed snouts, a black mane that stands erect, short legs, and a slight figure but weigh up to 50 kilograms once they reach adulthood (around two years of age). In contrast to the stereotype of pigs as dirty, fat, lazy, and feeding on compost, scraps, or processed feed, Tibetan savory pigs are herded by mountain villagers in grasslands or forests where they can move in relative freedom. (We recognize that “freedom” and “wild” are relative terms that are useful here to illustrate contrasts between Tibetan savory pigs and pigs kept in pigpens.) In addition, they are good at running, which builds up a strong and agile body. They do not require extensive care. Herders feed them a small amount of highland barley, corn, and peas in the morning; the remainder of their food comes from grazing on plants, herbs, and undergrowth vegetation. Consuming Shangri-la 33 Tourists generally have a positive perception of Tibetan savory pigs. The pigs are not only perceived as cute, healthy, charming, and living in an idyllic paradise, but also deemed to develop close bonds with humans. In addition, some people perceive that the free-range life that the pigs live cultivates within them a noble temperament. The following travel blog excerpts provide illustrations of such perceptions:

Excerpt 1: The most special feature of this holy lake is a group of pigs (Tibetan savory pigs). They live freely in the woods, eat natural caterpillar fungus, drink clean water from the lake. Seeing how leisured they are in this idyllic scenery reminds me of the big pig in Taiwan’s Yimin Temple. I really do not know which one lives in heaven and which one lives in hell . . . yet the key point is that these pigs are much cuter than Taiwan’s wild pig. . . . The Tibetan savory pigs have more moderate temper. When I squat on the roadside to photograph them, they do not have any desire to attack me. They just want to get close to me like dogs. Do not believe they are totally harmless! My camera lens has been brutally kissed by a pig, leaving an impressive imprint of that pig’s nose (heartache . . . hum). This is an experience that other people cannot encounter. (Liang, 2009 – Xuite)

Excerpt 2: These Tibetan savory pigs with their skinny bodies . . . are raised in the wild all the year round. They live in pollution-free and natural alpine areas. These small pigs look very healthy. They live a carefree and freedom life, eating grass, nibbling berries, basking in the sunshine, and walking with measured steps. They are really cute and anyone will love them. (Xiao, 2007 – Sina blog)

Excerpt 1 is written by a tourist from Taiwan. Her description explains to readers that Tibetan savory pigs live in a pollution-free and natural environment. Sur- rounded by forest, with access to clean water, and a diet that includes caterpillar fungus, these pigs enjoy a leisurely life in a land of idyllic beauty. Compared with boar counterparts in Taiwan, they are described to live more “carefree” lives. In addition, these pigs seem to have nurtured ideal human characteristics, such as being cute, having moderate tempers, and being kind to or intimate with humans. It seems that these pigs have already erased their animality. The kiss of a pig on a camera lens even brings a unique and extraordinarily pleasant experience to this tourist. The second excerpt describes a similar life of freedom for Tibetan savory pigs. They need not worry about subsistence issues, as unspoiled nature has bestowed on them an abundant food supply; they are depicted as following a desirable path to freedom where sunshine, access to berries, and leisurely strolls are in high supply. They seem to have full freedom to determine what they do. A reality in the life of Tibetan savory pigs, however, is that any sense of freedom or carefree living is counterbalanced by the brute fact that their existence often serves those tourists who like to photograph them, and eat them. As the 34 Tao Zhou and Bryan Grimwood following news excerpt suggests, human desires associated with Tibetan savory pigs easily shift in emphasis from freedom and tranquility to human dietary preferences and consumption pleasures.

Excerpt 3: Fat (of Tibetan savory pork) is not greasy, and the meat is fragrant after lips and teeth chew it. Compared with ordinary pork, the biggest difference is the pigskin. The pigskin has a taste like jelly, crisp, and tender, and it melts in the mouth just from nibbling with teeth. (Tian, 2016 – Binzhou News)

Tibetan savory pork is thus described as being different from ordinary pork. It is fragrant, crisp, tender, and not greasy. Because these pigs are raised “freely” in the “wild” and drink clean spring water, breathe fresh mountain air, and graze on wild plants, herbs, or even caterpillar fungus, the pork is considered to be green, ecological, therapeutic, and organic, with a high nutritional value. Spiritually speaking, pigs are envisioned to live lives of freedom, calm, and happiness in a Tibetan paradise that nurtures their purified bodies with chanted music from the monaster- ies and drinking water from holy lakes (Liang, 2009; CCTV, 2016). What is more, these pigs are viewed to have moderate tempers and build close relationships with tourists. Such imaginations of Tibetan savory pigs square perfectly with Shangri- la, that land of purity and eternal happiness with numerous creatures living in harmony. Pigs thus invite metaphorical and corporeal connections – inclusive of the consumption of pigs as food – between tourists and Shangri-la. Tourists rushing to consume Tibetan savory pork is indeed a way to consume Shangri-la. Orientalism is reproduced during the process of consuming Shangri-la. Ori- entalism shapes tourists’ background books before they travel to Tibet. During the trip, tourists continuously draw knowledge from background books to inform their views and experiences of the landscape around them. In fact, their perspectives have been fixed by orientalism, and their trip is to prove the existence and reality of Shangri-la. The cute and carefree pigs, as the reflection of Shangri- la, confirm tourists’ orientalized imaginations. Tourists’ desire for pork is deeply rooted in orientalism as well. Green and organic food with a unique taste creates a novel, unfamiliar, pleasant, and somewhat adventurous experience, which aligns with their consistent cognition of the Orient and mirrors what they have been dis- ciplined to see and experience by background books and other tourism production sources. Tourists’ share of their oriental experience with others through various social networks reaffirms the orientalism. This hermeneutic circle continuously reinforces and reproduces discourses of orientalism; in Foucault’s words, “the new thing here lies not in what is said but in the event of its return” (1981, p. 58). The vitality of orientalism lies in its reproduction. Inspired by Said (1978), orientalism deals less with the truth of the host destination, and more with the society that tourists come from. The fact that masses of Chinese tourists swarm into Tibet to experience Shangri-la reflects the troubles of China. During the past two decades, China has witnessed an economic boom at the cost of water, air, and land pollution. Chinese are encouraged to pursue Consuming Shangri-la 35 monetary and material maximums, leaving behind the cultivation of social equality, justice, and morality. Moreover, food safety and human intimacy have been strongly challenged, and political reform remains stagnant and suffocating, resulting in citizenry who often feel insecure within the borders of their own country. Traveling to Tibet means that tourists can breathe sweet air, drink clean water, eat green and organic food, release their souls, and chase happiness and freedom. Shangri-la operates as an ideal physical and spiritual environment in which they can achieve this goal. Therefore, their enthusiasm to travel to Tibet and consume Tibetan savory pork precisely demonstrates that consuming orientalism/Shangri- la is a mirror in which they can look back on themselves and their own society.

Ethical implications Orientalism speaks to the ways in which identities are discursively produced, constructed, and rendered in relation to others (people, place, and animals). As we discussed above, orientalism, in terms of asymmetrical power relations, reflects more about the ones doing the representation than the ones being represented. These relations are consequential; they have effects that span social, cultural, material, and environmental dimensions. In what follows, we consider the consequences of orientalism as it plays out in touristic consumption of Tibetan savory pigs from the perspective of ethics (broadly defined). In particular, we discuss the ethical implications associated with social justice, conservation, animal ethics, and responsibility.

Social justice Shangri-la, deployed by the Chinese government to attract domestic Chinese tourists to Tibet, serves the instrumental purpose of Chinese nation-state expansion into and control over Tibet. The promotion and development of tourism around the Shangri-la image enables commercialization to extend into Tibetan villages and enroll Tibetan people into economies firmly ordered by the Chinese nation-state. Because of the intensification of tourism, for instance, raising pigs has been turned into a profitable industry in eastern Tibet (Zhang, 2015), and mountain communities have shifted from the traditional practices of using pigs to support subsistence livelihoods to supplying market-oriented demands (Zhou, 2010). Increasingly, pigs are viewed as a means for generating financial wealth, making it a rational option for mountain dwellers to raise and sell more pigs for tourist consumption. Government policies promote the commercialization of pigs and go so far as to establish benchmark numbers for pig production and GDP increases that serve as criteria for assessing achievements of government officers. For example, one policy is to subsidize 3,000 RMB to each household selected by the government to professionally raise pigs (Agriculture and Animal Husbandry Bureau of Nyingchi Prefecture, 2005). However, the prosperity of rearing pigs in mountain communities has seen a widening gap between the rich and the poor. Rich households or those receiving financial support from the government are 36 Tao Zhou and Bryan Grimwood able to raise more pigs, and therefore gain more market share brought by the flourishing pig market. In contrast, poor households have been further marginalized during the process of pig commercialization. Economic stratification in mountain communities is a reflection of social inequalities caused by tourism development, an approach that the Chinese nation-state adopts to further exer- cise control over the land, yet on the contrary provoking protests (e.g., the 2008 Tibetan unrest).

Conservation The practice of increasing herd size of pigs is destroying the ecological integrity of the Tibetan high mountain grassland, as these pigs are grassland killers. They eat the roots of grasses by using their noses to dig, and so open up the grassland (CCTV, 2015). Their destructive power is appalling without proper management, a result of instrumental rearing and consumption of pigs by humans. At least one year is needed to restore the destroyed grassland (Zhou, 2010). Other reasons that put at risk the very landscapes upon which the images of Shangri-la are tethered include lack of effective regulations on pigs and common grassland, a top-down administration system that assesses officials’ economic achievements, as well as mountain villagers’ desire for a better material life (Zhou, 2010). The fundamental momentum, of course, lies in tourist desires. Tourists consume pigs for satisfying their desires to consume Shangri-la, which leads to ecological devastation and, paradoxically, the potential collapse of the images of Shangri-la. A similar environmental disaster in Inner Mongolia starting from the 1990s was a result of large market demand on cashmere that made raising goats to harvest cashmere lucrative. These goats grazed on roots of grasses as well, and overgraz- ing of goats finally led to a sharp degradation and desertification of grassland in Inner Mongolia (Zhang, 2009). The Chinese government spent millions of dollars to rehabilitate grassland to prevent sandstorms but had little success (Peoples Net, 2009). The environmental destruction in both cases implies that the ontology of taking an anthropocentric view and treating nature as separate from humans is insufficient to conserve grassland appropriately. Indigenous people (particularly herders) on the Tibetan and Mongolian plateaus hold common beliefs that animals and grassland are part of people’s lives and are linked to people’s emotions (e.g., friendship) (Zhang, 2009; Zhou, 2010). They believe that non-human entities deserve a moral and ethical status on the basis of their existence. Correspond- ingly, a conservation ethics that extends value to – or identifies with the intrinsic value of – humans, animals, plants, and inanimate objects within the environment could be a starting point for rethinking relationships and responsibilities within Tibetan landscapes.

Animal ethics For non-human animals, Shangri-la is not a place of paradise. Animals like Tibetan savory pigs are no longer raised to support subsistence but to generate maximum Consuming Shangri-la 37 benefits under economic rationalism. Millions of animals are killed annually in Shangri-la to meet human desire. Built on humans’ tyranny of animals, Shangri- la also manifests violence and brutality. Animals are generally considered infe- rior and subjugated by humans, an outcome often attributed to the instrumental valuing of animals as economic commodities (Fennell, 2012a) or judgments made about animals’ intelligence capabilities (Fennell, 2012b). As Regan (1985) asserted, the systems that allow humans to perceive animals as resources is fundamentally wrong. Animals express interests, desires, consciousness, and senses of welfare; they are sentient insofar as they have the ability to feel pleasure and suffer (Hagen & Broom, 2004; Regan, 2004a; Singer, 2002). These are the bases from which animal ethicists assert the inherent, or intrinsic, value of animals (Fen- nell, 2012b). Inherent values provide a philosophical foundation for the existence of animals neither as objects for others to pursue for interest or pleasure nor as resources for utility (Regan, 2004b). Rather, animals as inherently valued members of the lifeworld are moral equivalents to humans, and thus deserve humans’ respectful treatment (Regan, 2003), the rights of self-determination (Elliot, 1987) or sovereignty of their community (Donaldson & Kymlicka, 2011), and freedom from human-imposed pain (Singer, 2002). Although the current world is dominated by perspectives of instrumental and utilitarian treatment of animals, there exist egalitarian voices within some Indig- enous communities or Oriental countries, which have been historically silenced by Western ethnocentrism. For instance, among different Indigenous people in what is now called North America, animals have been regarded as the siblings of humans and possess the same rights as humans. Animals and humans are not placed in a hierarchical ranking but on a dynamic circular plane (Lawrence, 1985). Similarly, tourists associate diverse values with Tibetan savory pigs. Some tourists have been moved to sympathy for the pigs and to act mercifully toward these small creatures. One tourist wrote about his son’s experience:

Excerpt 4: I have noticed that children who grow up in the city are far more attracted to these cute little guys than to beautiful scenery. . . . To my surprise, my son begs me to buy him a Tibetan savory pig that he can raise at home. I am totally speechless . . . we order a plate of roasted pork, which tasted extraordinary. My son, however, feels that the pig [on the table] looks so miserable that he does not eat any pork. (Nuo, 2014 – Mafengwo)

Another tourist started to love pigs after consuming pork:

Excerpt 5: [I] have heard about Tibetan savory pig before but did not concern myself about it. This time, however, [I] must have a try. It tastes really good but is slightly expensive. . . . [S]ince I tasted the Tibetan savory pork, I have begun to pay attention to Tibetan savory pigs. I will take a photo when I see a Tibetan savory pig no matter where I am. (Gao, 2016 – Xcar) 38 Tao Zhou and Bryan Grimwood Both cases demonstrate the compassion and love toward animals that can emanate from people. Compassion and love are seeds buried in the human heart. They germinate in relation to individual life experience under specific social conditions. The child in the blog excerpt above watched as the pigs were transformed into food for satisfying human pleasure-seeking and consumptive desires and felt guilty about being complicit in pig killing. Of people (e.g., Tibetans) who uphold a minimalist or non-killing principle, stories recur that they burst into slaughterhouses and release all the live animals (Zhou, 2015). In many countries, people are advocating the wellbeing of animals, criticizing the brutality of the modern meat-production industry, and taking actions to protect animal rights. This movement, saving animals from being used as experimental tools and killed for food, fur, and fun, may take centuries, yet we will no longer treat animals as we treat them today (Derrida & Roudinesco, 2004).

Responsibility As mentioned above, a significant number of Tibetan savory pigs raised to meet the demands of tourists have already begun to devastate the environment of the Tibetan plateau. Capital operation involves tourists, governments, and hosts as conspirators in the predicted environmental disaster. It seems that no single tourist will be responsible for this; considering that she/he never realizes that mas- sive numbers of tourists also consume pork, an environmental tragedy will be the result. The culprits also may not be the mountain villagers who are simply following market demands and will bear the negative consequences of environmental destruction. When the market fails to conserve the environment, the government should assume the responsibility of balancing demands of tourists with the economic concerns of mountain villagers and the conservation of grassland. The current policy to attract mass tourists under the premise of discovering Shangri-la only results in the increasing demand for Tibetan savory pigs, which is the ultimate threat to environmental conservation. The government should consider revising the “great leap forward” policy, limiting tourist numbers to an appropriate level, significantly increasing the minimum purchase price charged by mountain villagers, and adopting multiple and flexible measures to limit the number of pigs owned by each household according to the economic condition of the community. In this way, mountain villagers can still raise pigs as the main (for poor areas) or subsidiary approach to make a living, but at the same time the total number of pigs can be limited to retain ecological sustainability. Efforts need to be taken to educate both tourists and hosts to be responsible for the environment.

Conclusion The West has created a romantic and mysterious image of Shangri-la for Tibet, and this image has been internalized and reproduced in the oriental context via tourism. Orientalism attracts substantial numbers of tourists to consume Shangri-la. Unfor- tunately, Tibetan savory pigs, which are considered an excellent representation of Consuming Shangri-la 39 Shangri-la, are also excessively consumed by tourists. The strong demand boosts the price of pork and attracts mountain villagers to raise and sell additional pigs to the market. However, pigs are detrimental to the grassland; thus, an imbalance concerning pigs will cause ecological disasters. The government should take the responsibility for balancing the demands of tourists with the interests of the hosts and for conservation of the environment. Moreover, Tibetan savory pigs bear the impact of dual otherings from human chauvinism and orientalism. Pigs, like other non-human animals, should not be viewed instrumentally. An advocacy for the wellbeing of animals still has a long way to go. Orientalism reflects the social, environmental, and political issues of tourists’ origins. Visiting Tibet to view an unspoiled environment and experience exotic culture enhances tourists’ perceptions of Tibet as Shangri-la. Consequently, tourists reiterate their experiences via media to enforce, circulate, and reproduce orientalism. Negative environmental effects caused by mass tourism are disguised, and local voices are silenced by orientalism. Orientalism only functions to serve the powerful subjects (e.g., tourists, the government, the Oriental majority, and the West) who create, manipulate, and reproduce orientalism, which is, in essence, a practice of power. This chapter has focused on orientalism only from the perspective of tourists; we are well aware of the studies regarding the responses to orientalism from the perspective of the host community. Local people either accept the destination image created by tourists as part of the host culture or modify the host culture to fit tourists’ imagination. Both ways demonstrate the power inherent in orientalism. Our discussion in this chapter serves as a pathway to further dialogue on orientalism in the tourism context.

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Becky Jenkins

Introduction Between cheese-steaks in Philadelphia, “full English breakfasts” in the United Kingdom, Po’boys in Louisiana, poutine in Montreal, barbeque in the southern U.S., and haggis in Scotland, we see an obvious trend emerge. Many destination cities and countries have a dish so famous and so iconic that even people on the opposite side of the world know it. Many countries even have a national dish. Indeed, many of these dishes are meat centric. When we look at the dishes associated with famous American destinations, this meaty trend is also significant. The sheer size of the U.S. tourism industry makes tourists’ food decisions important and influential. In fact, the tourism industry is one of the largest industries in the U.S., making a total contribution to GDP of more than US$2.1 trillion in 2015 (U.S. Travel Association, n.d). Furthermore, this is a rapidly growing industry. The industry even became a priority for President Obama in 2014 when he took on a campaign to promote the industry, with a view to attract international visitors in particular (Peltier, 2017). But what does the size of this industry mean for the area of food ethics? There is the obvious fact that while traveling, most people eat out more and thus spend far more on food while on vacation or while traveling for business. Furthermore, the growing popularity of “food tourism” makes addressing the ethical impacts of the food choices we make while on vacation increasingly important (Yeoman, 2014). Anecdotally, we see that once seldom visited cities like Austin, Texas and Portland, Oregon have been put on the tourism map, in large part because of their exploding food scenes. Looking at the ethical side of this situation, tourists, and consumers more generally, are becoming increasingly conscious of the impact of their purchasing power (Strong, 1996). This increasing social consciousness may be good news for a variety of socially conscious businesses. However, this shift may not be welcome for certain industries, such as the conventional American meat industry.

Ethics and the U.S. meat industry Questions about the ethics of eating animals and the problems associated with the industrialization of “factory farms” have been a topic of conversation in the U.S. Who pays for our cheap meat? 43 and abroad for some time now (Sunstein & Nussbaum, 2004; see the work of Peter Singer, Tom Reagan, Gary Francione, and more recently, Mariann Sullivan, David Wolfson, Kathy Hessler, Pamela Frasch, etc.). In more recent years, a separate but related concern has come to light – the environmental impact of eating meat (Carrington, 2014). It has become increasingly clear that animal agriculture has devastating effects on the environment (United Nations Environment Programme, 2015). These are important conversations that merit the attention of global leaders like the United Nations; however, this demand for cheap meat affects more than non-human animals and the environment; it also has significant impacts on human welfare and health. This chapter will not be discussing the negative impact that consuming these products has on human health from a nutritional standpoint, as there are plenty of resources out there on that topic. Instead, unlike much of the commentary on the American meat industry, this chapter focuses on the welfare of many meat industry workers, a theme that is emerging more frequently in the news as well as the academy. Some blame this problem on the strong lobbying power that the meat industry has with legislators and regulators. Others blame consumers’ relentless demand for cheap meat. There are arguments to support all of these viewpoints; however, two things are very clear. First of all, mistreatment of workers in the meat industry appears to be all too common. Secondly, much of this mistreatment seems to stem from the poorly functioning immigration system operating in the United States. This chapter opens with a discussion of how the immigration system relates to the meat industry before moving to some of the biggest problems facing these workers: human rights violations, poor working conditions, and even human trafficking and sexual abuse. The chapter will then move to the psychological and social impacts that these facilities have on individuals and the communities in which they are located. This discussion would be incomplete if it did not at least briefly discuss the environmental justice impacts of this industry, and so it will also provide an overview of the impacts that this industry has on “environmental justice communities.” According to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) (n.d.), environmental justice is the fair treatment and meaningful involvement of all people, regardless of race, color, national origin, or income, with respect to the development, implementation, and enforcement of environmental laws, regulations, and policies. Environmental Justice (EJ) communities are those which often bear environmental burdens such as pollution, unclean water, etc., disproportionately. EJ communities are often low-income communities and/or communities of color. Finally, the chapter will offer some suggestions as to how we can begin to address some of these problems.

Immigration issues The majority of slaughterhouse and meat processing workers in the U.S. are people of color living in low-income communities. Historically, a large percentage of these workers were African American. Today, immigrant workers make up the majority of the meat and poultry industry (HRW, 2005a; Food Empowerment Project, 2016c). Approximately 38 percent of slaughterhouse and meat processing 44 Becky Jenkins workers were born outside of the U.S. (Engdahl, 2005); an unknown number of these workers are undocumented. Many employers are aware that a large portion of the people they hire are undocumented, yet they willingly hire them to deal with the extremely high turnover rate in this industry (U.S. Government Account- ability Office, 2005). While documented and undocumented workers alike theoretically enjoy the very same legal rights and international labor law protections, the situation is much more complicated than that. The Blood, Sweat & Fear report by the non-governmental organization Human Rights Watch (HRW) (2005a) demonstrated that immigrant workers, both documented and undocumented, are extremely liable to employer coercion in many different contexts. Some of the reasons for this are simple ‒ for example, many immigrant workers do not speak English fluently, therefore they are less likely to navigate complex legal procedures in order to have their rights vindicated in the event of mistreatment. Unfortunately, it is all too common for workers to be unaware that they have legal rights and protections, including the ability to complain against employers (Pritchard, 2004). Oftentimes, documented immigrants in this industry have family or friends who are undocumented and whom they wish to protect. Many of these folks work alongside undocumented coworkers and for this reason may be hesitant to call the attention of authorities to their facility, for fear that this could result in deportations. Because of this, immigrant workers working lawfully within the U.S. may be as reluctant to vindicate their rights as their undocumented coworkers (HRW, 2005b). Most commentators agree that vulnerability is most acute for undocumented workers who come into the U.S. without work authorization and are liable to immediate deportation if they are discovered. Undocumented workers often shrink from exercising rights of association or from seeking legal redress when their workplace rights are violated for fear of having their legal status discovered and being deported. For the same reason, they rarely testify in legal proceedings even when their testimony is essential to another worker or group of workers seeking legal remedies. Fully aware of workers’ fear, and confident that they will not file complaints to labor law authorities or testify to back up a claim, employers have little legal or practical incentive against violating their rights (see National Employment Law Project at www.nelp.org and the National Immigration Law Center at www.nilc.org). Issues range from generally poor and dangerous working conditions to shocking instances of human trafficking and child exploitation, as well as allegations of sexual abuse by employers. Many of these issues are extremely complex and could form the basis of an entire book; however, this chapter provides an overview of this serious and rampant abuse.

Poor work conditions Over the past 50 or 60 years, a comprehensive body of international human rights law has emerged. This body of law affirms a range of rights to which all workers, regardless of immigration status, are entitled. These include the right to: Who pays for our cheap meat? 45 • a safe and healthful workplace, • freedom of association and the right to form unions and bargain collectively, and • equality of conditions and rights to immigrant workers.

Modern poultry and meat production is an exceptionally dangerous industry for workers. In fact, it has the highest rate of injury and illness in the entire manufacturing sector. In 2001, the reported injury and illness rate was two and a half times greater than the average manufacturing rate and almost four times higher than the overall rate for private industry (Stull, 2003). Worker health and safety is one of the areas where the link between immigration status and worker’s welfare is most obvious. A 2004 investigative report showed that Mexican workers in the U.S. are 80 percent more likely to die in the U.S. than their U.S. born counterparts. The report also showed that this number had increased dramatically in the preceding decade (Pritchard, 2004). The working conditions in these facilities are often dangerous for a variety of reasons. Killing and butchering large animals is very physically demanding work, and so a lot of the dangers present are arguably inherent. However, there are often other factors exacerbating these less avoidable dangers. For example, many workers reported inadequate training and equipment, extreme heavy lifting, close quarters cutting, sullied work conditions, long hours, and rapid line speed (HRW, 2005a).

Heavy lifting Large-animal processing naturally involves lifting and moving heavy animals, animal parts, and equipment, due to the sheer size of the animals involved. A manager at a North Carolina hog facility (where workers kill and butcher 25,000 hogs a day) described the difficulty of this job in an administrative hearing regarding his plant (In the Matter of Smithfield Packing Company, 1999). He described heavy lifting, repetitive work, and a hot work environment, confirming the findings seen in reports by Oxfam, HRW, and the Southern Poverty Law Center. For example, the manager described how people tending the scald tub, a large tub used to soften the skin of a pig to remove the hair from its skin, sometimes have to lift out hogs that become unshackled under the scalding water. When this happens he said that the only way to get them out is with a long steel hook, highly demanding and dangerous work by these low-paid employees who average approximately US$27,000 annually (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, 2016). (Note: Most statistics don’t separate out workers in different agricultural industries. Additionally, farmworkers are typically not entitled to overtime under federal law here, as they may be working 8- to 14-hour shifts.) However, it is not just the large-animal processing that is dangerous—poultry processing can also be very dangerous work, and particularly the “live hang” job. Here, the chicken hangers grab birds by the feet and sling them to fast-moving metal hooks. The birds, which weight approximately 5 pounds, naturally fight back with pecking, biting, and scratching. Making this job even more difficult is 46 Becky Jenkins the fact that the chickens often urinate and defecate out of desperation, often hit- ting the workers below (Cobb, 2004).

Long hours The workdays in this industry are often very long and involve a lot of night shifts. These long hours came to public awareness for a time during a series of reports of injuries and deaths in Nebraska meatpacking plants (Posada & Soderlin, 2016). Many of these incidents in Nebraska involved night shift cleaners, most of them undocumented workers. Some of these incidents were especially gruesome, grab- bing the attention of local media and the public. One cleaner was killed when a hog-splitting saw was accidentally activated, another lost a leg when a grinder was mistakenly activated (HRW, 2005b). The combination of long hours and repetitive motion directly leads to increased risk of injury (United States Government Accountability Office, 2005). Working an eight-hour shift in this type of environment is physically and mentally exhaust- ing. The situation gets far more dangerous when workers are required to work mandatory overtime. According to one employee interviewed by HRW in north- western Arkansas, “The last hour of a regular shift is hard. You’re tired and it’s hard to concentrate. Then they tell you to work two hours overtime. That’s when it gets downright dangerous” (HRW, 2005a, p. 42).

Line speed Line speed has often been cited as one of the most dangerous features of slaughterhouse work. According to a Southern Poverty Law Center survey, 78 percent of workers said that increasingly fast line speeds make them feel unsafe. A shocking 99 percent of workers said they had no opportunity to voice their concerns about the line speed (Southern Poverty Law Center, 2013). The line speed issue appears to be prevalent across this industry (Linder, M. 1995). Naturally, the fast and repetitive nature of this work takes its toll on workers’ bodies. Data from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) from 2014 showed that repetitive-motion injuries among beef and pork processing workers were nearly seven times that of other private industries (Lowe, 2016). And 76 percent of workers in a Maryland plant had abnormal nerve conditions in at least one hand, according to a 2015 report by the National Institute for Occu- pational Safety and Health (Ramsey, Musolin, & Mueller, 2015). Compounding these health and safety concerns is the increasingly concealed nature of this industry, one that operates out of the view of most consumers. The impact that these factors have on human rights will be discussed in the next section.

Freedom of association Within many U.S. industries, the lack of workers’ freedom of association, or the right to band together in order to engage in collective bargaining without Who pays for our cheap meat? 47 interference, has been a topic of much academic criticism (Compa, 2003). One high-profile example of interference with freedom of association in themeat industry involved a hog plant in North Carolina run by the then largest hog processing company in the world. Workers at this plant unsuccessfully tried to form a union in 1999. Several workers described being threatened by managers in captive audience meetings where the managers said that they would close the plant if workers voted in favor of collective bargaining (Compa, 2003). This is just one tactic that has been used to suppress freedom of association in this industry. Captive audience meetings are still an issue in the U.S., and not just in the meat industry (Secunda, P. M., 2010). A video produced by retail superstore Tar- get for use in their captive audience meetings was leaked in 2014, causing some controversy. This heightened awareness of the issue led to some states proposing and passing legislation to address this issue (Harris, 2014). In January 2016, a petition was filed with the National Labor Relations Board by 106 labor scholars, including law professors, historians, and industrial relations experts, asking the administrative body to reform regulations around captive audience meetings. This continues to be an area of uncertainty and controversy in the U.S.

Sexism, racism, sexual abuse, and child trafficking

Racism Modern research from some of the world’s top research institutions demonstrate that we are all (at least a little bit) racist and sexist (Muir, 2015; Harvard Univer- sity & Others, 2011). The research into unconscious biases has been going on for some time, and was the subject of a Stanford Law Review article as far back as 1987 (Lawrence, 1987). However, the problem of unconscious racism or implicit bias is only recently beginning to seep into popular media and public consciousness. The premise denotes that we all have unconscious biases that inform our views of people and how we behave toward them (Kristof, 2016; Lee, A. J., 2005). Discrimination and ill treatment of immigrant workers and workers of color is inextricably linked with issues of sexism and racism (Krieger et al., 2006). This discrimination can come in the form of unconscious biases or more overtly racist or discriminatory treatment. The very fact that the majority of workers in this industry are immigrants and people of color is viewed by many as a symptom of this wider issue of structural racism and the barriers to educational opportunities for immigrants in the U.S. (Schhneider, Martinez, & Ownes, 2017).

Sexism and sexual abuse Because the majority of workers in meat processing are male, issues that particularly affect women in this industry often go unreported. A recent court case and some other reports of sexual misconduct in the broader agricultural industry show that some women in these industries even endure sexual harassment, assault, and rape (Yeung, 2013). This may seem shocking to some, but given the fact that 48 Becky Jenkins 8 percent of rapes happen at work and the complexities that surround reporting abuse for immigrant workers, it should not be (Durhart, 2001). The likelihood of an immigrant woman in the agriculture industry reporting this type of misconduct is low for two reasons. Firstly, the issues around immigration status that we discussed above may prevent a woman from reporting any kind of employer misconduct. Secondly, we know that due to a myriad of psychological, sociological, and legal reasons, women (and men) are often hesitant to report sexual abuses, even if they do not face immigration-related consequences or the fear of losing their job (Rennison, 2002). At the time of writing, a high-profile lawsuit is under way regarding one of the nation’s largest slaughterhouses. This legal action was brought by the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which accuses a major poultry producer that slaughters more than half a billion chickens every year of failing to address extreme acts of race and gender discrimination, labor violations, and sexual assault at its Morton, Mississippi plant. The plaintiffs in this case allege that supervisors in this plant groped female workers and violently assaulted them. They also allege that female workers were offered money or promotions for sex. There are also allegations of sexist and racist comments being made, as well other forms of physical abuse. The same company recently received an $88,000 citation from OSHA for severe worker injuries (Southern Poverty Law Center, 2016). The outcome of this case will certainly be an important one for women and people of color in this industry.

Human trafficking and child labor In June 2016, the leader of a human trafficking organization was sentenced to prison for his role in luring Guatemalan minors and adults to the U.S. under false pretenses and then using threats of physical harm to them and their families to compel them to work on Ohio egg farms. Adults and minors alike were forced to live and work in inhumane conditions. Some of the minors involved were as young as 14. The victims were made to perform physically demanding work for up to 12 hours per day, for minimal pay. Acting U.S. Attorney for Northern Ohio Carole S. Rendon said that this case should serve as a reminder that this kind of abuse happens around us “in plain sight” (Department of Justice, 2016).

Psychological and social impacts The impact that meat production has on humans goes beyond these legal problems. Recent research suggests that meat processing plants and slaughterhouses may have severe psychological and social impacts on both individual workers and the communities in which they are located. Oxfam’s Lives on the Line: The High Human Cost of Chicken report revealed that poultry workers commonly develop both anxiety and depression. According to this report, social isolation, low social support, abusive supervision, poor compensation and living conditions, hazardous conditions, and job insecurity are among the factors causing this (Oxfam, 2015). Who pays for our cheap meat? 49 One might speculate that anyone working a similarly low paid industry job could develop depression and anxiety ‒ however, researchers have addressed this critique; for example, a 2007 study of mostly African American women in a poor, rural area of North Carolina showed that the prevalence of depressive symptoms was 80 percent higher among poultry workers than other low-wage workers in the same area (Lipscomb et al., 2007). There is also some research to suggest that these psychological and social impacts go beyond the individual, into the communities in which these facilities are located. A 2007 study found a strong correlation between the presence of a large slaughterhouse and high crime rates in U.S. communities. In fact, this study found that housing a slaughterhouse in a community stood out as the factor most likely to spike crime statistics. The findings indicate that slaughterhouse employment increases total arrest rates, arrests for violent crimes, arrests for rape, and arrests for other sex offenses in comparison with other industries. Again, one might object that a slaughterhouse town’s disproportionate population of poor, working-class males might be the true cause here, but these researchers had also controlled for that possibility by comparing their data to counties with comparable populations employed in factory-like operations. According to this study, slaughterhouse workers were often forced to become “desensitized” and their behavior outside of work sometimes reflected this (Fitzgerald, Kalof, & Dietz, 2009). A health care provider serving poultry plant workers at a medical clinic in Northwest Arkansas echoed similar concerns in its interview with HRW. This professional posited that psychological problems it saw in workers were in part a result of the relentless overtime they reported working, resulting in extreme fatigue and depression. She noted “the company gets cheap labor, they maximize production and all the social costs get passed onto the community” (HRW, 2005a, p. 43). Exacerbating this problem is the fact that these psychological and social impacts are often experienced by what we sometimes call “environmental justice communities.” This next section discusses the EJ impacts that these facilities may have on communities.

Environmental justice Underserved populations across the U.S. have raised EJ concerns facing their communities for decades. The EPA has established EJ as a goal for all communities and persons across this nation, which will be achieved when everyone (regardless of race, socio-economic status, etc.) enjoys the same degree of protection from environmental and health hazards, and equal access to the decision- making process to have a healthy environment in which to live, learn, and work (EPA, n.d., para. 1). The siting of concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs), slaughterhouses, and meat processing plants is a good case study for examining just how much work remains to be done, in order to achieve these goals. The intersection between animal agriculture and EJ is an interesting and complex one. On a global level, animal agriculture is a significant contributor to global climate 50 Becky Jenkins change. Many climate change commentators note that some of the worst effects of climate change, such as drought, famine etc., are endured by people in many of the poorest nations in the world ‒ in many cases, the nations which have often contributed the least to this problem (Mary Robinson Foundation for Climate Justice, 2016). Within the U.S., EJ issues (sometimes called environmental racism) often manifest in rural communities primarily in “the construction and operation of intensive livestock operations in or near people of color communities; labor practices dangerous to workers (including factory workers and farmworkers); and the placement of landfills, incinerators, and other noxious production and waste facilities in or near people of color communities and low-income communities” (Harris, 1997, para. 1). Harris’ work focuses on the placement of industrial sized livestock operations in communities of color and low-income communities. He uses North Carolina as an example but points out that the same problems occur in many states. He notes that the same economic neglect that makes these communities prime targets of other polluting industrial activities also makes them prime targets of the harm caused by animal agribusiness. North Carolina serves as a good example of his theory. At the time of his writing, the 15 top hog-producing counties in North Carolina were all located in communities that are mostly Afri- can American (Harris, 1997). More recently, in 2005, it was noted in North Caro- lina that there were 7.2 times as many swine CAFOs located within the areas of highest poverty compared with the areas of lowest poverty (Hodne, 2005). More recent research supports these older North Carolina–based studies (Nicole, 2013; Overcash, 2009). It is not just the workers who experience these burdens but also people living in areas that surround animal agribusiness facilities. An EPA (2001) publication highlighted concerns regarding water quality harms from these facilities. The industry affects air quality as well as water quality. Studies have shown that proximity to industrial agriculture causes respiratory inflammation, headaches, eye irrita- tion, and nausea to residents (Friedrich & Wilson, 2016). For more about environmental justice, especially the cumulative impacts endured by EJ communities, see www.joelharden.org/uploads/2/2/1/5/22159492/bullard-ej-and-communities- of-colour.pdf.

Conclusions The problems facing workers in this industry are varied and complex, rendering improvements a difficult task. Two aspects of this problem are clear. Firstly, we see that many of these problems stem from a poorly functioning immigration system, and therefore, without meaningful immigration policy reform, progress in this area will be difficult. Secondly, there are many actors at play here: administrative bodies, state governments, industry, and consumers. HRW’s Blood, Sweat & Fear report (2005) recommends changes at all of these levels; some are summa- rized here and supplemented with further ideas. Who pays for our cheap meat? 51 Immigration reform Immigration reform is a complex topic and far outside the scope of this paper to make suggestions for national immigration policy. However, immigration reforms that reduce the incidence of violation of immigrant workers’ rights are desper- ately needed. Generally speaking, this situation could be improved by (a) creating meaningful processes whereby undocumented workers currently living in the U.S. can adjust their status, and (b) reducing the involvement of employers in ver- ifying immigrants’ status, leaving the matter to federal immigration authorities. HRW’s report (2005a) gives detailed and specific recommendations directed at all levels of government (Congress, state governments, and administrative bodies). Unfortunately many of their suggestions may be very difficult to implement in the 2017 U.S. political climate, especially those that necessitate increased agency funding or passing federal-level immigration legislation. However, one important recommendation which could be more easily implemented involves simply edu- cating agency staff in both the U.S. Department of Labor and the Immigration and Naturalization Service of their joint November 1998 Memorandum of Under- standing that prevents the Labor Department from inquiring into the immigration status of workers during any investigation into labor standards violations. Another suggestion regarding the education of workers is to provide non-citizen workers and their employers detailed information (in their language) about their right to protection from (1) discrimination on the basis of national origin; (2) retaliation in the hiring or firing of authorized non-citizen workers; and (3) a demand from employers for more or different identity documents than those required by law. Immigration reform is crucial here, but it is not the only way to make progress for workers in this industry, there are other areas where policymaker, industry, the academy, advocates, and consumers have the potential to make positive changes. There are also areas where change is already happening, at least in some states. The “captive audience” legislation is a good example of this. with states such as Oregon and New Jersey having introduced legislation dealing with this problem.

Ergonomics standards and line speed Adopting a strong, clear, and enforceable OSHA ergonomics standard that requires equipment engineering improvement, job rotation, more frequent breaks, enhanced training in workers’ languages, and more accurate and complete recording and reporting of injuries is paramount. New regulations and standards are necessary to reduce line speed in meat and poultry processing plants. Our poli- cymaking in this area needs to protect workers’ safety and not just profitability.

Fighting “Ag-Gag,” coalition building, and academia The link between “Ag-Gag” issues and workers’ rights often goes under the radar. The term “Ag-Gag” is used to describe a class of anti–whistle blower laws that 52 Becky Jenkins apply within the agriculture industry and, more recently, in other settings such as hospitals or elder care facilities. This term usually refers to state laws forbidding filming or photography in farms or slaughterhouses without the consent of management. The secrecy and corporate protections that these laws promulgate have potentially detrimental effects for the welfare of workers as well as animals. For this reason, coalitions of journalists and organizations dedicated to civil liberties, animal protection, food safety, labor rights, and the environment have formed to challenge these kinds of bills (American Civil Liberties Union, 2014). These kinds of collaborations among organizations and individuals have been crucial in fighting these bills and must continue in their collaboration on other areas of intersection, such as meat industry workers’ rights. Historically, there has not been much collaboration of human-centric groups focusing on workers’ rights, immigration issues, and environmental justice with animal-centric groups focusing on factory farming. As scholars like Maneesha Deckha, Aph Ko, and others increasingly view different forms of exploitation of all kinds as being interconnected, our advocacy needs to reflect this. Organizations such as the Food Empowerment Project (www.foodispower.org) are paving the way for this new form of advocacy. However, this intersectional work remains “fringe” and is in dire need of expansion. This intersectional scholarship in academia may also be useful to help us better understand the root causes of this issue. On this same note, the psychological and sociological research into the impact that this kind of work has on employees and communities is also in need of expansion. As we discussed above, there have only been a handful of studies to date. These studies have yielded concerning results, and further sound research in this area could prove very valuable in advocating for these workers.

Consumers, tourists, and the tourism industry Finally, we must not underestimate the crucial role of the consumer in this issue, and most, if not all issues of food ethics. Many who are privileged enough choose to buy ethically sourced foods should do so not only in their everyday lives but also while traveling. Consumer groups, non-profits, and other organizations make it easier than ever to educate ourselves about where our food comes from and apply that knowledge when we go out to eat, buy groceries, or visit restaurants in new cities. To this end, tourists should have a healthy level of skepticism when reading labels on animal products. Many of these labels are misleading and likely have little to no impact on the welfare of the workers used to produce those products. While some of these labels have government-controlled definitions (United States Department of Agriculture, 2015), most of them do not have any legal definition. Most label claims are “self made” by the company for marketing purposes, leaving the accuracy of the claims unverified (Animal Welfare Institute, 2016). For those labeling schemes that carry at least some level of verification, the focus of the schemes is generally on the conditions the animal was raised in rather than the conditions they were slaughtered and processed in, thus leaving meat processing workers largely unaffected. Who pays for our cheap meat? 53 For those who can afford it, making more ethical food choices may force us to consider spending a higher percentage of our income on food. In today’s world, the higher a country’s average income, the smaller percentage of income is spent on food. As it stands, Americans spend less on food than people in any other country in the world (World Bank, 2009). While many Americans cannot afford to change their eating habits, there are many who can. Although there is a lot of injustice in the meat industry, and in our food systems more generally, there is cause for hope. The area of food justice is where many of us, as consumers, hold a lot of power to shape the policies and practices of even very large corporations. We can choose to be a voice for the many exploited workers who often have no choice but to remain silent. Many people adopt a more relaxed approach to food while on vacation. This is hardly surprising, since for most people, a vacation is a break from the stresses of everyday life. However, taking a break from our food ethics is a slippery slope; once we have made one concession/excuse, it is easier to make others. While certain attitudes to food are relaxed while on vacation, such as having dessert and/ or an extra alcoholic drink, some of our decisions, such as choosing to eat conven- tionally raised animal products, have a much bigger impact on the environment, animals, and workers. Further, those involved in the tourism industry have the responsibility to consider these issues in their work, perhaps even more so. Everyone from travel bloggers to hoteliers and large travel agencies have great potential to educate tourists and have a real impact, especially as “green travel” and socially responsible tourism become more prevalent. As tourism grows as an industry in the U.S., so does the need to critically reflect on the impact that tourism has. At the individual level, looking at our food ethics while on vacation should be an important part of this. In the tourism industry, those involved in developing and shaping the future of this growing sector have the potential to have a large and positive impact for the environment, animals, and workers alike.

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Marina Rosales Benites de Franco and Jesús Abel Mejía Marcaccuzco

Introduction The international trade of Pecari tajacu (Linnaeus, 1758), “collared peccary,” and Tayassu pecari (Link, 1795), “white-lipped peccary,” has primarily existed between American countries. Hence, it is necessary to know its influence on conservation status and its relation with tourist restaurants, another form of trade. This chapter reviews the international trade of peccaries, performing a case study for Peru, since it is the major exporter country. Additionally, it is crucial to know the influence of tourist restaurants on this species. In this regard, it is important to highlight that P. tajacu and T. pecari are included in the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) Red List. P. tajacu is categorized in “Least Concern” (IUCN, 2016a) and T. pecari in “Vulnerable” categories (IUCN, 2016b); both are also listed in Appendix II of the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES). The international trade of peccaries began to come to light when the species was listed in Appendix II in 1986. In Peru, these populations are not categorized as threatened; only T. pecari is categorized as “Near Threatened” by Decree 004-2014-MINAGRI (El Peruano, 2014) (Figure 5.1). As a first step, it is important to note how the trade of peccaries is conducted. P. tajacu and T. pecari specimens are hunted by the indigenous and local communities. Legislation permits only subsistence hunting to indigenous and local communities; however, a percentage of meat hunted is sold at such major markets as Loreto, Ucayali, San Martín, Junín, Madre de Dios, Huánuco, and Lima. Fang et al. (2008) and Van Vliet, Quiceno-Mesa, Cruz-Antia, and Yagüe (2014) reported that the native communities sell the meat in order to obtain money to buy other subsistence products at the local markets. Local markets sell peccary meat, but it is forbidden. However, this trade develops without restrictions from local authorities, and many restaurants buy it to make special dishes for tourists. On the other hand, skins or pelts derived from bushmeat are legal to trade as remains of livelihood hunting. In general, more than 90 percent of peccary skins are exported (Rosales, 2016a). Thus, this study presents the process to connect subsistence hunting, the international fur trade market, the local meat market, The international trade of peccary 59

Figure 5.1 Peccaries tourist restaurants, and tourists’ perception of peccary population conservation. In this way, it provides an introduction to the landscape of peccary consumption and demonstrates how tourism fits into an already critical conservation issue.

Background on international and national Peruvian legislation

International legislation In 2014, the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD, n.d.) approved Decision XII/18 on the sustainable use of biodiversity: bushmeat and sustainable wildlife management. This Decision recognizes the “One Health” approach and its relevance to developing national and local wildlife surveillance systems and strengthening national biosecurity associated with bushmeat. In this regard, inter alia, it “encourages Parties to develop, revise or update, as appropriate, their regulatory systems to differentiate among subsistence uses, illegal hunting, and domestic and international trade of specimens of wild species and products, in a mutually supportive manner with CITES and other international obligations, so as to avoid penalizing both the countries and the persons using wildlife resources for subsistence purposes” (CBD, n.d., no. 9). Also, it “encourages Parties to assess, 60 Marina de Franco and Jesús Marcaccuzco minimize and mitigate the impacts of illegal hunting on the subsistence hunting and livelihoods of indigenous and local communities, and on other subsistence users of wildlife resources” (CBD, n.d., no. 10). Finally, it recommends “to review, and as appropriate, reform any incentives that might encourage unsustainable consumption of bushmeat” (CBD, n.d, no. 12). In 2016 CITES adopted the Resolution Conf. 13.11 (Rev. COP 17) “Bush- meat” (https://cites.org/sites/default/files/document/E-Res-13-11-R17.pdf ), which reviewed the relation between the bushmeat illegal trade, poverty, and food security – taking note that illicit trade in bushmeat increases poverty and the food deficit among rural communities using bushmeat as their main source of animal protein. Also, it expressed concern that unregulated trade in and consumption of bushmeat may bring risks to human health. CITES advised, inter alia, that all relevant parties should prohibit the off-take of Appendix I species for consumption as food and to encourage sustainable levels of off-take for species in Appendix II and III of the Convention; and, improve the domestic management of CITES- listed species harvested, traded and consumed as bushmeat through a review and, if needed, strengthening of relevant informative, legislative, in situ conservation, monitoring, enforcement, and social or economic incentive measures, to ensure that the harvest of and international trade in bushmeat products derived from CITES-listed species are legal, sustainable, and traceable (CITES, 2016).

National legislation National legislation of peccary hunting was related to growing migration from the Andean to the Amazon region. During the period 1940–1970, increased migration caused the beginnings of road construction in the Amazonian. The growth in population has pressured the change in land use, and as a result, wild hunting and deforestation increased. Because of this, the Peruvian Ministry of Agriculture approved legal measures in 1979 to regulate subsistence hunting and the amount of bushmeat permitted for sale. This legislation restricted hunting to indigenous people for their protein source. Hence, it forbade the sale of bushmeat in cities with more than 3,000 inhabitants. Later in 2000 and 2011, respectively, the Forest and Fauna legislation (Laws 27308 and 29763) regulated bushmeat, allowing the hunting of wildlife only as livelihoods for indigenous and local people. Further- more, they regulated the remains of peccaries from subsistence hunting as skins and gave annual export quotas. Law 27963, passed in 2011, differs from the earlier legal regulations related to subsistence hunting. It allows hunting by rural dwellers, beyond the peasant and native communities, thus expanding the beneficiaries of subsistence hunting. In this regard, the growth of native, peasant populations and of migration has been constant, so the pressure of hunting wildlife has an incessant demand, despite being an illegal activity for non-indigenous persons, such as referred to by Ben- dayán (1991), Bodmer and Pezo (1999), Bendayán and Bardales (2004), and Bod- mer, Pezo, and Fang (2004). Rosales (2016b) highlighted the relation between population growth and the increase in bushmeat demand, taking into account The international trade of peccary 61 the demand for rapid human population growth in the Amazonian regions, with population growth rates for Loreto (485 percent), Madre de Dios (2,113 percent), Pasco (206 percent), San Martin (669 percent), and Ucayali (2,575 percent) in the period 1940–2007. Hence, national legislation bans bushmeat trade; however, this activity is carried out at the main regional markets. Bushmeat is openly sold mainly in the markets of the cities of Loreto, Ucayali, Madre de Dios, San Martin, Junín-Pichanaqui, and Huánuco-Tingo María. The national authority only regulates skins or fur trade, but there is no regulation for wildlife management in its habitats. However, there is a special case in protected areas. The Pucacuro National Reserve has developed an initiative to regulate subsistence hunting and its trade through a management plan. It is carried out by Kichwa native communities. This native community has been working for the recovery of wildlife populations such as peccaries, deer, and spotted paca. This subsistence hunting benefits the wildlife conservation status and 676 indigenous people.

Bushmeat and skins trade of peccaries

Domestic trade of peccary bushmeat The big and medium-sized mammals that are traded as bushmeat are approximately 13 species. Two of these species are also traded for their skins; this trade is legal and authorized by the Ministry of Agriculture. These species are: collared peccary (P. tajacu) and white-lipped peccary (T pecari). P. tajacu and T. pecari specimens are hunted by the native communities or Amazonian indigenous peoples, and approximately 30 percent is traded in major markets of the Ama- zonian cities for other subsistence products found there (Bodmer & Fang, 2005) (Figure 5.2).

International trade of peccary skins In a 2016 report on international trade of peccary skins, Rosales (2016a) reported that the P. tajacu international trade (1986–2011) was represented by tanned leathers (2,369,929), leather products (410,910), clothing (215,511), shoe pairs (260,777), and watch straps (206,155) (Figure 5.1). Forty-four countries were exporters and re-exporters, of which Peru, Argentina, Ecuador, Guatemala, Bolivia, Brazil, Panama, and Belize were the eight countries of origin. The main exporters and re-exporters were: Peru (1,201,524), Argen- tina (683,748), Germany (196,142), and Italy (130,719). Additionally, the same author denoted that the T. pecari international trade (1986–2011) was represented by tanned leathers (586,896) shoes (223,368), clothing (188,337), leather products (131,363), and watchstraps (16,129) (see Figure 5.2). Thirty- six countries were exporters and re-exporters, of which 10 are the home range of this species: Peru, Belize, Guatemala, Paraguay, Venezuela, Brazil, Guyana, Argentina, Bolivia, and Venezuela. Figure 5.2 Indigenous communities and regions providing peccary bushmeat Note: Dark gray indicates Indigenous communities; light gray indicates Amazonian ecoregion of peccary meat (collared peccary and white-lipped peccary); gray indicates key regions providing peccary meat (Loreto, Ucayali, and San Martín) The international trade of peccary 63 Countries of origin Argentina, Bolivia, Guatemala, Mexico, and Peru exported 488,048 tanned leathers. Bolivia and Argentina exported the largest quantities in the period 1988–1990 and Peru in 1988–2011. Exports from Argentina were replaced by Bolivia and Peru in 1988–1990. Germany and Italy have been the major re-exporters countries of the tanned leather from South America.

Peru’s exports: tanned leathers Peru exported 1,201,524 P. tajacu tanned leathers and 405,938 T. pecari tanned leathers. Peru had the highest proportions of international trade in peccaries, a total of 1,607,462 skins exported in 23 years, followed by clothing (60,767), leather products (29,035), and shoes (3,254). The highest percentage was exported to Germany and Italy, finished products and clothing to France; processed products to Germany and the United States. Rosales (2016b) reported that international trade in tanned leather P. tajacu and T. pecari populations during the period 1988–2011 for Peru generated total economic benefits of US$50,115,026. From this total value corresponded: 7 percent for hunters in economic benefits, 12 percent for local gatherers, 15 percent for city gatherers, 62 percent for industrial, and 4 percent for the National Authority of Wildlife, a state institution.

Table 5.1 International trade of collared peccary and white-lipped peccary, 1986–2011

Commodity Collared Peccary White-lipped Peccary

Belts 1,303 474 Bodies 11 1 Garments 215,511 188,337 Handbags 16,367 240 Leather products 410,910 131,631 Live animals 1,151 355 Meat 75 Pairs of shoes 260,777 223,368 Plates 3,850 348 Skulls and bones 73 51 Specimens 2,517 1,073 Tanned leather 2,369,929 58,6896 Tanned leather (sq. ft.) 1,077 Tanned leather (kg) 355,798 7,649 Tanned leather (m) 24,738 271 Tanned leather (m2) 30,976 23,408 Tanned leather (pairs) 3,725 Teeth and fangs 1,640 Trophies 247 155 Unspecified 3,316 1,680 Wallets 4,474 Watchstraps 206,155 16,129

Source: Rosales, 2016a 64 Marina de Franco and Jesús Marcaccuzco Therefore, this analysis showed a disproportion in profits generated in the marketing chain, which is directly related to the conservation of these populations in their habitats.

Bushmeat and livelihoods The Amazonian native communities in Peru are made up of 60 ethnic groups that belong to 15 of 16 ethnolinguistic families of Peru (INDEPA, 2010), with a population of 332,975 inhabitants according to the last census in 2007 (INEI, 2009). This population corresponds to 1.18 percent of Peru’s population. All have as their main source of protein farmed meat from domesticated animals, fish, wild animals, and plants, while the Andean migrant communities and rural people have as their protein source mainly domesticated animals. The wild fauna that are sold as bushmeat are Cuniculus paca “spotted Paca,” Alloutta seniculus “howler monkey,” Cebus albrifrons “white-fronted capuchin,” Sapajus apella “tufted capuchin,” Dasyprocta punctata “Central American agouti,” Dasypus sp. “long-nosed or naked-tailed armadillo,” Hydrocheris hydro- chaeris “capybara,” Lagothrix lagothricha “common woolly monkey,” Mazama americana “red brocket,” Nasua nasua “South American coati,” Tapirus terres- tres “tapir,” Tayassu pecari “white-lipped peccary,” and Pecari tajacu “collared peccary” (Bendayán, 1991; Bodmer & Pezo, 1999; Bendayán & Bardales, 2004; Bodmer & Pezo, 2004; Van Vliet et al., 2014). The urban human populations buy wild meat at markets in the Amazonian regions. For example, the Belen and Modelo markets sell 345 tons of bushmeat in Iquitos per year. The main species are P. tajacu, Cuniculus paca, and T. pecari (Moya, 2011). On the basis of these data, this would correspond to between 20,700 and 27,600 peccaries (P. tajacu and T. pecari). Their meat is sold fresh or smoked to prevent spoilage. It should be noted that T. pecari is hunted in more proportion than P. tajacu, as can be seen in the case of the National Reserve Pucacuro, where the bushmeat average is 5.62 tons/year and the indigenous people hunted 94 percent T. pecari and 6 percent P. tajacu in the period 2011– 2013 (SERNANP, 2015). However in the case of Pucacuro, the market flows inversely. The demand is reversed at two of the largest markets in Iquitos, which demand more P. tajacu than T. pecari, 7,793 and 3,144 individuals, respectively (Moya, 2011). Van Vliet et al. (2014) studied the Tripartite Amazon border area of Brazil, Peru, and Colombia between 2012 and 2013, and reported that there are diversi- fied hunters. They hunt 18 tons/month, and alternate hunting in different types of forest with fishing and wage labor in their community. They use riparian forest (23 percent of the time), secondary forest (31 percent), and primary forest (33 percent). They consume 70 percent of hunting and the remaining 30 percent is sold. This is compared to specialized hunters who hunt 1.54 tons/month and spend most (74 percent) of their time in remote sites in primary forests. They sell more than 90 percent of their hunt. Among the 10 most hunted species was the white-lipped peccary. The international trade of peccary 65 Tourism and peccaries The tourist authority (MINCETUR, 2016) reported tourist economic activities accounted for 3.9 percent of total GDP in Peru in 2015, an increase from 3.6 percent in 2011. Tourist services of food and beverages correspond to 23 percent of this economic activity. Foreign exchange earnings from tourism totaled US$4.151 billion, from which US$3.320 million corresponds to travel expenses where food and drink is included. More than 4.4 million international tourists came to visit Peru, 1.1 million more than in 2011, equivalent to a cumulative growth of 32.8 percent during this period. Alternatively, it is important to highlight that the domestic tourism expenditures amounted to US$8.6 billion in 2015. Additionally, it is important to note that domestic tourists are more open to consuming bushmeat at tourist restaurants than international tourists; they also spend more time in the interior Amazonian regions than the international tourists. How- ever, Lima tourist restaurants provide opportunities to international tourists to consume regional wildlife dishes. Currently, there exists a “gastronomic boom,” as many tourists come to Peru attracted by the Peruvian food. Most of the Peruvian cuisine in the coast and the Andean regions is made with domesticated animal meat; however, meals in in the Amazonian region are often made with wild meat. Many Amazonian restaurants sell regional dishes made from wild meat, which are usually served with fried banana. Human migration to Amazonian Peru is growing, so there are many Ama- zonian restaurants in Lima. These restaurants are often the center of tourist visits. Because the bushmeat trade does not go through health certification authorities, its sanitation and health cannot be certain. There are no regulations for sanitary transport and trade, which exposes this black market to zoonotic risks. Many restaurants buy fresh or salted wild meat at markets and directly from hunters. It is vital to conduct sanitation studies of bushmeat, however. Because the marketing of bushmeat is illegal, the health authorities have not established a legal framework for monitoring the supply chain. Wild meat studies reported at Pucacuro National Reserve revealed that collared peccary (7 animals), white-lipped peccary (46), and deer (2) tested positive for coliform bacteria. The total tests were positive for 56 percent white-lipped peccary and 71 percent collared peccary. An outbreak of disease would be devastating to Peru, as the country maintains a favorable reputation for its gastronomy. For this reason, a study of Lima restaurants was conducted in September 2016. The research questions were “What are tourists’ perceptions of consumption bushmeat? Does wildlife meat consumption have any influence on wildlife and Amazonian conservation?” The restaurants were selected on the basis of two indicators: they must sell wild meat dishes and they must have an official menu. These surveys were carried out at restaurants in Lima, whereby the managers of the restaurant (n = 28) as well as tourists (n = 81) were surveyed. The survey for the managers inquired about the quantity of bushmeat dishes sold to tourists, while the survey to visitors delved into their impressions of bushmeat as food and peccary conservation. 66 Marina de Franco and Jesús Marcaccuzco The study found that restaurants sold dishes with such different kinds of wild meat as spotted paca (Cuniculus paca), Central American agouti (Dasyprocta punctate), red brocket deer (Mazama Americana), spectacled caiman (Caiman crocodilus), tapir (Tapirus terrestris), white-lipped peccary (Tayassu pecari), and collared peccary (Pecari tajacu). The demand was higher for spotted paca and collared peccary. The restaurants bought approximately 2,932 kg peccary meat per month, equivalent roughly to 35,184 kg peccary meat per year (2,346 animals) (see Table 5.4A). The meat of white-lipped peccary and collared peccary came from eight regions. The main providers were Loreto and Ucayali, 28 percent and 24 percent, respectively (Table 5.2); most meat was supplied during January, February, March, June, and July. A popular way that peccary is served is as cecina. Cecina is prepared by seasoning with salt, pepper, achiote (Bixa orellana), and oil, then the meat is hung on the string on a hot day and when it is completely dry, it is used in regional dishes. Dry meat is put with butter on a medium heat until it is brown. For the garnish, melt the butter in another pan, adding banana, chopped onion, and parboiled cassava. The tourists were more familiar with collared peccary meat dishes (83 percent) than white-lipped peccary (19 percent). Most (93 percent) felt that bushmeat dishes at restaurants were an attractive tourist option. However, 84 percent said they believed that selling bushmeat to restaurants does not help with peccary population conservation. Regarding their perception of conservation of the Amazonian peccary population, 80 percent of tourists thought that restaurants selling peccary bushmeat should contribute to peccary conservation in the Amazonian through green taxes (40 percent), the Peruvian Trust Fund for National Parks and Protected Areas (35 percent), effective control (11 percent), and captive breeding (6 percent). Fur- thermore, the study evidenced that there is a positive correlation between advanced education with conservation awareness: 75 percent of tourists with university studies think peccary population conservation initiatives are needed. However, no correlation was found with gender: 84 percent of men and 74 percent of women without advanced education believed that peccary population conservation was

Table 5.2 Main regions of origin for collared peccary and white-lipped peccary bushmeat

Regions Percent procured

Loreto 27.8 Ucayali 24.1 San Martín 16.7 Madre de Dios 9.3 Amazonas 7.4 Huánuco 5.6 Junín 3.7 Pasco 1.8 No information 3.7 The international trade of peccary 67 not necessary. Finally, those over 40 years old had more awareness of conservation than their younger counterparts.

Global code of ethics for tourism The United Nations World Tourism Organization approved the resolution adopted by the General Assembly on December 21, 2001, A/RES/56/212: Global Code of Ethics for Tourism. In this regard, it is vital to highlight the important dimension and role of tourism as a positive instrument toward the alleviation of poverty and the improvement of the quality of life for all people, its potential to make a contribution to economic and social development, especially of the developing countries, and its emergence as a vital force for the promotion of international understanding, peace, and prosperity in the framework of sustainable development. The Code, adopted at the thirteenth session of the General Assembly of the World Tourism Organization, has the general goals of minimizing the negative impact of tourism on environment and on cultural heritage while maximizing the benefits of tourism in promoting sustainable development; and reducing poverty across the globe, featuring a voluntary implementation mechanism of 10 principles, covering the economic, social, cultural, and environmental components related with tourist activities (see Table 5.3). This study employed the Code’s principles to appraise the practice of peccary bushmeat consumption at restaurants in Lima. Specifically, there is an indirect and negative influence of bushmeat consumption at restaurants and on wildlife population and ecosystems conservation. The principles most directly related to peccary consumption and conservation are Articles, 4, 5, and 6.

Article 4: Tourism, a user of the cultural heritage of mankind and contributor to its enhancement Tourism resources belong to the common heritage of mankind. In this regard, tourism is an economic activity to improve income possibilities to local communities.

Table 5.3 United Nations World Tourism Organization Global Code of Ethics of Tourism

Article 1: Tourism’s contribution to mutual understanding and respect between peoples and societies Article 2: Tourism as a vehicle for individual and collective fulfillment Article 3: Tourism, a factor of sustainable development Article 4: Tourism, a user of the cultural heritage of mankind and contributor to its enhancement Article 5: Tourism, a beneficial activity for host countries and communities Article 6: Obligations of stakeholders in tourism development Article 7: Right to tourism Article 8: Liberty of tourist movements Article 9: Rights of the workers and entrepreneurs in the tourism industry Article 10: Implementation of the principles of the Global Code of Ethics for Tourism

Source: United Nations World Tourism Organization (2001) 68 Marina de Franco and Jesús Marcaccuzco This contribution is a positive incentive to conserve and use wildlife sustainably, and in this case the use of peccary for their skins or meat. Currently, the meat and skins of peccary are being exploited at unprecedented rates. Additionally, tourists help to maintain and celebrate cultural heritage, which is an incentive to protect cultural heritage relative to peccary population conservation in the ecosystem, peccary hunting, and peccary eating, to pass on to future generations.

Article 5: Tourism, a beneficial activity for host countries and communities Tourism should be associated with equitably sharing the economic, social and cultural benefits it generates, and particularly in the creation of direct and indirect jobs resulting from tourism. Environmental policy regarding the sale of peccary meat should be re-examined. By outlawing the sale of all meat (versus a set amount of meat), all meat sales are driven “underground” to the black market, where the quality and quantity is not regulated. Perhaps if some amount of allow- able meat sales were monitored, a small tax might be collected to help fund peccary conservation programs. In this way, the dishes of peccary meat sold to restaurant patrons, some of whom are tourists, would contribute to the ultimate goal of managing and protecting the peccary population, which would in turn benefit Peru.

Article 6: Obligations of stakeholders in tourism development Tourism professionals should provide tourists with objective and honest information on their businesses, destination, and conditions of travel and hospitality. Therefore, to serve tourists peccary meat illegally acquired from the black market and which has no guarantee of sanitation is a violation of this obligation. Addi- tionally, if by perpetuating the demand for peccary meat, restaurateurs contribute to the demise of the peccary, this too would be unethical.

Conclusion: ethics, livelihoods, tourism, and peccary conservation status Ethics, as a moral philosophy, seeks to resolve questions of human morality, related to right and wrong conduct. This case study has focused on political action taken by government agencies and NGOs, the activity of hunters for sustenance and trade, the purveyors and processors of peccary skins, buyers of bushmeat, and the tourists who enjoy dishes made from wildlife. What is the right behavior of all the stakeholders involved in peccary consumption? Should tourists regard themselves as part of the interconnected web of livelihoods and wildlife conservation – in this case, peccary populations? Rosales (2016a) highlighted that international skins trade from subsistence hunting of peccaries has a negative effect on their conservation status, taking into consideration also the cumulative effects generated by deforestation, pollution The international trade of peccary 69 mainly by the activities of mining and hydrocarbons, and hunting peccaries in areas unmanaged in the field. The international trade in peccaries, tanned leathers, or finished leather products is not coming from areas of communal management in situ, legally recognized. Legal recognition is required to access financial mechanisms. Additionally, it is important to prioritize the sustainable management of peccaries through mechanisms of shared governance with indigenous and local communities and national and regional government authorities, on the basis of studies conducted by academia and the collective knowledge of indigenous peoples. The management of populations of peccaries should take account of habitat management, including habitat restoration, and include a system of traceability for industrial end products. The IUCN Red List of threatened species included P. tajacu in Least Con- cern (IUCN, 2016a) and T. pecari in Vulnerable A2bcde+3bcde (IUCN, 2016b). National legislation has included T. pecari in the near-threatened category, Decree Supreme 014–20014-MINAGRI. The relevant authorities should close the legal loopholes, address the management issues referred to by this study, and categorize the list of threatened wildlife species of the Peruvian populations of P. tajacu and T. pecari in a vulnerable situation. If there are no management and conservation programs for peccaries, there could be local extinctions and loss of biological diversity (Novaro, Bodmer, & Redford, 2008). Protected areas should work as a source more than sink. Local communities must consider that protected areas in the Amazonian are spaces that guarantee sustainable use. Hence, they should consider improving their effective management of “no hunting areas.” As for bushmeat, Amazonian indigenous communities use wildlife meat as part of their livelihoods, but they share this resource with other local communities or migrant people. Hence, the growing demand for bushmeat is surpassing the supply. The ever-increasing activity of hunting provides wildlife meat to the main regional markets, included Lima. However, the peccary populations are not managed in their habitats and the principles of sustainable use are not being applied, and for these reasons they are threatened. Further, the bushmeat trade in the market is illegal and has developed without sanitary certification. Tourist activities are related with ecosystems and wildlife populations in direct and indirect manner. The restaurants sell peccary meat as a main dish. Hence, tourists should not demand wild meat at Amazonian restaurants for two reasons: conservation of wild fauna and prevention of negative health effects. The tourists already have the perception that wildlife meat consumption at restaurants has a negative influence on wildlife and Amazonian conservation (however, some order it anyway). Additionally, a high percentage of them consider that the bushmeat trade at restaurants should contribute to the conservation of peccary populations in the Amazonian (which of course it does not). Despite this, tourists think this economic activity is an attractive culinary offering to tourists. Because the peccary populations are endangered, it is urgently needed to develop conservation and sustainable use management activities at national and local levels, addressing the issue from all possible angles, including tourism. 70 Marina de Franco and Jesús Marcaccuzco Table 5.4A Surveys carried out on September 23–28, 2016 at 28 restaurants in Lima

Restaurants Bushmeat (kg/month) Peccaries (kg/month)

Tía Ishinga III 480 520 Club Amazonas 340 340 El Encanto de la Selva 240 240 El Juane 220 * El Aguaje 200 200 El Pichito 160 160 Toma cita 140 140 La Jungla de Camila 140 16 El Encanto Amazónico 3 100 100 El Encanto de la Selva 3 100 100 Yacumana 77 320 El Tunche 60 128 La Choza de la Anaconda 58 100 El Majaz 56 36 El Tumche II 50 50 El Bambu 45 60 El Encanto Amazónico 42 60 El Paiche de Oro 35 35 La Ñañita 30 120 La Huambrilla 30 30 El Embrujo 24 24 Antojitos de la selva 23 120 El Rincocito Selvático 15 * La Bella Durmiente 13 84 El Encanto del Amazonas 10 40 Selva Mix 5 5 El Rico Tacacho 4 4 El Macambo * * Total 2,697 3,032 Annually 32,364 36,384

Note: * information not available

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Robert Todd Perdue

Entomophagy Entomophagy, the eating of insects, rarely comes up in the tourism literature, or any literature for that matter – unless, that is, you are a reader of the Journal of Insects as Food and Feed, whose sheer existence hints at the growing importance that entomophagy may hold for our rapidly changing world. As such, it seems an appropriate time to reassess our relationship with insects, for although humans have eaten insects since time immemorial, it is a practice largely stigmatized in the “Western” world. Aside from some charismatic insects such as butterflies, insects are generally thought of as dirty and linked to disease, a last resort in times of famine, or a primitive practice at best. For numerous reasons this is problematic. Chief among these is the need to alleviate protein pressures that will surely increase as global human population grows to an estimated 9 billion by 2050. A primary driver of deforestation is agriculture, especially cattle ranching. Esti- mates vary, but it is generally agreed that about 18 percent of anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions are derived from livestock (Herrero et al., 2015), while the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization estimates that 26 percent of the Earth’s terrestrial surface is used for livestock (Alexandratos and Bruinsma, 2012). This is clearly unsustainable. Insects, either raised in relatively small facilities or harvested from forests and fields, may be one way of easing these protein- driven land use pressures. Insects have the advantage of converting plant biomass to animal biomass much more efficiently than traditional livestock. Crickets, for instance, require only 8 percent as much food as cattle to yield the same amount of protein, while caterpillars require about 10 percent (Deroy, Reade, & Spence, 2015; Schabel, 2010). Insects also can transform “under- or non-utilised biowaste and organic side streams into high value human foods or animal feeds” (Sun- Waterhouse, 2016, p. 130). As such, insects can serve as great recyclers of materials that might otherwise end up in the landfill. Harvesting insects for food can also yield benefits and opportunities to economically vulnerable populations. Numerous studies have found that small-scale farmers and rural residents can supplement, in some cases double, their incomes with the harvesting of native species. For instance, one study found that the production of mopane worms in South Africa yielded US$85 million of value, with 74 Robert Todd Perdue 40 percent of profits earned by poor rural women (Stack et al., 2003). A potential side-benefit of commercializinginsects for food is that it may reduce pesticide use, as farmers realize that selling locusts or grasshoppers yields more revenue than selling crops such as millet (van Huis, 2003; Cerritos & Cano-Santana, 2008). Finally, insects are generally found to be healthier than most forms of animal protein, having higher levels of quality proteins along with vitamins, minerals, amino acids, and lipids (Makkar, Tran, Heuze, & Ankers, 2014). Despite these and many other environmental and social benefits, entomophagy remains rare in Europe, the United States, and Canada. It is not altogether clear why this is the case. One possible reason is Christianity’s dominance in these places, and the religion’s complex relationship with food. Leviticus (xi, 20–24), for instance, proscribes the eating of many animals, including certain insects:

20. All winged insects that go upon all fours are an abomination to you. 21. Yet among the winged insects that go on all fours you may eat those which have legs above their feet, with which to leap upon the earth. 22. Of them you may eat: the locust according to its kind, the bald locust according to its kind, the cricket according to its kind, and the grasshopper according to its kind. 23. But all other winged insects which have four feet are an abomination to you. 24. And by these you shall become unclean; whoever touches their carcass shall be unclean until the evening.

This theological argument loses some explanatory power, however, when one considers that many other regions with long histories of entomophagy are also Christian; Mexico, for instance, is 85 percent Catholic. Others contend that eating insects is a cultural practice dominant in rural areas, and the high rates of urbanization in Europe and North America explain the limited amounts of entomophagy therein (Hartmann et al. 2015). Again, this argument holds less weight when we consider that more insects are eaten in Bangkok, a city of more than 8 million, than probably anywhere on Earth. Regardless of the root causes, Europe, the United States, and Canada are global exceptions. Humans have a long history of eating insects, particularly in the tropical parts of the globe, with ants, cicadas, beetles, crickets, bees, and grasshoppers among the most commonly eaten bugs. This short list is just the tip of the iceberg, however, as Sun-Waterhouse (2016, p. 130) notes that there are between 1,500 and 2,000 insect species and invertebrates eaten around the world “across 3000 ethnic groups and 113 countries.” Similarly, Chuanhui, Quiju, and Wang (2010) point out that the Chinese regularly consume 177 species of insects, with ethnic minorities leading the way. This all said, if entomophagy holds promise to alleviating many environmental challenges we face going forward, what are some means of breaking down Western barriers to eating insects? Tourism may prove a key means of stemming Western anti-entomophagy bias, for travel is the door through which cultures pass, redefining norms and accepted culinary practices (Yen, 2009). Sun-Waterhouse et al. (2016, pp. 137–138) highlight just how important this change could prove: Eating insects and tourism 75 Western societies should be taking the lead advocation role given their general phobias and abhorrence to eating insects. Western societies are proven front runners for globalisation of universal cultural systems related to customs and habits (DeFoliart, 1999), thus, other cultures will soon follow if Western societies practice entomophagy.

The balance of this chapter is given to: (1) outlining the relationship between entomophagy and tourism, (2) examining ethical challenges that can result from tourism exchanges that exploit, and (3) focusing on the ethics of eating insects and current debates about insect sentience. To tourism we now turn.

Entomophagy and tourism Although the relationships between insects and recreation and tourism are gaining some attention (see especially Lemelin, 2013), no comprehensive studies have examined entomophagy’s small but growing role in tourism (but see Yen, Han- boonsong, & Van Huis, 2013). Perhaps this is due in part to the multiplicity of potential experiences tourists can have which fall under this umbrella, from the sought-out to the incidental, from the international to the local, from the sensational to the understated. Indeed, the historical legacy surrounding the human/ insect interface proves critical in determining how these cultural components intertwine. In regions with long histories of entomophagy, festivals are increasingly frequent, targeting domestic tourists who hold insect eating as a means of reminiscence and nostalgia. Chuanhui and colleagues (2010), for instance, note that the bamboo insect has reappeared at traveling festival banquets in China’s Yunnan Province. Sun-Waterhouse et al. (2016, p. 136) note that over one hundred insects are traditionally consumed in Japan, and that these creatures are “considered as ‘nostalgic’ or ‘homeland foods’ and marketed as souvenirs by local people mainly to domestic tourists.” Thailand appears to be something of a bridge nation in this regard, for it caters to its citizens’ desire for these traditional foods while also holding the distinction of serving as the entry point to entomophagy for millions of tourists each year (Poranond, 2015). Stumbling upon food stalls is the way most Western tourists are introduced to entomophagy, whether on Bang- kok’s streets or in northern Thailand, where the “Ruammaland Edible Insect” cart is a “‘must see’ in tourist guides books” (Yen et al., 2013, p. 176). In countries without such a legacy, interest has also increased. The United States has seen curiosity in bugs as a food source increase dramatically over the last decade if the number of annual insect festivals held there is any indication. The North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences, for instance, annually holds “BugFest,” whose more than 35,000 attendees can “Taste delectable dishes featuring creepy crawlers as a major ingredient at Café Insecta” (North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences, n.d.). In Texas, 2017 will mark a decade of the “Austin Bug (Eating) Festival.” The mission of the festival is outlined on the website: “Eating insects is nothing new – but it’s also the future. Still, many of us find it disgusting. We’re on a mission to find out more – not to sell you anything. Share 76 Robert Todd Perdue our curiosity and join us in exploring a taste of insects!” Many other such festivals are found across North America, with Hvenegaard, Delamare, Lemelin, Brager, and Auger (2013) identifying 66 insect festivals in the U.S. and 12 in Canada. Although entomophagy is not listed as a primary focus in many of the advertise- ments for these festivals, eating insects is assuredly a part of some of these events. Across the Atlantic, Europe has a long history of insect festivals. Two of the most notable are the Festa del Grillo (Festival of Crickets) in Florence, probably the world’s oldest insect festival, and Paris’ Festival international du Film de l’Insecte (Hvenegaard et al., 2013). Holland is at the vanguard of festivals focused on eating insects, particularly its Wageningen University. The school began promoting insects as food as early as 1995, when eating insects met much skepticism. Today, interest and acceptance have grown to where the ‘Wageningen – City of Insects Science Festival’ promotes entomophagy to more than 20,000 annual attendees (Yen et al., 2013, p. 179). In contrast to those merely out for sightseeing, the motivations of ecotourists typically result in different human/insect interactions. Identifying as more adventurous, ecotourists often travel to parts of the world where eating insects is part of the cultural fabric. As the world shrinks and the “authentic” becomes more coveted, entomophagy can provide tourists with just such an experience. Yen and colleagues identified tour operators around the globe, in places such as Ecuador, Brazil, Borneo, Indonesia, and Australia, advertising entomophagy as part of their packages (Yen et al., 2013). Such experiences can serve as badges of honor for those seeking to “get off the beaten path.” Moreover, the financial capital brought in by ecotourism may help sustain fragile ecosystems as forest insects and other non-wood products prove more lucrative over time than the short-term rewards of logging and resource extraction. While entomophagy is a growing facet of festivals and ecotourism, food in and of itself can also be a primary driver of tourism. Culinary tourism provides a useful lens for exploration of the multiple dimensions of entomophagy, the positive, the negative, and the in-between. Thus far, we have seen that the eating of insects can relieve pressure on our increasingly taxed world, while also serving as a means of reminiscence and cultural exchange. The relationship between entomophagy and tourism deserves a more critical analysis, however, and the remainder of this chapter aims to provide just that. First, we turn to power and the potential for exploitation in tourist relations, setting the stage for an examination of current thought on the sentience of insects.

Ethical dimensions

Eating the other A major question related to entomophagy and tourism, and to tourism generally, is its exploitative potential. John Urry’s famed notion of the ‘tourist gaze’ can offer some contextualization to begin our examination. Urry emphasizes the primacy of the visual in the tourist experience, for rather than merely looking, Eating insects and tourism 77 tourists are drawn to difference, making distinctions between the mundane and the exceptional, while actively collecting signs whose symbolism transcends the mere concrete. The gaze actively constructs reality among infinite possibilities, as Urry (1992, p. 172) notes, “When a man and a woman are seen embracing in Paris the sign that is captured is ‘timeless romantic Paris.’” But the gaze is not always positive or sentimental, nor is it impartial or dispassionate; the accentuation of difference can lead to belittlement if not outright hostility when contradictions in perceptual frames manifest. Although outside of the bounds of tourism studies, the primacy of the visual in regard to insects can be under- scored by the once exceedingly popular American stunt/dare television show Fear Factor. The highlight of every episode involved revealing what contestants would have to consume if they were to win the cash prize. This could involve an ancillary animal part, but oftentimes it was insects. The disgusted, aghast looks on the faces of disbelieving contestants can easily be projected onto those of Western tourists confronted with unfamiliar foods from other parts of the world. Although Urry repeatedly states that other senses are crucially important in the tourist experience, he nevertheless concludes that they are folded within the most important sense of sight: “Tourists experience extremes of heat, taste unexpected dishes, experience heightened passions, hear unusual sounds, encounter new smells, and so on. Rather, my claim was that these experiences are only of importance to the tourist because they are located within a distinctive visual environment” (1992, p. 172). Long (2004, p. 21), however, argues that by its very nature, food engages us more deeply, moving beyond a gaze to an embodiment: “Sightseeing is only a partial engagement with otherness, whereas culinary tourism, utilizing the senses of taste, smell, touch, and vision, offers a deeper, more integrated level of experience. It engages one’s physical being, not simply as an observer, but as a participant as well.” Eating insects for most Westerners certainly meets this definition, eliciting responses to the toasted smell of oil, the sound of the crunch, the feel of the insect on the fingers and in the mouth, and ultimately to the taste. Perhaps because of this embodiment and the elemental role that food serves in our existence, the role of food is special in tourism, holding greater emotive power than the essentials of life we experience in other locales, such as shelter (architecture) and clothing (fashions). For Long, ‘culinary tourism’ is

about food as a subject and medium, destination and vehicle, for tourism. It is about individuals exploring foods new to them as well as using food to explore new cultures and ways of being. It is about groups using food to “sell” their histories and to construct marketable and publicly attractive identities, and it is about individuals satisfying curiosity. Finally, it is about the experiencing of food in a mode that is out of the ordinary, that steps outside the normal routine to notice difference and the power of food to represent and negotiate that difference. (2004, p. 20) 78 Robert Todd Perdue Whether we focus on the visual or a more holistic embodiment espoused by Long, the key point of the gaze is the notion of identifying difference, with the unfamiliar or foreign being ‘Othered’ (Said, 1978). This notion of the ‘Other’ centers on the idea that humans construct our realities, these constructions are value and power laden, and the Other is deemed not just different, but exotic and often less than. Whole races, sexualities, or religions can be Othered, with oft-tragic outcomes. In “Eating the Other,” hooks (1992) contends that encounters with the Other are a means for mainstream white people to leave behind their innocence and become more worldly and experienced. Harper’s (2011) work on vegan bloggers of color eloquently speaks to these issues, underscoring the general implication that ‘exotic’ cultures do not belong in predominately white societies. This can occur explicitly, but more often implicitly, as the food of white Westerners is cast as the normal, natural, and neutral van- tage point of comparison (see also Guthman, 2011; Johnston & Baumann, 2015). As such, food as exotic is analogous in many ways to colonialism; exotic foods are to be discovered, judged, and conquered by the white, Western gaze (Heldke, 2003). For Harper (2011, pp. 225–226), ironically, whiteness as default category fosters the color-blind perspective of most vegans she studies, underscoring a lack of cognizance of their white privilege. Similarly, a recent study by Oleschuk (2016) identified Othering within a community typically thought of as transcending such processes: food lovers or “foodies.” The Othering process is typically subtle within this sub-culture, the author notes, which is “often implicitly understood as race-neutral, with foodies conceptualizing their love of food as a reflection of their openness and tolerance towards difference” (Oleschuk, 2016, p. 2). Oleschuk contends, however, that these foodies are in a state of tension between a desire to be inclusive while simultaneously seeking to distinguish themselves from others via claims to exoticism and authenticity (ibid). Such processes, and the power of food as a marker of distinction, are even more clearly seen when domestic boundaries are transcended, for international travel is a privilege most global citizens cannot afford. Heldke’s (2003, p. xxi) study of ‘food adventurers’ aiming to “spice up [their] diets (literally) with the flavours of exotic cuisines” revealed, unsurprisingly, these tourists to be white, Euro- American, middle-class Christians. Molz (2007) contends that the exploratory eating done by such culinary tourists amounts to eating the Other, for food is the symbolic means of “consuming the essence of those places” and “[f ]acing up to frightening foods such as snakes, bugs, or potentially fatal blowfish demonstrates the White, Western traveler’s cosmopolitan competence. The traveler takes pleasure in diversity and can stomach it; his or her body is literally open to this cultural and culinary diversity” (2007, p. 87). As such, the exotic is a tool for displaying one’s open mind and one’s daring, ultimately one’s status as cosmopolitan. Is there anything wrong with using another culture’s food to define one’s own identity? Perhaps not, if the process is not laden with power asymmetries and is not exploitative. Many scholars and activists, however, argue that these processes are always power laden and exploitative to some degree. Long histories of colonialism, for instance, have made truly equal culinary exchange impossible. The Eating insects and tourism 79 following long quote from Molz’s study provides a telling example of trafficking in the sensational aspects of foreign foodways, where power and exploitation is clear as Western tourists judge and demean the food of their hosts:

The market was only about a block long, but the street was closed to traffic. Rob and I were the focus of many curious stares, and the locals were amused that we were in the market for the specialty of the street – fried bugs. . . . Stall after stall sold cicadas, octopi, crawfish, and little squiggly pupae/ larvae squashy insects. . . . Rob negotiated with a seller – we didn’t want a full serving of bugs as neither of us planned to actually eat them. We were going to feed them to the brave intrepid men who had unhesitatingly torn into the hog hock back in Zhouzhang. Rob chose a variety pack, first pointing to cicadas, and then to the still- wiggling larvae. The seller threw some oil and spices into a wok, tossed in the insects, and put some chopped garlic on top. The cicadas fried up to crispy treats, but the larvae swelled and popped, oozing green pus into the wok. When the bugs finished cooking, the seller and several of his friends stared at us and giggled. They wanted to see us eat the snacks, but were sorely disap- pointed when we asked for a takeaway bag. . . . We all met upstairs, to sample the mysterious tasty treats that I had arranged on a plate borrowed from the restaurant. The guys, while disgusted, rose to the occasion. They defined the cicadas and larvae as “yummys” and “yuckys,” respectively. With no small assistance from the local Chinese beer, the score was tallied. The U.S., I’m pleased to report, made a showing in the bug-eating Olympics, but Australia took the gold. Meanwhile, I didn’t try to eat a single bug. I know my limits – I can’t even eat mutton or duck without feeling ill. Bugs were definitely not on my roster of acceptable food choices. (2007, p. 85)

This passage reinforces numerous stereotypes of Western tourists as crass and insensitive to the traditions of their host nation: buying insects they had no intention of eating until eventually overcoming their disgust to eat the “yuckys” and prove their boldness. The paradox that is America’s most famous foodie, Anthony Bourdain, is useful here, for many put him in the same camp of food colonists as the ones seen above, while others hold him up as a beacon of cultural exchange. Through several television iterations that center on his travels to foreign locales, the former chef dis- plays his competence and finesse as a global traveler versed in cultures and food. Bourdain, as a case study, gets to many of the concerns of scholars such as Molz who see food’s potential as a signifier of Otherness that allows culinary travelers to dabble in exoticism from the safety of their privileged existence. For his part, Bourdain appreciates his role as cultural ambassador, highlighting human connection while providing historical, cultural, and economic context for those who cannot engage in similar adventures. He now pointedly avoids the sensationalism 80 Robert Todd Perdue exhibited by fellow food entertainment shows, such as Bizarre Food, which profit from the Othering processes of which Bourdain once engaged. According to Bour- dain, such sensationalism was “exactly the cost of doing business. I’m not going to sneer at it. Whatever gets you across the river” (Keefe, 2017, p. 65). But later in the same interview, Bourdain and his companion pass a food hawker selling dog meat. Clearly this is an opportunity to titillate his audience by eating this taboo (to Western sensibilities) food. Bourdain has eaten nearly everything imaginable in his travels, but not dog. The following statement by Bourdain begins to explain how he now tries to avoid such sensationalism and exploitation:

I’m not doing it [eating foods such as dog] just because it’s there anymore. Had I found myself as the unwitting guest of honor in a farmhouse on the Mekong Delta where a family, unbeknownst to me, has prepared their very best, and I’m the guest of honor, and all of the neighbors are watching . . . I’m going to eat the fucking dog. On the hierarchy of offenses, offending my host – often a very poor one, who is giving me the best, and for whom face is very important in the community – for me to refuse would be embarrassing. So I will eat the dog. (Keefe, 2017, p. 62)

Regardless whether one believes Bourdain is a food colonist or a sincere ambassador, history shows that acceptance of unfamiliar foods is often driven by cultural leaders and celebrities, starting in cities and diffusing outward. Sushi is probably the most obvious analogy, for eating raw fish was met with great skepticism by Americans, although it had been eaten in Japan for more than 1,000 years (Avey, 2012). It wasn’t until 1966, however, that the United States had its first sushi restaurant, located in Los Angeles, serving mainly Japanese businessmen. Avey (2012) outlines the cultural diffusion from this point: “In 1970, the first sushi bar outside of Little Tokyo, Osho, opened in Hollywood and catered to celebrities. This gave sushi the final push it needed to reach American success. Soon after, several sushi bars opened in both New York and Chicago, helping the dish spread throughout the U.S.” Could a similar diffusion ensue if celebrity chefs, foodies, and the beautiful people of the U.S. adopted entomophagy? Perhaps a better question might be: Should we be eating insects at all? Animal ethicists have different views, all made more problematic because the sentience of insects is still unclear.

Insect sentience Space does not allow for a thorough discussion of animal ethics in this chapter. Instead, I merely provide a brief overview of the thoughts of some of the seminal thinkers to set the stage for the ongoing debates about insect sentience. To begin, a key question surrounding animal ethics is whether animals have rights. One approach, held by Tom Regan, is to understand animals as having inherent value. This value supersedes the use value these beings may have for others, and as Regan (1983) notes, this inherent value establishes the animals’ right to Eating insects and tourism 81 “respectful treatment.” This value should prevent the animal from being harmed to secure an outcome which ensures a positive outcome for the greatest number – the utilitarian approach. For Regan, using individuals as a means to benefit the collective necessarily fails to recognize their inherent value and treats them as “receptacles” of value. This notion of inherent value as the basis of animal rights does not necessarily equate to having identical rights. In his inimitable way, Singer (1986, p. 217) makes this point by noting, “Since a man cannot have an abortion, it is meaningless to talk of his right to have one. Since a pig can’t vote, it is meaningless to talk of its right to vote.” As such, Singer would necessarily question how we are to apply rights across different groups of people, much less differing species. Mary Midgley (1983, p. 61) is even more skeptical of rights as a basis for animal welfare, calling rights a “desperate” word. Rights must derive from somewhere, society, morality, God, etc., but rights language is inevitably vague on these origins according to Midgley. Cochrane (2016, p. 204) argues around this issue to a certain extent by modifying the rights approach by inserting the concept of interests: “rights are fundamentally about protecting individuals’ interests. In order to properly specify the specific rights of animals, then, the most obvious place to start is not with the notion of inherent value, but with an account of the interests of animals.” This line of reasoning follows that put forth by Feinberg more than four decades ago, who held that the capacity to hold interests is critical, more so than moral rights, because when one has interests they can be defended by a proxy (1974). This is certainly a critical element when one is concerned with non-human animals living in a human dominated world. The key part for this discussion is the argument that sentience necessarily results in interests, thereby ensuring the possession of rights. This issue of sentience is pivotal for Singer as well, although in a very different manner. He builds his arguments on the scaffolding constructed by utilitarian scholar Jeremy Bentham. Bentham was rare for his time (1748–1832) in that he applied equal consideration of interests to non-human animals at a time of entrenched hierarchy, when slavery was widespread and women were second- class citizens:

It may one day come to be recognized that the number of the legs, the vil- losity of the skin, or the termination of the os sacrum, are reasons equally insufficient for abandoning a sensitive being to the same fate. What else is it that should trace the insuperable line? Is it the faculty of reason, or perhaps the faculty of discourse? But a full-grown horse or dog is beyond comparison a more rational, as well as a more conversable animal, than an infant of a day, or a week, or even a month, old. But suppose they were otherwise, what would it avail? The question is not, Can they reason? Nor Can they talk? but, Can they suffer? (Bentham, 1789)

These thoughts on suffering influenced Singer’s perspective, for they antecede considerations of interests: “The capacity for suffering and enjoying things is a 82 Robert Todd Perdue pre-requisite for having interests at all, a condition that must be satisfied before we can speak of interests in any meaningful way” (Singer, 1986, p. 221). Stated differently, a thing that cannot suffer cannot have interests:

This is why the limit of sentience (using the term as a convenient, if not strictly accurate, shorthand for the capacity to suffer or experience enjoyment or happiness) is the only defensible boundary of concern for the interests of others. To mark this boundary by some characteristic like intelligence or rationality would be to mark it in an arbitrary way. Why not choose some other characteristic, like skin color? (Singer, 1986, p. 222)

And so we arrive at the issue of sentience, so critical for those studying entomophagy, for unlike cows and pigs and deer and duck, the sentience of insects is still debated. In a recent article, Fischer (2016a) lays out the ethical arguments surrounding the eating of insects. His provocative conclusion is that “strict vegans ought to eat bugs” (2016a, p. 255). He reaches this conclusion by critiquing the precautionary principle, or the idea that if you cannot ascertain the sentience of something you should not eat it, that most vegans employ. Fischer’s counter argument is multi-faceted, but the primary component builds on the least harm principle of Regan (1983), which Davis (2003) reconfigures. Davis (2003) argues that modern plant agriculture, which seems to be in line with vegan principles, actually leads to the death of numerous animals, such as voles, moles, mice, song- birds, toads, and others because of the dependence on heavy machinery. Moreo- ver, the sentience of these animals is not in question. Fisher concedes that Davis likely overestimates the sheer amount of animals harmed by plant agriculture but, nevertheless, contends that the death of these animals needs to be factored into any related ethical argument. Fisher also grants that offsetting some of our plant consumption with insects would probably involve killing far more insects than it would save field mice, but argues that if our choice is between harming beings we know to be sentient and harming beings that we do not know to be sentient, we should go with the latter option (2016a, p. 258). Another recent work addresses the question of insect sentience, but reaches a very different conclusion. Klein and Barron (2016) approach the question from the perspective of functional neurobiology, concluding it reasonable to assume that insects have subjective experiences (or base level consciousness) and an awareness of the world at large, but may not necessarily reflect on those experiences. They make the assumption that because the insect brain supports similar functions to that of vertebrates (identified in specific structures of the brain) it is reasonable to assume that insects have the capacity for similar subjective experiences, including feeling pain. Importantly, Klein and Barron separate this basic level consciousness from higher level, more demanding states of consciousness such as self-reflection or self-awareness. As such, these authors’ understandings of insect consciousness would meet Singer’s definition of sentience in that they Eating insects and tourism 83 would be able to experience suffering; whether they could experience enjoyment would still be in question. Fisher (2016b) responds to Klein and Barron’s work by arguing that perhaps we should deny that insects have interests and also take a “graduated account of moral importance.” In this dual front manner, we might be able to assume that insects do not have interest in continued existence, so “killing them quickly might be OK,” and that the graduated moral account will allow us to prioritize our allegiances; we can spray our suffering dog with flea spray (2016b, pp. 4–5). It is clear that Fisher is not especially pleased with this formulation, underscoring the difficulty of grappling with these topics that have so many variables and unknowns. Indeed, the one space of agreement among these scholars is that the ethical issues surrounding entomophagy are challenging and far from resolved. In some ways, these discussions echo those surrounding the ethics of tourism and its potential for exploitation, for they both center around tradeoffs. For instance, are the potential revenues generated by ecotourists visiting an isolated and impoverished village worth the risks they also bring? Does the monumental environmental destruction wrought by modern beef production merit the sacrificing of countless insects in their stead? Both questions also hinge on notions of time and the time frames we employ. Indeed, our answers to these questions may depend on whether we take a long or short view. Indeed, for those consumed with protecting the environment, not adopting entomophagy in the West may be a much bigger concern than those discussed in this chapter.

Conclusion The growing popularity of entomophagy underscores the need for scholars to address the gap in our understandings of the relationships between eating insects and tourism. A primary reason entomophagy is increasingly widespread is an increased awareness of the ecological degradation that results from traditional livestock farming. A growing body of literature also shows significant health and economic benefits accruing from entomophagy. Despite the potential benefits of adopting insects as a staple for Western diets, significant ethical questions lin- ger, particularly those related to tourism and the ‘exotic’ nature of entomophagy. Foremost is whether entomophagy presents the risk of perpetuating the Othering of non-Western cultures. These arguments can be framed as one of culture vs. nature, where the threats of cultural cannibalism are pitted against the incalcu- lable damage humans are currently inflicting on the planet. Such an argument is problematic, as this need not be a zero sum game. Indeed, discussions surrounding the ethics of tourism abound and are playing a part in reducing at least the most egregious forms of exploitation. But it is also true that Othering processes will, unfortunately, never be totally vanquished and concerns must be continually voiced and acted upon. The other ethical dimension discussed in this chapter is equally complex, as so many unknowns surround our understandings of insect sentience. One can argue 84 Robert Todd Perdue that rather than adding another creature to humans’ plates, replete with the associated ethical dilemmas of eating animals, we should attempt to create food free of violence. This argument is bolstered by our general ignorance of the ability of insects to feel pain and suffer. On the other hand, one can very plausibly contend that regardless of insect sentience, it still may be ethical to cultivate and harvest them as a major food source to provide relief to our environment and its inhabitants that we know to be sentient. Such an approach might help relieve protein pressures and help salvage some places of great diversity, such as the Amazon rainforest, which is rapidly disappearing to cattle grazing. Given this reality, I would come down on the side of this latter argument, supporting conscientious tourism which can prove a key means of bringing entomophagy closer to the Western mainstream, possibly alleviating some of the vast environmental pressures bearing on the globe as we rapidly approach 9 billion Earthlings. Regardless of where others come down on these issues, the lack of definitive conclusions underscores the amount of work left for scholars studying the multifaceted relationships between tourism and insects.

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Benedict E. Singleton

Introduction and methods Hunting practices often provoke moral controversy (Fischer et al., 2013). Whale hunting – ‘whaling’ – is no exception. Whaling drove many whale species to the brink of extinction, but on the back of sustained environmental campaigns, a moratorium on whaling was enacted. Today, the practice continues only among a small group of often geographically disparate peoples. While the environmental threat presented to whales by hunting has largely receded, the practice retains symbolic, economic, and emotional salience within environmental movements and for remaining ‘whaling cultures’ (Kalland, 2009). Eating whale meat has become taboo in many parts of the world, while in others it remains a valued right (Einarsson, 1993; Kalland, 2009). While whaling may have dwindled, it remains in popular memory in many countries as emblematic of the unsustainable resource depletion and cruel destruction of the capitalist era: Lust for whale oil led to the deaths of millions of whales and ultimately rendered the whale oil industry’s practices unviable. However, the great majority of whaling carried out today is for meat and involves diverse whaling groups, many of whom, to greater or lesser extents, argue that their practices form an important and authentic part of their cultures, lifestyles, and economies. The ensuing conflicts are integrally moral in character, with the appropriateness of whale meat for consumption a source of great contention (Blok, 2008; Lien, 2004). Over the past 40 years, tourism has developed in all whaling nations. Tour- ism’s reputation is mixed with varying levels of success at different times and places. ‘Tourism’ is a difficult to define term covering various diverse practices and groups (cf. Franklin, 2004). However, branches of tourism, notably forms of ‘ecotourism,’ are usually framed as a ‘good thing,’ suggesting the possibility of modern development in harmony with the natural world and its limits. Practices of tourism present opportunities and risks for change understandable from ecological, social, political, economic, and ethical perspectives. Tourism has waxed at the same time that the whaling industry has waned. It is thus instructive to explore how practices for producing and patterns of consumption around whale meat have been affected by their increasing intersection with tourism. 88 Benedict E. Singleton This chapter performs a multidisciplinary research review (Hakim, 1987) of the literature on whaling and tourism with the focus on whaling’s primary product: ‘whale meat’ – which is shorthand for the whale products that are produced for food and thus may include blubber or other body parts. The intention is to consolidate and assess the state of knowledge regarding whales-as-food and tourism, identifying weaknesses and gaps in knowledge. Literature was selected through the use multiple academic search engines, including Google Scholar, Web of Science, and Sociological Abstracts. Searches were made using multiple combinations of the keywords: whaling, whale hunting, whale meat, tourism and whale-watching. This was combined with purposive sampling to produce a corpus of approximately 60 peer-reviewed articles and book sections, alongside sundry other non–peer reviewed literature. This latter body is employed cautiously and sparingly when it highlights information particularly pertinent to the discussion – for example, in providing information unmentioned elsewhere. My own research experience assisted in assessing and analyzing this diverse information. This includes three months’ qualitative fieldwork in the Faroe Islands (a largely autonomous part of the Kingdom of Denmark) researching pilot whaling practices there. I have observed several international forums where whaling was discussed: notably the 2014 and 2015 European Cetacean Society annual conferences and the 2015 annual meeting of the North Atlantic Marine Mam- mal Commission. In addition, I have conducted numerous interviews with marine biologists on the issue of lethal research on whales. This research experience thus comprises over 30 qualitative interviews, copious field notes, and a body of secondary information gleaned from various sources (see Singleton, 2016b, 2016c for full details). The literature reviewed here is examined from a political ecology perspective. Political ecology is a multidisciplinary research approach that focuses upon “the condition and change of social/environmental systems, with explicit consideration of relations of power” (Robbins, 2011, p. 20). Political ecology’s focus is thus upon the winners and losers, costs and benefits (hidden or otherwise), and power relations corresponding to particular social and environmental outcomes. In examining the relationship between whale meat and tourism, political ecologists are thus interested in how changing ways of using and controlling an environmental resource (whales) affects conflict between groups, becoming “politicized.” At the same time, extant conflicts may be “ecologized” by changes in conservation or management policy (Robbins, 2011, p. 200). This has an inherently ethical component, with different groups possessing different abilities to assert and enforce particular moral codes regarding what actions may be considered acceptable or appropriate (Neumann, 2005). Indeed, it is a feature of many environmental conflicts to become deadlocked between groups espousing strongly value-laden positions (Thompson, 2002). Thus the (sometimes concealed) normative assumptions that underlie any given environmental position are brought into focus through political ecological analysis. The following section presents a review of the literature: it briefly introduces the diversity of whaling practices before summarizing the literature on tourism Making a meal of it 89 and whaling generally and whale meat specifically. This is then discussed draw- ing on political ecology. The chapter then concludes with the identification of particular research gaps.

Summary of literature

Introducing whaling and whale meat consumption ‘Whaling’ in this review includes a range of practices that involve the deliberate hunting of cetaceans (whales, dolphins, and porpoises). The great variety of practices highlight the limitations of the English word ‘whaler’: different animals are killed using different methods for different reasons. Even countries with related histories highlight this variety. In Iceland, fin and minke whales are hunted by two commercial companies, whereas in Norway owner-operated whale-boats pursu- ing minke whales double as fishing boats (Kalland & Sejersen, 2005). In the Faroe Islands, long-finned pilot whales, in particular, but also bottlenose whales (which may not be actively hunted, but may be killed and eaten if they strand) and several species of dolphin, are considered food species. However, in contrast to Iceland and Norway, ad hoc hunts are performed by local people, and meat and blubber are distributed among participants and within the local community (Fielding, Davis, & Singleton, 2015). Very little dried pilot whale meat makes its way into the commercial market; pilot whaling forms one of a series of domestic subsistence practices that produce goods which are either consumed by the producer or exchanged. Of these subsistence practices, pilot whaling can be considered emblematic; both local and domestic commentators identify it as a distinctively Faroese practice and symbolic of Faroese culture and identity, a ‘national food’ (Fielding, 2013; Joensen, 2009; Nauerby, 1996). Other parts of the world show similar variety in whaling and whale meat consumption practices. In several places whales are both honored and eaten (Parn- well, 2014). For example, among Japanese and Inuit whalers and elsewhere “the spirituality of the whales creates webs of reciprocity linking whales and whalers” (Kalland, 2009, p. 152; cf. Nuttall, 1998; Sakakibara, 2010). The consumption of whale meat need not necessarily be linked to hunting – New Zealand Maori groups have asserted their rights to stranded whales, without any wish to hunt (Kalland, 2009). Legal strictures also affect how whaling is practiced – in South Korea, whales may not be hunted; however, selling the meat of whales caught as bycatch is legal (Tatar, 2014). Practice can also change; for example, when the Makah tribe of Washington State, USA, briefly resumed whaling in 1999 after a gap of approximately 70 years, they needed to (re)learn and adapt the skills and techniques required to hunt gray whales. This hunting formed part of the rejuve- nation of the tribe culturally. Those who opposed the Makah saw claims that the (ultimately successful) hunt was ‘traditional’ and for ‘subsistence’ as laughable. The Makah and their defenders responded by asserting that it was for them to decide what their tradition was and what particular practices mean for them (van Ginkel, 2004). 90 Benedict E. Singleton Whaling, whale meat, and tourism The bulk of the literature on whaling and tourism has focused on the relationship between whaling and whale watching. This is, in part, because several environmental NGOs have sought to encourage whale watching in whaling countries as a direct replacement for whaling (Cisneros-Montemayor, Sumaila, Kaschner, & Pauly, 2010; Corkeron, 2004; Kalland, 2009); whale watching was conceived as a part of changing attitudes toward the consumption of marine mammals (Hoyt, 2001; Wearing, Cunningham, Schweinsberg, & Jobberns, 2014). Evidence of attitude change is complex, with the onset of large-scale whale watching suggested to have changed local views regarding the use-value of whales in Húsavik, Ice- land without altering basic attitudes toward nature (Einarsson, 2009). Likewise, in Andenes, Norway, a decision was made to deny permission for the building of a whale-burger factory in order to avoid putting off tourists, but it is unclear from the account whether local views about whales as food per se have changed (Krist- offersen, Norum, & Kramvig, 2016). Indeed, earlier research in the same part of Norway suggested that the promotion of whale watching by foreign NGOs had initially provoked resistance from locals (Ris, 1993). Despite this complexity, a considerable body of research exists illustrating the economic value of whale watching in many parts of the world, often making direct comparisons to whaling (Cunningham, Huijbens, & Wearing, 2012; Hoyt, 2001; Kuo, Chen, & McAleer, 2012). This information has been combined with that gleaned from surveys of prospective tourists to show that whaling is deleterious to the development of whale watching, with the nascent industry growing less quickly in whaling countries than elsewhere (Bertulli, Leeney, Barreau, & Matassa, 2016; Cunningham et al., 2012; Herrera & Hoagland, 2006; Parsons & Rawles, 2003; Parsons & Draheim, 2009; Orams, 2001). The argument is that prospective whale-watching tourists are unwilling to patronize countries where whaling is occurring and that killing whales may reduce the probability of successful whale-watching trips. This information is used in suggesting that whaling should cease or not be restarted (Andersson, Gothall, & Wende, 2014; Corkeron, 2006; Higham & Lusseau, 2008; Hoyt & Hvenegaard, 2002; Orams, 2002; Parsons & Rawles, 2003; Parsons & Draheim, 2009). However, the continuation of whaling in several countries with whale-watching industries, notably Iceland (where whaling was resumed in 2006 after a 20-year gap, during which time whale watching had boomed to be a considerable business), highlights that while whaling may be deleterious to the development of whale watching, it is possible for them to coexist (Higham, Bejder, & Williams, 2014b), something pro-whaling advocates maintain (Moyle & Evans, 2008; Rasmussen, 2014). Furthermore, there are suggestions that different groups of tourists respond differently to whaling and indeed to the different types of whaling (Higham & Lusseau, 2007, 2008). For example, looking at the different types of whaling defined by the International Whaling Commission (IWC) (the global body for the monitoring and management of cetacean species and whaling), one survey of tourists in Iceland found that respondents were more positive toward ‘aboriginal subsistence whaling’ in Making a meal of it 91 comparison to ‘scientific whaling’ and ‘commercial whaling’ (Andersson et al., 2014). The literature is increasingly critical of a tendency to link the two industries and equate whale watching with conservation, highlighting the environmental impacts directly on whales and on environments (through infrastructure, flights, and imports to cater to tourists) (Corkeron, 2014; Higham, Bejder, & Wil- liams, 2014a, 2014b; Neves, 2011; Peace, 2010). There is also a limited amount of information suggesting that in some circumstances whaling may attract tourists and that tourists may constitute an important market for whale meat. For example, tourists are/were reportedly attracted to ‘Moby-Dick’ style traditional whaling (where whalers dive acrobatically from small boats to drive a harpoon into a whale) in Lamalera, Indonesia, although there is no information on whether tourists consume the meat produced (Lund- berg, 2001, 2003). Similarly, tourist interest in the lifestyles of Northern peoples (e.g., Canadian Inuit) may implicitly entail an interest in hunting (although the extent that local practice may alter to respond to tourist sensitivities is unclear) (Nuttall, 1998). In some places, there is evidence that increased tourism is supporting whaling by providing a market for whale meat. Thus, in Iceland, where domestic whale meat consumption is limited to 1.1 percent of households, whale meat is marketed to tourists alongside other ‘exotic foods’ (Rasmussen, 2014, p. 89) (see Figure 7.1). In addition, one of the whaling companies was investigated for allowing tourists to illegally travel on their vessels (Staff, 2015). Sim- ilarly, in Greenland, the Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society reports that whale meat is marketed to tourists and raises the possibility of tourists accompanying whalers on hunting trips (Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society, 2014). Finally, in South Korea, domestic tourists are depicted as one of the markets for whale meat, which is suggested to encourage illegal whaling, illegal imports, and unusually high rates of bycatch. Partly as a response to the whaling moratorium, whale meat has gained increased symbolic salience in east coast communities in South Korea, notably the city of Ulsan, where it has become a symbol of local identity. This has led to a transformation in the status of whale meat, from a cheap domestic food to an integral part of a ‘local cuisine,’ the consumption of which is a part of an annual ‘Ulsan Whale Festival’ (MacMillan & Han, 2011; Choi, 2015; Tatar, 2014). A similar story is told in Japan, with whale meat described as a domestic “tourist attraction” as a specialty of ‘whaling communities’ (Kalland, 2004, p. 76).

Discussion The literature that examines the relationship between whaling and tourism is dominated by discussions of whaling’s (in)compatibility with whale watching. The principle argument is that the existence of whaling is detrimental to the development of whale-watching operations. However, the growth of whale-watching operations within many whaling nations has highlighted that a certain amount of coexistence is possible. There is a tendency for simplistic economic arguments to be employed, i.e., whale-watching creates more revenue than whaling, and 92 Benedict E. Singleton

Figure 7.1 An advertising sign on the main tourist street in Reykjavik, Iceland Source: Author therefore whaling should cease because whales are worth more alive than dead. This is an, often simplistic, ‘win-win’ argument for switching from whaling to whale watching, reminiscent of other arguments for ecotourism-led development (cf. Singleton, 2016a). Indeed, the literature is increasingly critical of the depicted dichotomy of whaling and whale watching, asserting that it inhibits efforts to ensure that whale watching is conducted appropriately (see above). There has Making a meal of it 93 been comparatively less attention paid to the effect whaling has on tourism generally. While several surveys report that many whale-watching tourists do not approve of whaling and will boycott whaling countries, there are also bodies of evidence suggesting that in some places tourists are one of the markets for whale meat (see above). Indeed, in Iceland, tourists are seemingly willing to participate in whale watching and eat whale meat. There is a need for further research into this apparent dissonance, highlighting as it does the difficulties of extrapo- lating effects from respondents’ stated interpretations as well as the diversity of groups and practices subsumed under the term ‘tourism.’ For example, ecotourists are often depicted as particularly environmentally focused (discussed critically below), and one interpretation of the desire of some Icelandic whale-watching tourists to try whale meat (Bertulli et al., 2016, p. 5) is that as whale watching expands and becomes an increasingly ‘mainstream’ tourist experience, the number of participants with alternative environmental views is also increasing. There seems to largely be acceptance within the literature reviewed that on some level whaling inhibits the growth of whale watching–based tourism (Herrera & Hoagland, 2006; Kuo et al., 2012). However, what is also clear is that the relationship is more complex than simple suppression, and the extent of the effect of whaling on other tourism remains unclear. A lack of empirical attention on different tourist groups’ consumption of local foods has been noted elsewhere in the literature (Frisvoll, Forbord, & Blekesaune, 2016). The IWC classifies whaling under three types (aboriginal subsistence, scientific, and commercial as stated above). At the same time, hunting of cetaceans in several parts of the world falls outside of the aegis of the IWC, either because nations are not members of the IWC (e.g., Canada) or because the IWC’s authority regarding smaller cetaceans is contested (as in the Faroe Islands). The literature suggests that tourists often view these practices somewhat differently, with aboriginal subsistence whaling viewed most positively of the three (Andersson et al., 2014; Higham & Lusseau, 2007, 2008). As a category, aboriginal subsistence whaling has its roots in a contradiction within US whaling policy, which sought to restrict commercial whaling while allowing certain domestic indigenous groups to continue to take a certain number of whales (Reeves, 2002). The distinctions are controversial, with critics asserting in some cases that aboriginal subsistence whaling is being used to provide exotic food for tourists rather than for locals (above). The argument is that in cases the principle of aboriginal subsistence rights has become a ‘fig-leaf’ for commercial whaling. In this conception, ‘subsistence’ is defined in purely non-capitalist consumptive terms. Defenders of aboriginal subsistence whaling assert that their opponents are enforcing a neo-colonial distinction between subsistence and the monetary economy (Freeman, 2001; cf. Martello, 2004). It is argued that anti-whalers, in effect, present whaling communities with a false choice between particular forms of ‘tradition’ and ‘modernity,’ forms that are defined by their opponents. This obscures long, complex globalized histories of varying connections with other parts of the world and the capitalist system (Kalland & Sejersen, 2005; cf. Wolf, 1982). They argue that whaling communities, often small and marginal within 94 Benedict E. Singleton the global system, have the right to determine for themselves what the particular values of modernity are. ‘Subsistence’ to these authors is to be defined in broad terms; whether selling whale meat to tourists is necessary to maintain the viability of whaling communities is for the communities to decide. Globally, whaling debates have tended to polarize (Blok, 2011; Kalland, 2009); whaling is depicted as either a backward, barbaric practice or part of a locally negotiated modernity. Lines are thus drawn regarding permissible levels of moral and cultural relativism when it comes to whales and whaling (Lien, 2004). This focus upon the authenticity/inauthenticity of whaling practices has several implications for food tourism research. Firstly, battles that essentialize whaling as part of a particular ‘whaling culture’ may form part of the process of creating an ‘exotic culture’ for tourist consumption (cf. van Ginkel, 2007). There is little investigation of how incorporating whale meat into the global tourist economy is affecting how whalers themselves understand and treat whales and whale meat. Essentializing whaling and whale meat consumption effectively removes practices from history; there is a need for in-depth studies of whaling practices and tourism situated within historical, ecological, and political contexts. For example, if it is true that Greenlanders are now hunting whales to provide meat for the tourist market, what effect does this have on how Greenlandic people understand and treat whale meat? Do different groups of whalers gain or lose from such a change? Has anything replaced whale meat in Greenlandic diets? How has this new market affected other subsistence activities? Greenlandic hunting, in common with that of many other Northern peoples, has been characterized by opportunism and flexibility, with hunters changing target species throughout the year (Kalland & Sejersen, 2005). Such inherent uncertainty conflicts with the needs of the tourist industry, which generally requires a certain amount of reliability. Whaling for the tourist market thus may have different economic imperatives, with diverse effects (Sejersen, 2003). Returning to whale watching and ecotourism, there is another impact that tourists may have on whale-eating food cultures – tourists may reduce the acceptance of whale meat as suitable for consumption. Many advocates of whale-watching argue that whaling countries should avail themselves of the money to be made through ecotourism, thereby ideally ceasing to whale and removing whale meat from local and international food chains. While such arguments have seemingly been ineffective in stopping established whaling nations from continuing their hunting practices, the impact developing whale-watching tourism has had elsewhere remains underresearched and thus has not been situated in social or historical contexts. For example, Tonga has historically had a whaling industry, focused on oil production for the international market with meat consumed locally. These practices ceased in 1978, when international opinion turned against whaling. Sub- sequently, whale watching has formed a part of a growing tourist industry. How- ever, in the 1990s, it was suggested that Tongans resume subsistence whaling, and a humpback whale was killed in 1999. In response, several researchers argued that this would have a disastrous impact on the nascent tourist industry, and ultimately the practice was not resumed (Orams, 2002). However, one economic Making a meal of it 95 anthropologist has argued that Tongans would do well to maintain the option of whaling: Tonga’s integration into the global capitalist economy, through the sending of cash home by emigrants and through the development of the tourist sector, has had a deleterious impact on Tongan diets. Referencing growing rates of non- communicable diseases rooted in the consumption of imported foods, he argues that Tongans should look to harvest local, traditional food sources, including whales, which to this day remain largely outside of the capitalist economy, moving through exchange networks. He also argues that this would also prevent an overdependence upon tourism within the Tongan economy, a reliance that makes Tongans vulnerable to the vicissitudes of an unreliable market (Evans, 2005; Moyle & Evans, 2008). The example of Tonga highlights an underdeveloped subject within the literature on whaling/whale watching – tourism development usually implies integration into a globalized capitalist economy. This integration entails risks and opportunities: Wealth may flow into a community or country but at the same time communities and countries compete for the tourist dollar. This can lead to a situation where the needs of tourists are considered paramount – indeed this is visible in the tendency for researchers to survey the intentions of whale-watching tourists rather than whalers. If attracting tourists is dependent on upholding certain values, this may require the suppression of local practices and values or their transformation. There is a body of political ecological literature that has problematized this unreflexive tendency, highlighting the possibility of a neo-imperialistic imposition of values in a host society (cf. Campbell, Gray, & Meletis, 2008). Thus the political ecological transformations that tourist development entails should be examined within whaling societies: Who are the important players driving changes within any given whaling community/country? Who benefits or loses when economies and lifestyles are transformed? Whose jobs are affected? Are those who hunt the whales the same as those who will benefit from tourism? What are the implications for people’s diets? For example, in St. Vincent, whale meat is one of the cheapest available forms of protein (Fielding, 2013); who in particular would suffer if whale meat ceased to be available? Linking into the globalized tourist economy also has implications or perceived implications for a country/community’s independence. In several whaling nations, notions of the right to independently determine one’s norms and values and how one uses ‘one’s own’ natural resources are an important part of pro- whaling discourses. For example, according to one account, pro-whaling views have become increasingly embedded within Icelandic nationalistic discourse (Brydon, 2006). Brydon describes how modern Icelandic nationalism was forged out of the new possibilities gained by advances in technology for exploiting local resources, notably fisheries. There was a shift in attitude toward nature, which was increasingly seen as something that could be utilized rationally by and for Icelanders. Certain ‘environmentalist’ values such as anti-whaling pose a threat to particular modernistic conceptions of nature as humanity’s right to exploit and manage the world. (Environmentalist values are diverse. Many pro-whalers may also consider themselves to be environmentalists, for example.) Whaling thus 96 Benedict E. Singleton relates to other conflicts about the nature of Icelandic society and culture and thus resonates beyond the small number of people actively involved. A similar concern can be observed in the example above on Tonga. In the Faroe Islands, several pro-whaling respondents argued that maximizing sovereignty entails looking to local resources, including pilot whales. There was an acute awareness that importing equivalent food supplies from abroad would come with concomitant political, ecological, social, and financial costs (Singleton, 2016b). Similarly, is it better to eat animals that have lived free but may die painfully instead of factory farmed animals killed more efficiently? (ibid). As such, there are political ecological aspects to the times and places that whale meat can be considered food and the effect this has on tourism: What other conflicts do whaling and tourism feed into? What are the environmental, social, and economic consequences of eating whale meat and of tourism? What different measures of ‘value’ are employed in arguing for different social, economic, and moral ‘orderings’ of whaling(s) and tourism(s)? Similarly, who utilizes which arguments and to what effect? Another issue, beyond the scope of this chapter, is that in many parts of the world environmental pollutants collect in the bodies of marine mammals, as is the case in the Faroe Islands (Dam & Bloch, 2000). Therefore the suitability of whale meat for human consumption (and the advantages and disadvantages of its replacement) may be contested, and concerns for tourists’ health may be a factor in such discussions.

Conclusion This political ecological review of the literature in relation to whaling, whale meat, and tourism has identified several research gaps. These gaps relate to weaknesses in the literature on whaling and tourism more generally deriving from normative moral standpoints of different researchers. Despite contemporary whaling being for meat production, there has been a tendency to focus on the act of killing and simplistic, essentializing notions of what whale meat ‘means’ within a culture, with little reference to how this changes – at times in relation to tourism. Likewise, the relationship between whaling and whale watching has occupied considerable attention. This attention has generally taken the form of simplistic economics-based arguments which argue that whaling is detrimental to whale watching. However, a growing body of research is challenging this, with whale watching and whaling coexisting in several countries. Indeed, the picture is con- fused further by the suggestion that at times tourists can be one of the markets for whale meat. As such, ‘tourism’ also becomes essentialized and the impacts of different touristic groups and practices remain obscured. ‘Tourism’ can be considered as an attempt to order the world to render it viable for tourist consumption (Franklin, 2004), to build “a comprehensive moral universe” (Blok, 2008, p. 59). In the literature, alternative groups of ‘orderings’ are clashing. In one, whaling and whale meat consumption conflict with particular ‘ecotouristic’ experiences (such as whale watching). In another, whale hunting and meat are attractive to tourists looking for ‘authentic’ touristic experiences Making a meal of it 97 built around ‘local’ lifestyles and food. Alongside ongoing polarization in the global whaling debate, the complexity of the clashes between these orderings has been obscured. Efforts to enact each ordering have social, ecological, economic, political, ethical, and health consequences. At present, researchers are struggling to move beyond particular value-positions about ‘nature’ and ‘whaling cultures’ regarding different forms of tourism. Concomitant attention thus is being paid to the consequences relevant to researchers’ own priorities. There is a need for research that explores the social, ecological, economic, political, ethical, and health consequences of whale meat production (or its cessation) and tourism in different parts of the world. For example, a change that may be good for whales in one place may be bad for cows in another because of the increased consumption of beef in lieu of whale meat, good for marine biologists who have more to study but bad for fishers who have to adapt to a whale-friendly environment. Tourism and whaling do and will continue to coexist in the foreseeable future and there is a need for more nuanced accounts, if only to allow for policymakers, NGOs, and other actors to make more knowledgeable decisions in promoting or constraining particular practices. Change and tourism are inevitable (cf. Parnwell, 2013), with consequences for both social and environmental sustainability (Sejersen, 2003). Care should thus be taken when advocating for particular forms of development.

Acknowledgements Tack till Milton M. R. Freeman, Michael Parnwell, Níels Einarsson, Frank Sejersen, Anniken Førde, and Mark Nuttall.

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Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen

One should never underestimate the cultural power of barbecue and the extent to which slow-cooked, smoked meat matters to people. In the summer of 2016, a middle-aged North Knoxville, Tennessee woman started a house fire after try- ing to turn her indoor bathtub into a pit for cooking barbecue. She had placed the meat on a wire rack across the tub’s rim. Firefighters turned to the showerhead, rather than an extinguisher, to put out the bathtub’s melting fiberglass. The Fire Department captain on the scene was quoted as saying: “The tub and the [barbecue] . . . were a total loss” (Knoxville News Sentinel, 2016, para. 6). Barbecue has also been the source of intense rivalries between people, communities, and whole regions. In the case of North Carolina, for example, the state has a long-standing debate over the proper way to prepare barbecue, with the eastern section of the state practicing a vinegar and pepper treatment of the whole hog, while the central or Piedmont region specializes in cooking just the pork shoulder and using a sauce with a flavor profile that is sweeter and uses tomato ketchup (Garner, 1999). This Tar Heel barbecue feud is more than just a difference of opinion among the two camps, so much so that it once kept North Carolina legislators from being able to agree on which style to designate as the state’s “official” barbecue. The incidents in Tennessee and North Carolina are just two of many examples of the fiery passions, literal and figurative, that surround barbecue as personal dietary preference, a deeply felt issue of tradition and identity, and thus as a source of cultural and culinary curiosity for the public. Barbecue – particularly pork barbecue – is a foodway of longtime cultural and economic importance in the southeastern United States (the South), but it has experienced a recent resurgence within the region while also expanding in popularity with the nationalization and globalization of southern (US) cuisine. Although the cooking of meat over or near an open flame or hot coals is strongly associated with the South, the practice can be found in almost every corner of the globe. Indeed, as Reed (2007, p. 139) reminds us, “Europeans and Africans were both familiar with it [barbecue] before they arrived in the New World and found native Indians doing it.” It is arguably the universal familiarity of barbeque that partly explains some of people’s growing affinity for the food. However, the strength and diversity of the South’s barbecue culture can also be attributed to social and geographic factors specific to the region – none more so than its history as a slave economy. Barbeque tourism 103 The public’s increasing taste for southern pork barbecue is realized through and structured by a tourism industry interested in exploiting the food not only for taste value but also as a signifier of cultural heritage, localness, and regional identity. For example, while North Carolinians continue to dispute whose barbecue tradition is more legitimate, this has not prevented tourism and heritage boosters from creating and promoting a barbecue trail, joining several other southern states that have done the same. North Carolina’s barbecue trail – which includes an interac- tive website (www.ncbbqsociety.com/) with photos and descriptions of famous restaurants – helps travelers identify and travel to historic pits and barbecue cooks or pitmasters from east to west. Barbecue tourism, in North Carolina and beyond, is frequently represented as a culturally unifying force that cuts across lines of difference and identity and showcases the history, pride, and hospitality of communities – but it is much more than that. The industry is embedded within broader social and economic relations and tensions that our chapter seeks to explore. As a food movement, barbecue does not simply exist as a type of cuisine but also constitutes a set of culturally constructed meanings and values about people, animals, and their relationship. In particular, at the heart of barbecue’s historical importance in the South and its diffusion is the “cult of the pig.” The phrase, as we use it, recognizes the long and close association that people in the South have had with pigs and the preparing and eating of pork. But we also emphasize the pig’s cult- like following to bring attention to the selective ways in which the animal and the cooking of its flesh are represented symbolically within barbecue tourism promotion. Images of happy-go-lucky pigs commonly used to advertise barbecue joints and festivals work to frame a certain ethical register for the public to think (or not) about the full range of social actors, economic consequences, environmental conditions, and cultural tensions undergirding the mass touristic production and consumption of smoked pork. In particular, the “cult of the pig” also communicates exclusive ideas about belonging and who constitutes a legitimate member of the devoted community of barbecue followers, innovators, and promoters, thus placing clear limits on how the benefits of barbecue tourism are distributed socially. The food movement has been criticized for being complicit in ignoring the long and strong relationship between African American pitmasters and the cooking of pig meat, perpetuating racial inequalities and serving as a site for the contestation of identity, memory, and representation. There have been few academic explorations of barbecue tourism and even fewer discussions of the racial politics of belonging that surround the unfettered and frequently euphoric promotion of barbecue culture and travel. Our racial political focus, while meant to reaffirm the place of African American entrepreneurs and destinations within the cult of the pig, is part of a wider initiative which recognizes the words of Alderman (2013, p. 376): “Tourism shapes and is shaped by broader racial inequalities, producing an ‘uneven cultural distribution of citizenship’ for African Americans that clearly limits their identity both as legitimate members of host communities and as welcomed visitors.” The current barbeque tourism boom is one of several entry points into understanding the racialization of travel, 104 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen memory, and identity within America and the ethical consequences it holds for the lives and livelihoods of people of color. Given the limited scholarly work on barbecue tourism, our chapter offers a brief introduction to the topic for the uninitiated while also focusing on some of the ethical issues that surround southern pork barbecue culture, including how it is practiced and portrayed publicly. As cultural geographers, we are interested in providing an overview of the localized, regionalized, and racialized traditions and landscapes from which barbecue originates and casts cultural meaning on the pig. We look into reasons behind the rise of barbecue tourism, examine the social and economic roles played by smoking meat, and discuss the types of social actors, contexts, and controversies that surround the conversion of the pig into food culture and tourism.

Barbecue 101 Barbecue is one of the oldest methods for preparing food; it allows people to cook meat over or near a source of heat and smoke (i.e., the barbecue pit) while preserving flavor and moisture – all with bare-bones kitchen equipment. Historically at the center of this sparse cooking was a strong skewer, originally and formally known as a “coa.” A coa is a sharpened and skinned stick used in barbequing, and it was widely used across the early Americas, including the Caribbean (Nabhan, 2011, p. vii). Coa is the root word of barbacoa, the term used in Hispanic nations to denote smoking meats over open flame, whether the meat is oriented verti- cally or horizontally. It is the flavor the smoke adds to the meat that is important because it was initially designed as a way to preserve the meat (Nabhan, 2011). However, today, the term “barbecue” is a bit more narrowly defined within the United States, denoting meat that has been smoked horizontally on a rack, basted, and served with a sauce or dry-rub (a mix of seasonings in powdered or granulated form). Barbecue in the United States, particularly in the South, where the food tradition has been the strongest historically, denotes much more than method and recipe. Indeed, “the word [barbecue] as southerners use it refers both to the food and its style of preparation” (Roof, 2011, p. 108), both the noun and the verb. Roof (2011) argues that food is a fundamental way in which people symbolize their culture, “bound up with a people’s way of life, their deepest values and identities” (Roof, 2011, p. 108). Accompanying the deep place of barbecue within the South are strong local cultural and regional norms about the selection of meat and side dishes and even the social behavior and locations that accompany the cooking and consuming of barbecue (Nabhan, 2011, p. viii). Within the United States and in particular the South, barbecue most often is synonymous with the cooking of pork, and it is this close relationship between barbecue culture, tourism, and the pig that is the focus of our discussion. Yet, it is important to note that in terms of the animal–human relationships that serve as the foundation of southern barbecue, there are a number of different traditions within the region – such as beef brisket (cow) in Texas, mutton (sheep) in Kentucky, smoked mullet (fish) along the Florida Panhandle, and chicken in Barbeque tourism 105 Alabama (Reed, 2016). Regardless of meat (animal) served, the preparation of barbecue has historically served as an important site of social communion within the South, from weddings and church dinners to political rallies and official civic functions. It was common in the region to find politicians securing elections by feeding constituents smoked pork and imbibing them with whiskey (Reed, 2007). Even today, barbecue restaurants are popular campaign and photo-op stops for presidential candidates.

Barbecue nation While barbecue has long had an important place in the South, its popularity has increased dramatically over the past few decades and America is quickly becoming a “barbecue nation” of not just traditional working-class fans but also wealth- ier foodies. This resurging food movement has resulted in growing numbers of restaurant chains along with independent roadside “joints,” new product lines of smokers and sauces, major cooking competitions, and reality television shows that have transformed pitmasters into household names and culinary celebrities. One of the more famous and outspoken of these celebrity pitmasters is Myron Mixon of Unadilla, Georgia. Mixon, known for his great success in barbecue cooking contests, markets his own line of cookers and equipment, writes best- selling books of recipes and techniques, hosts the television show BBQ Pitmas- ters, and teaches a cooking class for barbecue cooks of all skill levels who make the trek to his headquarters in Georgia. The spread of barbecue nation has not stopped at the U.S. border (Reed, 2005). The preparing and selling of southern style barbecue is increasingly found in other countries, with restaurants having opened in Tokyo, Beijing, London, Mexico City, and Ho Chi Minh City (Shahin, 2016c). While some of this diffusion is a matter of Americans transplanting barbecue culture, one cannot dismiss the growing native interest in not just eating but also preparing barbecue. The Kansas City Barbecue Society created an international division and sanctions cooking contests in countries such as Australia, Belgium, the Czech Republic, Germany, and Norway. Barbecue has even become popular in the traditionally snobbish cuisine circles of Paris, although some pitmasters in France use decidedly nontraditional presentations (e.g., pulled pork topped with pineapple salsa rather than tomato- based sauce) and side dishes (e.g., smoked cauliflower ratherthan mac and cheese or baked beans) (Shahin, 2016c).

Barbecue tourists With its growing popularity, barbecue has emerged as an important platform for the production and consumption of tourist experiences. Barbecue tourists, although largely under-analyzed, can encompass pitmasters – and their families, friends, and employees – who travel in tow with smokers to the ever-increasing number of barbecue cooking contests and festivals. But, barbecue tourists also include the fans who travel to these same competitions. There are no less than 573 106 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen barbecue contests and other events hosted annually in the United States (Killer Hogs, 2016). The majority of identified competitions take place in southern communities, but they are also found in Minnesota, Nevada, New Jersey, and Wash- ington State. Two of the largest tourism events associated with barbecue culture are the Lexington, North Carolina Barbecue Festival and the World Champion- ship Barbecue Cooking Contest in Memphis, Tennessee. The one-day Lexington Festival, now in its 34th year, attracted as many as 200,000 visitors in 2014 (The Barbecue Festival, 2017). The World Championship in Memphis, now in its 40th year, is part of a month-long, three-festival event (Memphis in May). It recently attracted 234 barbecue competition teams to cook pork ribs, pork shoulder, and whole hog. Over 100,000 attendees consumed over 16 tons of pork (Memphis in May International Festival, 2016). Barbecue tourists can also comprise more “casual enthusiasts” who “visit [and eat] notable representatives of various regional styles of smoked meats” (Cham- berlain, 2014, para. 1). The U.S. is recognized as being in a “barbecue boom,” with more than 14,000 barbecue restaurants in the nation (Lussenhop, 2015). Tourism promoters in almost every southern state have incorporated barbecue into their destination marketing plans and published locator maps and brochures to guide travelers in discovering barbecue-related stops, oftentimes in communities that would otherwise be off the beaten path of travelers. To demonstrate the great value that state officials place on barbecue tourism, one has to look no further than Alabama. The Alabama Tourism Department declared 2015 the Year of Alabama Barbecue, sponsoring a barbecue heritage web site and mobile app as well as a traveling photo exhibit and documentary film on Alabama pitmasters and making inaugural inductions into the Alabama Barbecue Hall of Fame (Carlton, 2015). While barbecue restaurants, joints, festivals, competitions, and trails can serve as primary generators of travel to a destination, they also function as secondary generators of tourism within communities, by adding sometimes unexpected value to some travelers’ place-based experiences and, for some, perhaps a reason to extend their stay and expand their spending. There are a number of reasons for explaining the allure of barbecue and, in particular, barbecue-motivated travel, but it is important to recognize how the food movement promises tourists a means of tapping into and consuming a series of localized and regionalized cultural landscapes. Landscape, as we use the word here, refers to more than simply the physical setting or stage for the selling of pig meat. Rather, landscape works to shape the experience of the tourist by materially connecting the act of eating with a larger array of cultural symbols, representations of history, and social meanings about the community and the region in which the barbecue originates. Through the human and animal relationships created and naturalized in and through the landscape, barbecue tourism sells itself as a way of tasting and experiencing the uniqueness and diversity of place and food heritage as opposed to the mass-produced experience traditionally associated with the tourism industry. Barbecue tourism along with other aspects of contemporary food travel invokes and relies upon a “neo-localism,” a “deliberate seeking out of regional lore and local attachment” by residents and travelers alike, in part a Barbeque tourism 107 reaction to those economic and social forces that threaten the particularity and distinctiveness of place and community (Shortridge, 1996, p. 10). Implicit in this yearning for place in neo-localism is a desire to return to an earlier time, and barbecue promotion frequently employs tropes of traditional recipes and methods of cooking and stories of generations of pitmaster families to frame the barbecue experience and what it can offer consumers as a form of heritage tourism, as well as food tourism.

Barbecue as place and memory It is this place-distinct quality and variation in barbecue traditions and innova- tions that contribute to its growing popularity among travelers seeking authentic engagements with local communities and cultures rather than a packaged and homogenized cuisine. In eating meats (animals) that have been smoked or cooked “low and slow,” barbecue tourists do not simply eat a distinctive food type but also participate in a performance of place and cultural memory that may or may not be a real preservation of or return to the “good ole days” of barbecue. Indeed, a strong point of contention among barbecue purists is the growing reliance of restaurants and pitmasters on gas or even electricity as a fuel supply rather than more traditional cooking methods that exclusively use wood (see The Campaign for Real Barbecue at www.truecue.org). The tensions that surround the cooking of pig meat are not simply differing opinions about the use of wood but are related to broader struggles over heritage, a major theme of this chapter. Barbecue-related travel is promoted around many localized and regionalized barbecue types across the South and even the wider United States, where sauce flavors and meat preferences vary considerably. Barbecue takes on a number of different expressions in the South, thus explaining the attractiveness of the region to food tourists. These culinary traditions are understood and marketed as intricately tied to the unique cultural traditions and heritage that persists in each destination community. When traveling across the southern geography of barbecue, the traveler trusts and often finds that he or she will encounter significant place- to-place variations that depend on: the type of wood or other fuel used in cooking, the type of animal slaughtered and utilized, the preparation of the whole animal versus specific cuts, the smoker or cooker architecture, the sauce ingredients, and other meaningful idiosyncrasies in the method of preparation. Sauce is an especially important matter to barbecue tourists, and southern styles alter between states and counties, from sugar, brown sugar, and molasses-sweetened tomato-based sauces to vinegar variations to sauces relying on mustard, ketchup, Coca-Cola, and even mayonnaise. Within the realm of cooking and eating pork, perhaps no states better illustrate the wide variety of barbecue traditions that can be commercially exploited than North and South Carolina and Tennessee. We have already discussed the contested divide in North Carolina between the preference for vinegar and pepper in the east and the affinity for ketchup-based sauces in the west. Originally, the entire country used vinegar as the base for its barbecue sauce, because lemons, the main ingredient in a barbecue tradition 108 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen dating back to the 1500s in the Caribbean, were not as readily available in the United States (Quine, 2015). Sauces began to gain greater regional diversity in 1876 when Heinz commercially introduced ketchup (Quine, 2015). Tennessee encompasses a full range of flavors from dry-rubbed pork shoulders and ribs in Memphis, to applying sweet and spicy tomato-based sauces to hams in Knoxville. As first mapped by geographers Kovacik and Winberry (1987), South Carolina can claim at least four distinct sauce traditions within pork barbecue (Figure 8.1). While many barbecue traditions employ some form of tomato or ketchup in their sauces, a number of South Carolina pitmasters use a yellow mustard–based sauce on pig meat. Barbecue – and its attendant tourism industry – is not monolithic; it has been fashioned in a variety of ways by different entrepreneurs. It remains regionally distinct and locally sourced in many cases, while in other cases it is commercialized and mass-produced. While continuing to rely upon the observing of longtime local family recipes, sauces, and smoking methods, barbecue has also seen the arrival of young, “hipster pitmasters” who creatively mix or fuse tradition with new tastes and styles (Jacobson, 2013; Shahin, 2016e). The emergence of this

Figure 8.1 Pork barbecue sauce regions of South Carolina (from Kovacik and Winberry [1987]) Note: Reproduced courtesy of Charles Kovacik Barbeque tourism 109 hipster barbecue zealot and entrepreneur, while important to the growth in barbecue tourism and place promotion, has come with controversy. Some longtime pitmasters and barbecue enthusiasts have expressed concern about the potential lack of appreciation for the large amount of work and time that it historically took to make high-quality barbecue, what new barbecue traditions mean and represent, and the affordability of hipster barbecue (Chamberlain, 2013; Fears, 2013). Bar- becue has historically been a very affordable way to eat, but as hipster pitmasters “cost out” their dishes, after using only the finest niche ingredients, prices continue to rise (Fears, 2013). Moreover, within the Knoxville barbecue scene, hipster pitmasters are more likely to serve alcohol and decorate their establishments in ways that run counter to the conservative origins of southern barbecue culture. Considering the issues raised about tradition, regional identity, and affordability (inclusivity), it is clear that barbecue is teeming with social signifiers and deeper cultural meanings. The tension between the “young guns” of barbecue and the traditional pitmasters speaks to a larger tension in the region between Old South perceptions and sensibilities and the reality of a New South that is more socially diverse and economically variegated. This tension also speaks to the need to understand how barbecue tourism, as an economic and cultural enterprise, serves as a field of tensions and competing ideas about who belongs within the food movement and to whom barbecue and the pig belong as a form of heritage and identity.

Ethical dilemmas of the “cult of the pig” Important to interpreting the historical significance of barbecue within the South and its resurgence as a twenty-first-century food tourism movement is understanding the role of the pig, as a food animal and symbol, within southern culture. Bass (1995) has written one of the more enlightening investigations into the social and economic importance of the pig for and within the South. Pork was the staple item in the southern diet throughout the nineteenth century, and hog killings were an important ritual in many agricultural communities in the region. It was common for hundreds of thousands of hogs to be driven across long distances to feed the large appetite for meat. Knoxville, Tennessee – from where we write this chapter – was a point of convergence for many of the hog routes connecting Georgia, Alabama, and the Carolinas. These drives represented some of the earliest forms of travel and tourism associated with the pig, contributing to the economy of communities that served as stops for drovers seeking taverns and lodging. Even with the closing of open-range herding and the droving business, pork remained the dominant meat for southerners, and the pig’s role expanded to become an iconic public symbol and an “ode to the bygone days of [the] farmer’s self-sufficiency” (Bass, 1995, p. 310). Clarence Saunders was inspired by the image of the pig when naming in 1916 his new, self-service, cash-and-carry grocery store chain Piggly Wiggly, and by the 1920s pig clubs were popular among boys being encouraged to raise animals for judging at county and state fair contests. It is out of this broader cultural, almost personal, relationship between humans and pigs 110 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen in the South, along with the dietary preference for pork, that modern barbecue restaurants emerged in the early twentieth century to serve growing numbers of southerners and Americans traveling by automobile (Bass, 1995). Roof (2011) has used the term “cult of the pig” to capture what he sees as the almost religious-like devotion or love that people have for pork barbecue. For our purposes, “cult of the pig” is more than merely “pig love,” and analytically there is need to understand the politics that surround the residential and traveling publics’ affinity for barbecue as an iconic commodity. Like any commodity, barbecue and barbecue tourism have become fetishized, building upon the Marxian observation that commodities are commonly seen as having intrinsic, objective value without acknowledging the social relations and conflicts that undergird their production. At first glance, it would appear that the labor behind producing barbecue from pigs is self-evident. After all, at many restaurants and festivals, the public is able to see smokers and cookers at work and, in some instances, visitors can meet and speak with pitmasters. However, this labor – while certainly important – is more about fashioning the exchange value of the commodity. Indeed, this labor does represent all the relations and tensions responsible for converting the pig, materially and symbolically, into barbecue. Exposing and discussing these relations and tensions is important to any effort to identify and discuss the ethical implications and possible dilemmas of the cult of the pig as it shapes and is shaped by barbecue tourism promotion. Our emphasis on “cult” is also meant to capture the community of barbecue followers, practitioners, and promoters who actively and selectively frame the place of the pig in the public imagination and hence the broader cultural and ethical meanings surrounding barbecue tourism. Whether consciously or unconsciously, barbecue entrepreneurs have created and employed marketing imagery that makes the full labor of food production invisible, hence placing constraints on the public’s ethical engagement with pigs as the acknowledged source of barbecue. We stress “acknowledged” because many barbecue establishments frequently identify themselves, visually and by name, with playful pig characters that distract us from truly knowing the real pigs which we are eating. For example, barbecue restaurants and festivals are commonly adorned with logos depicting clean and pink pigs – as opposed to the large brown and much less attractive hogs actually taken to slaughter – who are usually smiling widely as they welcome and invite visitors. Renowned southern studies and barbecue scholar John Shelton Reed vividly describes the many ways that the image of the pig is manipulated in promoting barbecue consumption:

For years, I have kept a mental log of barbecue joint signs. I’ve seen pigs reclining, running, and dancing; pigs with bibs, with knives and forks, with crowns and scepters. I’ve seen pigs as beauty contest winners, pigs in Con- federate uniforms, and pigs in cowboy hats (one with a banjo). I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Pig dressed for a night on the town, and Mr. and Mrs. Pig as Ameri- can Gothic. But I’ve never seen pigs like I saw in Memphis. Pigs in chess hats and volunteer firemen helmets. A pig in a Superman suit rising from the Barbeque tourism 111 flames. A pig reclining in a skillet; another on a grill, drinking beer. . . . It’s a hard call, but my favorite was probably some pigs with wings and haloes, from a [barbecue] team called Hog Heaven. (quoted in Roof, 2011, p. 109)

There is an interesting and perhaps disturbing dynamic in which pigs are depicted as willingly and happily complicit in their own exploitation and consumption, in effect encouraging locals and visitors to eat them. And in some instances, pigs are portrayed visually on placards and marquees as assuming the role of a barbecue cook or pitmaster. You can find logos where pigs are shown wearing chef hats and aprons or even holding meat cleavers or barbecue turning forks. This imagery, while fanciful and not rare within a society that regularly attributes human characteristics to animals, works nonetheless to normalize barbecue culture, making the cooking and eating of pork appear as part of the natural order of animal–human relations by suggesting that pigs not only approve of the practice but somehow by choice participate in it. We mention the contradictions embedded within pig-based barbecue logos to draw further attention to the fact that barbecue tourism is not an ideologically innocent venture and that it is about much more than simply the preparing, selling, and eating of pork. Rather, barbecue tourism – like the travel industry in general – consists of networks of social and environmental practices and consequences along with selective systems of cultural representation that can make barbecue culture anything but “Hog Heaven” for certain people, places, and pigs. For example, the image of the happy-go-lucky pig belies and deflects our attention from his or her real swine counterparts in industrially structured hog farms. These farms have a history in the South of negative environmental impacts on air, land, and waterways while also causing farm loss, particularly within African American communities (Wing, Horton, & Rose, 2013).

Barbecue, pigs, and racialization Barbecue is a reflection and projection of the southern society, economy, and environment in which it is embedded, and the commodification of the pig is part of the broader history and geography of racial inequalities that remain under-analyzed by scholars and unacknowledged or fetishized on celebratory restaurant logos. Van Sant (2015) encourages us to recognize how dominant ways of thinking and talking about southern cuisine “reflect the region’s history of white supremacy,” even as that food culture seems to celebrate multiculturalism and deny racial conflict and oppression. An important component of critical animal studies is recognition that the treatment and representation of animals can be connected with the racial exclusion and subjugation of certain social actors and groups, suggesting that the identities of human and other animals are constructed in co-constitutive ways rather than separately (Lorimer & Srinivasan, 2013). Such an idea prompts us to consider how the development and marketing of the pig as barbecue tourism has been carried out alongside and perhaps even in support of the racialization 112 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen of people. We use the word “racialized” to capture the process by which racial hierarchies and inequalities are produced and reproduced through everyday social spaces and cultural practices, including the work of transforming the pig into a cherished southern and American foodway. At first glance, the cooking and eating of pork would appear to have little to do with perpetuating a racial divide. After all, it is not uncommon to hear stories of white southerners frequenting black owned and operated barbecue operations, even in the days of Jim Crow segregation and discrimination (Bass, 1995). Yet, there is a deeper racial power dynamic that has long characterized the cult of the pig and barbecue tourism. Warnes (2008) asserts that the very origins of the word “barbecue” are linked, culturally, to the colonial project of Europeans depicting Native Americans and their preparation of animals as food as barbaric and hence justifying the violence of conquest and control – now an interesting irony in light of the growing popularity of American barbecue in Europe. Warnes (2008) also draws our attention to the important role that African and African American slave culture played in the development of the South’s barbecue traditions, pointing to a long history of white landowners relegating the barbequing of pigs to black cooks because of the hard, dirty, and time-consuming nature of working in and over pits. In effect, the symbolic and material construction of the pig as meat was accompanied by the social classification and construction of African Americans as subservient workers. This racialization of early southern barbecue practices and spaces occurred not only before the Civil War but well into the twentieth century, based on photographs analyzed by Warnes (2008). African Americans were not simply the workers or labor behind the cooking of many pigs in the South, but passed their techniques on to other blacks, as well as whites, while also eventually owning and operating their own barbecue establishments, which attracted traveling people of color and others. These black pitmasters and their establishments traditionally existed in the South along with upscale, white barbecue restaurants and poorer, white barbecue joints (Bass, 1995). Some of the better known and respected of these African American owned and operated barbecue restaurants included Lannie’s Bar-B-Q Spot in Selma, Arthur Bryant’s in Kansas City, Payne’s Bar-B-Que in Memphis, and John Bishop’s Dreamland in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

Historic racism and resistance Despite the central role that African Americans – enslaved and free – played in the development of barbecue cooking practices and the commercialization of smoked pork meat, barbecue became a site of racial exclusion, and African Americans have often found themselves on the outside of a barbecue tradition that quickly became controlled and promoted by white pitmasters. Perhaps no better example exists of the capacity of barbecue – and the image and meat of the pig – to become complicit in discrimination against African Americans than South Caroli- na’s Maurice Bessinger, the owner of the famous Piggie Park restaurant chain and the developer of a mustard-style sauce. Bessinger, who died in 2013, was known Barbeque tourism 113 for his divisive racial stands (Shahin, 2016a). In the early 1950s, he put signs in his barbecue stores warning African Americans that they were not welcome, and in 1964 he stood in the door of one his restaurants to prevent a black minister from entering (he would only allow blacks to purchase take-out, not eat in). Afri- can Americans sued Bessinger and ultimately, in 1968, the Supreme Court ruled against the racist businessman (Monk, 2014). Bessinger remained intransigent in the face of civil rights progress and as late as the early 2000s, he distributed pro- slavery and pro-segregation pamphlets in his Piggie Park restaurants for tourists and locals alike to read and take home. When, in 2000, South Carolina legislators responded to an NAACP-led tourism boycott of the state and pulled the Confed- erate battle flag from the capitol’s dome (albeit while still flying the flag on the capitol grounds), Bessinger hoisted the Confederate flag over each of his nine Piggie Park restaurants. This sparked a public backlash against Bessinger and led to the removal of his Carolina Gold sauce from the shelves of national grocery store chains, including Wal-Mart, Sam’s Club, and Harris Teeter. The boycott cost his business approximately $20 million (Hill, 2001; Shahin, 2016a). Bessinger lived the rest of his life unapologetic for his views. Since his death, the Bessinger family has removed the Confederate flags and moved their attention to the business rather than, in their words, their father’s “politics” (Monk, 2014). But the business and politics of barbecue were one and the same for Maurice Bessinger, and we suggest further that the preparing and eating of barbecued pork has always been (and still is) a political and ethical act. This is the case whether those politics of food are overtly represented as protest or resistance or are simply the larger political worldview that eating facilitates and empowers among people who have engaged in the experience. Bessinger is one of many southern pitmasters and certainly not representative of all white-owned southern barbecue establishments. And while the promotion of southern barbecue by whites is not inherently racist, it is impossible to separate the “cult of the pig” from the history of race relations and discrimination in the region. Indeed, the struggle over equal access to a barbecue restaurant was a major early battleground for establishing the constitutionality of the Civil Rights Act. In 1964, Ollie McClung Sr. of Ollie’s Barbecue in Birmingham, Alabama filed a lawsuit in an effort to protect the Jim Crow practice of refusing sit-down service to black customers. Although McClung won at the U.S. District Court level, his case was ultimately struck down by the Supreme Court (Garrison, 2015). In exploring the ethical complications of contemporary barbecue producers and consumers, it is important to be cognizant of how the cooking of the pig and the promotion of barbecue-related travel are part of, rather than removed from, the South’s civil rights struggles and to acknowledge the broader racial politics of belonging and dispossession that have long operated in the region. The pig and its attendant barbecue industry are better conceptualized, historically and now, as a cultural arena or contested site for southerners – black and white – to define and even debate their relationship with each other along with their relationship with the pig. The stories of Maurice Bessinger and Ollie McClung Sr. are not to suggest that African Americans have not appropriated and used the cult of the pig as a political 114 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen and economic tool in their own struggles for self-determination. Although not widely known or acknowledged in public lore or memory about southern barbecue and barbecue heritage tourism, noted civil rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer sought to establish a revolutionary relationship between the pig and social justice when she implemented the idea of “Freedom Hogs” as a means of addressing the hunger confronting black farm families in her native Sunflower County, Missis- sippi (Milam, 2013). As part of the larger cooperative Freedom Farm founded in 1969, needy families would be given a pregnant female hog with the understanding that the family would return two of the hog’s offspring to the farm’s “pig bank” for distribution to other families and in general support of the project, which also grew food-related crops (Bass, 1995). Freedom Farm assisted over 850 families, but Hamer – like many African American farmers – experienced difficulty with financing and retaining land and ultimately went bankrupt in 1976 (Milam, 2013).

Ongoing racism and exclusion Given the history of African American involvement in the origins of the southern pork barbecue traditions and the place of pigs in racialized struggles over rights, it is unfortunate that barbecue is often represented to many enthusiasts and travelers as a largely fetishized white commodity. When Fox News, a conservative American cable and satellite news channel, published a piece on “The Most Influ- ential BBQ Pitmasters and Personalities,” the labor and culinary contributions of African Americans were markedly absent (Rupersburg, 2015). This exclusion drew (and rightly so) significant ire from scholars, journalists, and advocates of the cuisine’s history (Bolois, 2015). Noted food scholar John T. Edge said this about the whitewashed list of pitmasters: “Racist by omission, indefensible lack of cultural knowledge” (quoted in Bolois, 2015, para. 3). Michael Twitty, African American food blogger and founder of Afroculinaria, perhaps best captured the racial politics of appropriation undergirding Fox’s pitmaster list:

Barbeque has gone the way of the banjo. It’s been the victim of a revisionist history that posits BBQ’s origins with cavemen, somehow leading to the Bubbas of the upper middle class. It’s critical to this sort of culinary gentri- fication that Black narratives, experts, and artisans are bled out of the brand. It’s also a myopic narrative that avoids having to answer tough questions about the history and future of food vis-à-vis the problem of the color line. (quoted in Bolois, 2015, para. 5)

Twitty’s anxiety about the future of barbecue in light of the racialization of its image and revised history is well placed. Fox’s top pitmaster list was not simply about giving credit to certain people over others. Rather, news articles such as this one, no doubt, play an important role in directing travelers to specific barbecue destinations associated with certain pitmasters while also constructing tourists’ general idea of what kind of pitmaster and establishment, racially speaking, they can expect to find and should seek out on the road. This marketing of southern Barbeque tourism 115 barbecue is characterized by what Van Sant (2017, p. 65) calls an “entrepreneurial nostalgia” that romanticizes individualism rather than acknowledging the politicized histories of food and “often celebrates and reproduces regional [and national] forms of whiteness.” Fox’s white-centric narrative about who matters in barbecue culture and who belongs within the cult of the pig is one often repeated in reality television shows and other food programs that appear infatuated with the “white, male hipster” pitmaster (Lussenhop, 2015). Indeed, while the most recent seasons of Myron Mixon’s reality television show BBQ Pitmasters highlight African American Moe Cason as a judge, the vast majority of the competing cooks are white men. This selective image of barbecue expertise is consequential and can contribute to broader racial inequities in the ability of black owned and operated barbecue restaurants to sustain themselves financially and resist becoming an invisible legacy of southern pork. Black pitmaster Daryle Brantley, of C&K Barbecue in St. Louis, has observed this dynamic firsthand, having seen his business reduced from three restaurants to just one. Brantley reported not being able to find a bank willing to loan him the money for the improvements and expansions necessary to allow him to take advantage of the recent barbecue tourism boom. Lussenhop (2015) cites the rising barriers that limit black pitmasters from traveling to barbecue competitions and hence limit their ability to promote their product to enthusiasts who flock to cooking contests, festivals, and restaurants. These barriers include large entry fees for competitions and expensive cooking equipment needed to comply with modern fire codes. Moreover, the growing popularity of barbecue culture and tourism has significantly raised the price of pigs and meat, along with wood. These issues, compounded by the reluctance of some white barbecue travelers to venture into struggling African American neighborhoods to visit restaurants, are compromising the material survival and reproduction of historic black pitmasters and pits (Shahin, 2016d).

The whole tail Identity, tradition, tourism, and racism have all influenced the way in which the pig is transformed, materially and symbolically, from an animal into the foodway and touristic commodity that is pork barbecue. The marginalization if not outright dying out of black barbecue destinations from the tourism maps brings an unevenness and unfairness in how the social and economic benefits of travel are distributed and realized. These missing locations on the travel itinerary, of course, limit us from having a full historical understanding of the relationship between pigs and the purveyors of southern barbecue traditions. But the loss of these places and people produces even larger voids in the story of American racial struggle and resistance. For instance, any effort to retell the history of the Civil Rights Move- ment and the place of ordinary people and businesses in supporting the Move- ment would be incomplete without including the role played by black-operated barbecue establishments. These eateries certainly fed and sustained protestors and Movement leaders, but they also provided resources for the formal political work 116 Derek H. Alderman and Janna Caspersen of anti-racism. For example, Larry Bethune recounts how his mother, sister, and aunt used their enterprise – Brenda’s Bar-B-Que Pit – to assist the NAACP during the Montgomery Bus Boycott by using the restaurant’s printing machine to put out fliers in advance of organizational meetings. Another example can be found in the no longer standing Aleck’s Barbecue Heaven, where Martin Luther King Jr. would regularly eat. Dr. King credited the restaurant for fueling his late night speech writing sessions (Shahin, 2016b). If the racialization of barbecue tourism is allowed to continue suggesting that African Americans do not belong to and within the cult of the pig, then we miss a grand opportunity to learn about and appreciate the capacity of smoked pork to be transformed into what Michael Twitty calls “Rebellion Food” (Shahin, 2016d).

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Elise Mognard

Introduction Foie gras is a most disputed food. The controversy focuses on animal welfare and rights and mobilizes supporters, ethicists, stockbreeders, artisans, chefs, scientists, veterinarians, politicians, legislators, judges, lobbies, the media, citizens, and consumers. It addresses two broader social issues: the modern relations between animals and human beings and foie gras as an authentic cultural icon of local food heritage. Therefore, it provides a critical standpoint from which to study the production and reproduction of ethics in food modernity (Ascher, 2005; Beardsworth & Keil, 1997; Corbeau, 1992; Fischler, 1990, 2015; Poulain, 2002c, 2017; Warde, 2015). Changes in food production can be observed at the macro and long-term levels by analyzing the food politics and socio-historical development of the foie gras controversy (Caro, 2009; DeSoucey, 2010, 2016; Duhart, 2009; Mognard, 2013) as well as the micro level by examining the pragmatism of the critique (Boltanski, 2011) and the building of moral acceptability (Heath & Meneley, 2010; Youatt, 2012). This study stands at the meso level, highlighting the way the ‘tourist-eater’ experiences contribute to the production and reproduction of food-related systems of values and as such, of ethics. Derived from theoretical studies aggregating both analyses of modernization and globalization (Beck, 1992; Giddens, 1990; Robertson, 1995), the chapter’s emphasis is on the ‘experiential universe’ (Gid- dens, 1990) of the ‘eater.’ In addition, the ‘tourist experience’ as an illustration of the experience of global modernity (Featherstone, Lash, & Robertson, 1995; Urry & Larsen, 2011) is explored. Indeed, ‘tourist-eaters’ in the Périgord (France) are potentially presented with a food, i.e., foie gras, which results from a highly controversial process, namely force-feeding. Therefore, this study asks multiple questions. How do tourist experiences contribute to the production/reproduction of values and related social practices? What are the conditions under which one evaluates force-feeding based upon a set of values and then proceeds to either consume the product or not? The chapter will first provide an overview of the literature related to (1) the ambivalence of reactions to animal as food – and the management of the associated anxiety in ‘food models,’ (2) the key findings on the controversy related to foie gras and 120 Elise Mognard force-feeding, and (3) a sociological perspective on ‘tourist experiences.’ Follow- ing the methodology, the findings will be presented: (1) the ‘tourist experiences’ in relation to foie gras and (2) the change of attitudes toward force-feeding during those experiences. Finally I briefly critically discuss the findings. This two-fold contribution will allow for a more in-depth, practical, and detailed analysis of the role of tourism in food education as well as consider – from a more theoretical perspective – the axiological implications of ‘tourist experiences’ in the shaping of animal ethics.

Literature review

Ambivalence of animals as food and the management of related anxiety in food models In socio-anthropological food studies, the controversy raised by foie gras is analyzed as ‘gastro-anomy’ (Fischler, 1990), i.e., a lack of regulation of food-related anxiety. Indeed, those studies have demonstrated that food triggers anxiety. “Food anxi- eties arise from the tensions or ambivalences between gustatory pleasure and dis- pleasure, between health and illness, and between the continuation of life and death of the living organisms that are eaten by man (Beardsworth & Keil, 1992, Beardsworth, 1995). This life versus death ambivalence stems from the ethical conflict of killing living organisms and eating their flesh and organs as a means to preserve our own lives. Little concern is aroused when the organism is a plant, but it becomes significant when it comes to animal food, thus highlighting the ambivalence at work in human–animal relationships. Anthropology of symbolical practices and of technological development acknowledges the existence of environmental constraints and of a space of freedom for collective and individual differentiation. Those approaches lay emphasis to the variability of domestication techniques and of the transformation processes converting living animals into food. Addressing the issue from those perspectives is essential to understanding what allows the construction of the edible status of an animal through domestication. Authors have explained this by changing the animal designation (Fabre-Vassas, 1993; Méchin, 1992; Milliet, 1995), by legitimating the killings, and/or by masking the animal origin of the food (Bas- tian, Loughnan, Haslam, & Radke, 2012; Kunst & Hohle, 2016; Vialles, 1994). According to Vialles (1994), people may become more able to face animals as food by establishing a disassociation between the two. This is built through levels of exposure to agriculture, animal breeding, and the process of transformation into food. For food socio-anthropologists, these transformation processes of living animals into food are part of the ‘culinary system’ (Fischler, 1990) or the ‘food model’ (Poulain, 2007). These socio-technical systems contribute to the regulation of food anxiety aroused by the above-mentioned ambivalence between life and death (Beardsworth & Keil, 1997). More specifically, the ‘food model’ is Fat duck as foie gras? 121 defined as a system of social representations and practices related to food production, distribution, and consumption. Thus, from the eater’s viewpoint, it makes up the set of rules that predetermine food decisions; from the researcher’s viewpoint it offers a tool to analyze independent socio-cultural dimensions of food (decisions) while thinking about their connections with biological and ecological components (Poulain, 2007). Current food-related anxiety can also be interpreted as being an outcome of a looser and reshaped social regulation (Ascher, 2005; Beardsworth & Keil, 1997; Corbeau, 1992; Fischler, 1990, 2015; Poulain, 2002c, 2017; Warde, 2015). For example, how are foie gras production and consumption regulated?

Nature vs. culture: the axiological debate about foie gras The controversy over foie gras is a prime opportunity for scrutinizing the mechanisms of social regulation. Three types of interpretation emerge from the research on the dispute over foie gras. The first one falls within the sociological field of “critical perspectives,” and the moral stand of animal welfare being seen as a facade to defend social distinction. The laws regulating animal welfare in the case of foie gras production have, for Kaufman (2008), a class-reinforcing function that maintains social distinction. This view provides an enlightening interpretation of the contradiction existing between the strong interest aroused by the foie gras debate and its very limited consumption in North America. However, this particular critical perspective oversimplifies the actors’ motivations by character- izing them as a means to sustain supremacy through social distinction. The second approach is a mix of food politics and socio-historical perspectives. These studies do not deny the players’ capacity to be critical but explore the social construction of the dispute by scrutinizing the players’ interaction (Caro, 2009; DeSoucey, 2010, 2016; Duhart, 2009; Mognard, 2013). These interpretations mixing action theory and a socio-historical perspective that provide information on the interlinking of two thematization processes of the foie gras dispute: patrimonialization on the one hand and the criticism of the forms which regulate eater–animal relationships on the other. Patrimonialization involves a fear of seeing something vanish in the process of globalization (Poulain, 1997a, 2015). The critiques in respect of animal welfare or rights are reflecting structural transformations in the relationship of contemporary eaters with animals and more widely nature (Poulain, 1997b, 2015). By paying attention to the interpretation and appropriation process achieved by the players, those researchers highlight the significance of the controversy, far beyond the case of foie gras. Indeed, this dispute highlights the transformations of governance and more specifically the relations between economics, politics, media, law, and science. According to this more recent research (Caro, 2009; DeSoucey, 2010, 2016; Duhart, 2009; Mog- nard, 2013), the early 2000s witnessed the gradual and interrelated reinforcement of the following values: on the one hand, foie gras production and consumption are being challenged on the grounds of ethics and respect for nature; on the other hand, production is supported for the sake of heritage and culture. 122 Elise Mognard The third approach consists in capturing the foie gras debate as a situation of conflict and of critical production. Arguments are studied from a pragmatic analysis of the critique (Boltanski, 2011) in order to highlight the critical capacity of the players involved and the tenets of moral or critical approaches, such as the “Ethics of Care” according to Heath and Meneley (2010), as well as “Nature” for Youatt (2012). Those two contributions are valuable insofar as they provide new directions for addressing the moral issue of our relationships with animals. They place emphasis on the process through which the debate is being nurtured. Even if they do not focus on the normative judgment according to which some treatments are moral or immoral, they emphasize what is at work in the anthropozoological relations that build moral acceptability. And yet, these closely delineated analyses hardly report on the structures and variability of the patterns along which experiences are perceived by individuals. Hence, if we set aside the way values are supported and leave behind the construction processes of moral acceptability, how do we analyze the structures and the variations of commitment to a set of values? Should force-feeding be blamed as immoral or praised as culturally worthwhile, or should it be regarded as culturally reprehensible and at the same time morally acceptable? One may, as Goffman (1974) did, analyze how the features of both objects and contexts are likely to call upon various registers of values (Heinich, 1992). The next step is to analyze the social structures and the plurality of the perception patterns applied to the experience. This can then lead to a specific register of values in order to evaluate force-feeding.

Sociological views of tourist experiences As mentioned above, foie gras is considered one of the tourism highlights in the Périgord (France). Based on the ‘intermediate experience areas’ theory from Win- nicott (1971), the ‘tourist experience’ can be considered a ‘transitional space’ for the actualization of individual and collective identities. From this perspective, the ‘touristic experience’ consists in experimenting and innovating socially within a space and time partly free of social norms (Amirou, 2008). Recently, sociological conceptualizations of the ‘tourist experience’ have also highlighted the distinctiveness of tourism from everyday life and the plurality of tourist experiences (Cohen, 1979) taking into account the subjectivity and reflexivity of the individuals involved. Rather than opposing the modern developments on this topic, those post-modern contributions suggest some complementary extensions (Uri- ely, 2005). As a continuation of the studies on the ‘tourist-eater’ (Bessière, Poulain, & Tibère, 2012, 2013), the ambition of this chapter is to look at the tourist food experience as being embedded in daily life and includes social structures. Tour- ism mobility allows the meeting not only of cultures but also of social positions. Grounded in the social distinction theory and concept of ‘habitus’ (Bourdieu, 1984), this perspective shows that dispositions (in terms of abilities and resources acquired during the socialization process) are used to face food “otherness” during the experience (Chang, Kivela, & Mak, 2010; Chang et al., 2010; Everett, Fat duck as foie gras? 123 2009, 2012; Germann Molz, 2007; Kim, Eves, & Scarles, 2009; Mak, Lumbers, Eves, & Chang, 2012). Finally, this chapter complements the body of works focusing on tourist-eater experience from a consumer studies perspective by examining the motivations of the tourists to visit a food destination or to experiment with local food (Chen & Huang, 2016; Hjalager, 2004; Kim & Eves, 2012; Mak et al., 2017; Richards, 2015). From the theoretical standpoint, this approach is used as a conceptual tool to bridge social structures and individual subjectivity in the analysis of the production/reproduction of food models. This includes the system of social norms and the related practices of the ‘tourist-eater.’

Methods This contribution uses a mixed methods approach (Ivankova, Creswell, & Stick, 2006). The study aims to understand how individuals face their lived experiences uniquely. To that end, social structures as well as the subjectivity of lived experiences are acknowledged.

Qualitative methods The qualitative approach is rooted in ethno-methodology and phenomenology that take onboard individual subjectivity and lived experiences. Eleven in-depth and semi-structured interviews have been conducted with socio-professional actors involved in the production and promotion of foie gras from April to August 2009. Eleven participant observations of foie gras–related agritourism activities were carried out from July 2009 to June 2010. Additionally, in-depth and semi- structured interviews were conducted with ‘tourist-eaters’ (39 European participants, from July to August 2009).

Quantitative methods The quantitative approach included a questionnaire in order to objectify both the structures defined as the “society’s influence on the individual” (Giddens & Sut- ton, 2014, p. 23) and the conscious, subconscious, or unconscious motivations prompting their behavior. According to Giddens (1990), structures are patterns of normative expectations and guidelines governing acceptable behavior; moreover, repeated individual actions contribute to the reproduction or alteration of social systems. The questionnaire encompasses the tourist journey in its dynamic dimension, e.g., before and during the tourist experience (Jafari, 1988). The retro-translation technique was used to translate it – first from French into English, then from English into French to ensure the questions were meaningful (Temple, 1997). The questionnaire was conducted directly with tourists visiting the Périgord during summer 2010 (July to October). To allow comparisons between inter and intra origins, a stratified random sampling was designed with tourists from France, 124 Elise Mognard Table 9.1 Characteristics of ‘tourist-eaters’ interviewees

Alias Gender Age Occupation Country of origin

Angela Female 45–50 Social worker Italy Antoine Male 35–40 Director of accounting division France Bertrand Male 60–65 Retired France Blandine Female 35–40 Clerk France Camille Female 25–30 Teacher France Carlo Male 45–50 Deputy principal Italy Carmen Female 35–40 Teacher Spain Clothilde Female 30–35 Dentist Belgium Delphine Female 30–35 Teacher Belgium Elena Female 45–50 Teacher Spain Éric Male 40–45 Teacher France Étienne Male 50–55 Supermarket director France Florence Female 25–30 Not available France Françoise Female 50–55 Manager of flower shop France Gaël Male 25–30 Not available France Gustavo Male 35–40 Teacher Spain Hélène* Female 55–60 Laborer France Jean-Paul Male 55–60 Truck driver France Joëlle Female 55–60 Not available France Julien Male 25–30 Engineer France Mamie Female 75–80 Retired France Marion* Female 40–45 Local government officer France Maryse Female 50–55 Cashier France Mathieu Male 35–40 Employee France Michel Male 50–55 Manager of flower shop France Miguel Male 45–50 Local government officer Spain Monique Female 50–55 Nurse France Nadine Female 60–65 Teacher France Nathalie Female 25–30 Not available France Nicole Female 60–65 Retired France Paul Male 60–65 Teacher France Pierre Male 50–55 Truck driver France Rémi Male 30–35 Dentist Belgium Robert Male 50–55 Accountant France Sandrine Female 35–40 Nurse France Stéphanie Female 25–30 Banker France Thierry Male 30–35 Teacher Belgium Thomas Male 25–30 Engineer France Yves Male 40–45 Social worker France

Note: * Verbatim included in these paper findings the United Kingdom, and the Netherlands as the main countries of origin of tourists in the Périgord (BVA, 2008). Questionnaires were self-administered and the respondents recruited at sites within the region. One of the prerequisites for participation was fitting into the criteria of origin and length of stay; 662 observations were collected: 38.7 percent of respondents came from Great Britain and Ireland (256 people), 24.9 percent from the Netherlands (165 people), and 36.5 percent from France (241 people). Fat duck as foie gras? 125 The range of attitudes – defined as the stabilized stance of an individual prior to the emergence of a system of values – toward force-feeding was identified from the socio-historical analysis of the literature on the controversy over force- feeding. Two registers of values – a ‘natural’ and a ‘cultural’ one – were identified (Mognard, 2013). In the current study, respondents were requested to rank their attitudes on two continuums (6 points differential semantic scales). The continuum for the ‘natural’ axiological register of force-feeding read as follows: “It’s natural: geese and ducks naturally are big eaters vs. it is pushing things beyond natural limits” and the continuum for the ‘cultural’ axiological register of force- feeding was as follows: “It is a cruel practice inflicted upon geese and ducks vs. it is a traditional heritage to be preserved.” Because the interviews demonstrated that some people may not have any opinion, a “no opinion” option was added. Finally, the respondents reported the attitudes they had developed about force- feeding before and during their tourist experiences, and assessment of change pre- and post-farm visit is based on their comparison. In addition to the usual socio-demographic variables and based on works from Vialles (1994), two variables referring to the capacity of people to face animals as food. Dissociation between the living animal and food is assessed by asking “Whenever you eat meat, do you associate it with the living animal it comes from?” Additionally, occupation of one or more of the family members in the pro- fession of agriculture indicates likely exposure to breeding animals and/or their transformation into food, and hence the capacity to imagine the living animal as food. Both are used for elaboration of bivariate analysis. Statistical analyses were performed using SPSS (version 20.0). The relations between the changes in attitudes toward force-feeding and socio-demographic and eating patterns were assessed using the Pearson chi-square test (Clemence, Doise, & Lorenzi-Cioldi, 2014; Healey, 2011; Samuel & Okey, 2015). Based on conventions, the statistical significance is set atP ≤ 0.05 (Cohen, 1988). Analysis of standardized residuals was used as the post-hoc test (Sharpe, 2015).

Limitations Based on sampling methods, the main limitation of the study is its generalizability either to the touristic population of the Périgord or to the selected countries of origin of the tourists, namely Great Britain, Ireland, the Netherlands, and France, as the main countries of origin of tourists in the Périgord (BVA, 2008). Indeed, tourism as spatial mobility is raising epistemological and methodological issues (Büscher, Urry, & Witchger, 2010). Replication of the research with representative samples would allow the validation of the conclusions.

Findings Findings of the study are presented in two main parts. First, this study presents the ways in which ‘tourist-eaters’ experience foie gras during their stay in the Périgord. Secondly, the important conditions of the change of attitudes toward force-feeding during those experiences are discussed. 126 Elise Mognard Tourist experiences in relation to foie gras Only 7 percent of the respondents declared that they had not had any experience related to foie gras since their arrival in the Périgord region. Most of the respondents (87 percent) had the opportunity to “come across” the foodstuff in a shop or at the marketplace, which supports the assumption that the fieldwork area is a kind of “Foie gras Disneyland” (DeSoucey, 2010), with significant commercial and cultural activities revolving around this iconic product. Indeed, most of the shops (as many as 45) in the Vieux Sarlat are partly or totally dedicated to foie gras, according to one of our interviewees, a foie gras producer. In the surroundings, at least one stall in every producer-market or weekly open-air market is related to fat duck products and foie gras. From the tourist standpoint, looking at foie gras does not connote involvement or shape your identity as a ‘tourist-eater.’ For almost half of the respondents (47 percent), seeing foie gras was the only activity mentioned related to foie gras. However, the high proportion of the participants who came across the product is an evidence of its high symbolical significance in the territory. Fourteen percent of the respondents have eaten foie gras with friends or relatives living in the area and 39 percent have consumed it at a restaurant, table d’hôte, or farmhouse inn. Taking into account that some respondents did both, 43 percent of them have eaten foie gras. These practices are far more engaging, since they imply incorporating the product into the body, in other words crossing the frontier of the self (Fischler, 1988, 1990). This high percentage may be accounted for by the ritual of appropriation of the territory (Bell & Valentine, 1997; Morin, 1962). Finally, 12 percent of the respondents visited a farm producing foie gras, some of which included a force-feeding demonstration.

Change of force-feeding attitudes Regarding force-feeding, the study determined that 9 percent of tourists assess it as a more ‘natural’ practice, while 6 percent of them see it as “forcing nature.” The remainder of participants (85 percent) did not change their attitudes (which are mainly toward an evaluation of force-feeding as a practice “forcing nature”). This small change in attitudes partly contradicts the idea that ‘tourist-eater’ experience consists in experimenting and innovating socially within a space and time partly free of social norms (Amirou, 2008). This may be related to the reflexivity of ‘tourist-eaters’ when it comes to their perception of the lack of authenticity of this “acting” for tourism purposes (Amirou, 2007; Olsen, 2002). In addition, it stresses the importance of the context and the structure given through prior food models.

Attitude toward ‘naturality’ of force-feeding First, it is to be noticed that there is no significant statistical relation between socio-cultural determinants and the changes in attitudes toward force-feeding as being ‘natural.’ This indicates that the change of this attitude does not depend on Fat duck as foie gras? 127 social structures, and suggests that the agency of eaters could play a role in creating new social regulations. When looking at these tourism activities, association can be observed between the consumption of foie gras during the stay (χ2(2, N = 594) = 10.69, p = 0.00***) and considering force-feeding as more natural. The influence of tourism experiences on the attitude changes regarding the ‘naturality’ of force-feeding depends on the ‘tourist-eaters’ socialization and abilities. There is a partial correlation that demonstrates the attitude changes toward the ‘naturality’ of force-feeding depend on the capability of ‘eaters’ to dissociate the living animal from the animal product (χ2(2, N = 322) = 7.45, p = 0.02***) along with having relative(s) working in agriculture (χ2(2, N = 192) = 10.64, p = 0.00***). Among the ‘eaters’ who dissociate the living animal from the animal product, eating some foie gras during their stay tends to influence them into evaluating force-feeding as more natural (χ2(2, N = 322) = 7.47, p = 0.02**). This statistical association highlights their ability to activate a specific capability, i.e., dissociation, as a regulation process of the relationship between animals and humans when eating foie gras. Another association

Table 9.2 Relationships between changes in attitudes toward ‘naturality’ of force-feeding and socio-demographic and tourist experiences variables

Variable Result of statistical test

Socio-demographic Variables Country of residence χ2(4, N = 596) = 5.32, p = 0.26 Urbanization level of current residence χ2(4, N = 596) = 2.50, p = 0.64 Education level χ2(8, N = 576) = 8.17, p = 0.42 Socio-economic position χ2(6, N = 475) = 3.22, p = 0.78 Gender χ2(2, N = 580) = 3.22, p = 0.46 Age group χ2(6, N = 593) = 4.76, p = 0.57 Tourist Experience Variables Consumption of foie gras during the stay χ2(2, N = 594) = 10.69, p = 0.00*** Partial Tables No dissociation between living animal and χ2(2, N = 255) = 3.02, p = 0.22 animal product Dissociation between living animal and animal χ2(2, N = 322) = 7.47, p = 0.02** product Partial Tables Having relative(s) working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 192) = 10.64, p = 0.00*** Not having relative working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 398) = 3.43, p = 0.18 Participation in a farm visit χ2(2, N = 594) = 12.44, p = 0.00*** Partial Tables No dissociation between living animal and χ2(2, N = 255) = 9.42, p = 0.01*** animal product Dissociation between living animal and animal χ2(2, N = 322) = 6.07, p = 0.05* product Partial Tables Having relative(s) working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 192) = 5.18, p = 0.07 Not having relative working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 398) = 8.30, p = 0.02**

Notes: * p < 0.05. ** 0.01 < p < 0.03. *** p < 0.01 128 Elise Mognard can also be observed concerning the sub-sample of participants having relatives in the agricultural sector (χ 2(2, N = 192) = 10.64, p = 0.00***). Those who had some foie gras during their stay in the Périgord seem to evaluate force-feeding as more natural than they did before their stay. A final difference in the change of the ‘naturality’ of force-feeding is found based on the participation in a farm visit (χ2(2, N = 594) = 12.44, p = 0.00***). Their participation led to the tourists considering force-feeding as more natural. As Hélène said:

I did not have the feeling that they were suffering. As soon as you know that they are doing it by themselves in Nature . . . I felt that they were not afraid. They were caught easily [by the agricultural workers].

In this case, the concrete and sensory-lived experience is essential in shaping the tourist’s opinion. As for Marion, she explained that those visits allowed her some distancing with the image built by the media:

She [the farmer] insisted quite a lot on force-feeding. I found that great because we tend to have this cliché through documentaries. To me, force- feeding was industrial, like on an assembly line. In that case, it was not! She even offered us to come and feel the neck of the animal while she was force- feeding. It looked natural but it influenced me.

These statements show how a lived and sensorial experience in relation to the animal can significantly contribute to the construction of opinions and put media discourses to the test. Indeed, the experience of a farm visit (wherever it is including or not force-feeding demonstration) appears to influence the participants to hold views that force-feeding is more natural. These tourism experiences contributed to the change of the legitimacy of force-feeding as being in line with Nature.

Attitude toward ‘culturality’ of force-feeding As in the case of ‘naturality,’ the value of ‘culturality’ was influenced for 10 percent of the respondents toward a more “cultural” evaluation; however, 8 percent evaluate force-feeding as less “cultural” than they did prior to their stay. The change imparting a value of ‘culturality’ to force-feeding is associated with eating foie gras during the stay (χ2(2, N = 598) = 7.91, p = 0.02***). Indeed, the consumption of foie gras and the farm visit appear to be associated with the notion that force-feeding is a more cultural practice. Here again, this observation is based on the ability of the ‘eaters’ to dissociate and on their experience with agriculture. The observation of participants legitimizing the consumption of foie gras through the value of nature was evident in those that had relatives working in the agricultural sector. However, those participants with no family in the agricultural sector tend to legitimize foie gras by its cultural value. The consumption of foie gras during the tourism experience related to the change of attitude Fat duck as foie gras? 129 Table 9.3 Relationships between changes in attitudes toward ‘culturality’ of force-feeding and socio-demographic and tourist experiences variables

Variable Result of statistical test

Socio-Demographic Variables Country of residence χ2(4, N = 601) = 9.04, p = 0.06 Urbanization level of current residence χ2(4, N = 593) = 1.74, p = 0.78 Education level χ2(8, N = 581) = 10.96, p = 0.20 Socio-economic position χ2(6, N = 482) = 3.18, p = 0.79 Gender χ2(2, N = 585) = 1.01, p = 0.60 Age group χ2(6, N = 598) = 7.39, p = 0.29 Tourist Experience Variables Consumption of foie gras during the stay χ2(2, N = 598) = 7.91, p = 0.02*** Partial Tables No dissociation between living animal and χ2(2, N = 261) = 1.34, p = 0.51 animal product Dissociation between living animal and χ2(2, N = 320) = 6.69, p = 0.03** animal product Partial Tables Having relative(s) working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 192) = 3.02, p = 0.22 Not having relative working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 403) = 6.93, p = 0.03** Participation in a farm visit χ2(2, N = 598) = 7.17, p = 0.03** Partial Tables No dissociation between living animal and χ2(2, N = 261) = 0.36, p = 0.84 animal product Dissociation between living animal and χ2(2, N = 320) = 12.58, p = 0.00*** animal product Partial Tables Having relative(s) working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 192) = 3.86, p = 0.14 Not having relative working in agriculture χ2(2, N = 403) = 5.21, p = 0.06

Notes: * p < 0.05. ** 0.01 < p < 0.03. *** p < 0.01 toward the ‘culturality’ of force-feeding and is different depending on individual dissociation capacity. Only those who can disconnect the living animal from the animal product tend to revise their opinion toward a more cultural practice (χ2(2, N = 320) = 6.69, p = 0.03**). The change imparting a value of ‘culturality’ to force-feeding is also associated with the visit to a farm producing foie gras (χ2(2, N = 598) = 7.17, p = 0.03**), and additionally the experience of consuming foie gras is associated with considering force-feeding as a more cultural practice. There is a correlation between participating in a farm visit and changing attitudes toward the ‘culturality’ of force-feeding. Differences can be observed depending on individual socialization, as the change is verified only for those who have relatives working in agriculture (χ2(2, N = 403) = 6.93, p = 0.03**). For them, visiting a farm is associated with a change of opinion toward a more cultural evaluation of force-feeding. Therefore, the cultural aspect of force-feeding tends to be promoted among people without direct experience of food production. In addition, dissociation is also involved in the change of this attitude. Only the individuals disconnecting the living animal from the animal product changed opinion while 130 Elise Mognard experiencing a farm visit (χ2(2, N = 320) = 12.58, p = 0.00***). In this case, they tend to evaluate force-feeding as more cultural. To summarize, lived experience plays a significant role when it comes to the change of legitimating force-feeding to the cultural aspect. Similar to the case of the natural aspect, this is to be quali- fied according to the individual abilities acquired through socialization prior to the tourism experience and more specifically having a relative in agriculture.

Discussion Overall, the attitude changes toward force-feeding affected only a small part of the population surveyed on both the nature and culture aspects. This study reinforces the idea that attitudes toward force-feeding are relevant to the human–animal relationship and appear to be deeply rooted in food models. This observation corrobo- rates similar conclusions in regard to long-term change of food models (Dupuy, 2013; Fischler & Masson, 2007; Holm et al., 2016; Poulain, 1997b, 2002a). When changes related to experience are noted, tourists engage some socio-technical and symbolical abilities to distance themselves from the living animal, such as the dissociation between living animals and food (Bastian et al., 2012; Kunst & Hohle, 2016; Vialles, 1994). Additionally, the consumption of foie gras at a restaurant, having relatives living in the region, and/or making farm visits was also involved in the transformation of attitudes. These components of the tourist experience clearly involve the corporality of a sensory and lived experience and possibly the crossing of the self frontiers (Corbeau, 2008; Fischler, 1990; Poulain, 2002b, 2017). In the case of food production being staged for tourism (farm visits), eaters are brought together with the animal that will become food. These experiences support the change of the legitimacy of force-feeding based on the values of ‘nature’ and ‘culture’ and can be interpreted as a partial problematization of the interpretation of the world (Berger & Luckmann, 1966) and an alignment between lived experiences and social representations included in the food models. As such, the ‘tourist experience,’ both socio-culturally constructed and sensori- ally lived, becomes an integral part of the individual updating of food models. However, their change differs depending on the eaters’ capacity to manage their opinions relative to the relation to animals. Two main “abilities” acquired during individual socialization are activated by tourism experiences. The first is the relation to food production (and subsequently breeding animals) as indicated by the mention of having a relative in agriculture. The second involves the capability of dissociation of animal products from its animal itself. Those eaters are the ones whose attitudes toward force-feeding change in light of nature and culture.

Conclusion This research work is a practical contribution to the analysis of the role of agritourism in current human–animal relationships and as such, in food education. Fat duck as foie gras? 131 The findings suggest that limited change of attitudes toward force-feeding can be expected from a tourism experience. Changes can result, for example, from a farm visit and can enhance prior aversions or assumptions. Also, the results of the study stress that those transformations are conditional to abilities of the eater to face the animal as food. It is important for local agritourism players to consider the tourists’ background. From the theoretical perspective, this analysis confirms the significance of the lived experience in the production/reproduction of food models. The ‘tourist- eater’ experience contributes to the construction of ‘eaters’ in their attempts to align their ethics to different global modernities. By doing so, they are incorporating some changes in regard to contested values, morals, and ethics.

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José Prada-Trigo

Introduction Food and tourism have a very close relationship. Food can be a motivator for some, satisfying a multiplicity of physiological, social, and other needs – something very different for each person. Food also represents more than an economic commodity; it is a multidimensional cultural artifact capable of linking issues regarding the relationships between place and identity. As Everett and Aitchison (2008) point out, eating exotic, international foodstuffs has become part of a new postmodern culture characterized by pluralized and aestheticized experiences that have fostered new patterns of touristic consumption and the development of new identities and touristic experiences. The guinea pig (Cavia porcellus) or cuy has been raised and consumed throughout the Andean subregion since before the arrival of the Spaniards to America (Morales, 1994; DeFrance, 2006) because of its high-protein, low-fat content and because it is quickly bred. Guinea pig raising, consumption, and exchange also play important roles in the Andean social order, connecting the countryside with the city and people from different social strata (Bouque, 1997; Morales, 1994). It also has an important influence in cultural, social, and even local medical traditions. Although guinea pig raising has long been a traditional activity, the process of mass production of cuys outside of the country farmhouse has turned these animals into a cash commodity since the 1990s. Many families and small entrepreneurs who have discovered the promising market for guinea pigs are raising the animals to subsidize their salaries or as their chief source of income. In this sense, the increase of national and international tourism to Cuenca and the strengthening of the guinea pig as a traditional specialty of this city may have influenced this phenomenon. Thus, the city of Cuenca, since 1999 a UNESCO World Heritage Centre, has seen an increase in the number of tourists visiting the city, becoming known also for its gastronomic enticements. In this sense, the guinea pig has become one of the most highly promoted dishes along with other local products such as mote (a type of hominy) or the traditional sweets to be found there. This chapter presents a case study about two main issues. The first concerns the prevailing contrast between visitors and residents and their cultural interpretations of the guinea pig as food. Despite the fact that for local people, guinea pig has 136 José Prada-Trigo enjoyed a reputation as a traditional, cultural, and even common family comesti- ble, many people of Hispanic and mestizo descent have a disdain for guinea pigs and will not eat them (DeFrance, 2006) or consider them an exotic product. There is a gulf in this perspective, from that of the locals and those of the visitors, those charmed by the unfamiliar, new, and exotic menus as they live the experiences in this destination (Yudina & Fennel, 2013). Second, there has been a change in the guinea pig’s production model, which has evolved in many cases from a traditional family-oriented production with alfalfa, table scraps, fresh corncobs, and grain as the basic fodder for cuyes while being raised inside the home, to a more commercially oriented production, using balanced feed and an industrial application (with large-scale production factory farming). These issues can be linked to the relationship between animals and food tourism in the context of an ethical approach. First, from the point of view of cultural relativism, there would be a crucial difference between the reasons for eating guinea pigs by local residents with their cultural and gastronomic traditions, and by visitors, where it is mostly an exotic issue (Yudina & Fennell, 2013). From this viewpoint, while for locals, eating guinea pigs in traditional establishments would be a cultural tradition, a time for a family reunion, or an access to a relatively cheap source of proteins (Fennell, 2012), for visitors there exists a component of exoticism and even disgust, because the use of guinea pigs as pets elsewhere or their similarity with rats once they are cooked is associated with contemporary postmodern tourism and those searching for new, unfamiliar experiences (Fennell, 2012). A second ethical consequence of the relationship between food and tourism is the growth in mass-scale production of guinea pigs, often to the detriment of artisanal and small-scale production, as Boyne, Hall, and Williams (2003) point out). So, despite their contribution to the industry’s economic success, the great majority of these industrially raised animals exist in deplorable conditions. Thus, the traditional link in raising guinea pigs, an activity developed in the home and in proximity to the animal, is weakened in favor of the implementation of mass animal husbandry (Fennell, 2012). This paper, after an exploratory work that has identified these issues, is structured as a work of quantitative and qualitative research. From this perspective, an analysis and interpretation of these questions carried out by studying the consumption of guinea pigs in the city of Cuenca has been done. After a brief presentation regarding the city and its corresponding gastronomic product, the results of fieldwork will be revealed noting the differences in consumption of cuy and the different motivations behind eating this product that exist between locals and tourists. This work also highlights the existence of an internal social segmentation, as there are separate premises for the middle and upper classes on the one hand and the lower classes on the other.

Literature review As mentioned previously, food and tourism have a very close relationship, representing more than an economic commodity. Some particular foods have an Guinea pig production 137 endemic symbolic resonance which serves to distinguish, construct, and maintain social identities (Abbots, 2011). Even the argument that commensality (the practice of eating together) defines social networks in the context of blood relations is seen as a process in which individuals become kin through said commensality (Bourque, 2001). Other studies focus on the role of food in promoting group identity and distinguishing group members from nonmembers or outsiders (Wilk, 1999). In this way, within cultural groups with a shared ethnic identity and class, it is common to find instances in which some members reject a familiar type of animal flesh while others relish it (DeFrance, 2006), an aspect that can establish differences between locals and tourists. In this sense, as Everett and Aitchison (2008) point out, eating international and exotic dishes has become part of a postmodern culture and society characterized by pluralized and aestheticized practices that have nurtured new arrangements of touristic consumption and the enlargement of new identities and touristic practices. A recent work by Yudina and Fennell (2013) focused on this topic points out that the tourism experience has become more complex, and the move from the modernist to the postmodernist in terms of food tourism is characterized by the eating of the exotic and cosmopolitan by a culture that is interested in new experiences which have fostered new patterns of touristic consumption. In the case of tourism, the presence of local residents in the places where a local product is consumed and the space being shared with tourists can also be regarded as a sign of the authenticity of the experience and an incentive for eating these exotic dishes (Henderson, 2009), since these tourists travel looking for authentic experiences and genuine places (Timothy & Boyd, 2008). These issues can be linked to the relationship between animals and food tourism within the context of the ethics. Despite the fact that ethics was not a topic of interest among tourism scholars until the early 1990s, in recent years the breadth of tourism research has expanded to cover the broad theoretical terrain of ethics (Fennell, 2015). However, cultural differences such as value systems, religious beliefs, traditions, lifestyles, dress codes, and food can be critical in the relationships between residents and tourists (Payne & Dimanche, 1996). From other perspectives, a few studies have attempted to incorporate food into the total ecological footprint for food tourism related to eating and drinking locally or nationally produced foods and beverages rather than from other locales (Gössling, Garrod, Aall, Hille, & Peeters, 2011). The relationship between ethics and tourism has also been manifested in other venues such as travel agencies and in the marketing of tourism (Dunfree & Black, 1996; Holden, 2009) as well as the ecological impacts of this activity (Holden, 1999). In this sense, the most recent addition to the literature on tourism and ethics concerns animal ethics and tourism (Fennell, 2015). These include animal rights, utilitarianism, animal welfare, and animals as food, among others. Related to this, some works have pointed to issues such as the ethics of having animals in captivity, the induction of pain and suffering to the animals (Shani & Pizam, 2008), their use as targets for shooting or fishing (Cohen, 2009), their welfare and ethics in zoos (Wearing & Jobberns, 2011), and the respect of animal rights (Fennel, 2012). 138 José Prada-Trigo In this context, some works argue for the increased consideration of animals as objects more than subjects in tourism, and the way they are typically used and manipulated for such purposes (Hughes, 2001). Other authors have referred to the need for more ethical approaches with animals in areas such as therapeutic landscapes and therapeutic spaces, where, in contrast to the tendency of the animals to hide from the view of humans, it has been proven that their presence can have positive effects on people receiving these treatments (Gorman, 2016). However, there are few approaches to the ethical issue of tourism from the perspective of food tourism. In this field, there is a significant quantity of works on the relationship between food and tourism, especially given the growth of food tourism and the partnership between the touristic culinary experience which highlights the combination of cuisine and local environment (Henderson, 2009; Everett & Aitchison, 2008) but which still lacks a body of research about such tourism and its ethical values. The work of Yudina and Fennel highlights the lack of a debate in the literature about the moral repercussions of our dietary choices and the crucial difference between the reasons visitors eat a typical dish, which is an issue of exoticism, and its consumption by residents, which is part of their cultural traditions (Yudina & Fennell, 2013). For the former, there exists a component of exoticism and even disgust associated with contemporary postmodern tourism and those searching for new, exciting, and often unfamiliar experiences (Fennell, 2012). Ethical reasons also have an important territorial component, since the universe can be divided between that which is good for eating and that which is not (Fischler, 1988). However, this categorization is not etched in stone because what is considered food for some societies is not so for others. Some studies have shown that the greatest reticence toward the consumption of certain foods has a relation with the cultural remoteness where it is consumed, so that the greater the unfamiliarity of a culture the greater the rejection of its gastronomy (Fischler, 1988; Kuznesof, Tregear, & Moxey, 1997; McKercher & So-Ming, 2001). From this perspective, many tourists require a greater degree of familiarity with the products consumed, this fact being especially significant in the case of Western tourists visiting economically developing countries, where there are unfamiliar foods and “bizarre” eating practices (Cohen & Avieli, 2004; Mak, Lumbers, Eves, & Chang, 2012). Therefore, the reasons for eating certain products may be more or less ethical depending on whether or not the consumption is determined by the cultural traditions of a society or because of current trends in the search of exotic experiences. Regarding animal breeding and tourism, there are some works that examine the relationship between animal raising for hunting tourism (Caro, Young, Cauld- well, & Brown, 2008) and animal combat or fights with animals (Shani & Pizam, 2008; Thompson, 2010); however, works about the effects of tourism in animal raising processes are scarce. This is paradoxical because one of the main consequences of gastronomic tourism is a modification of agricultural patterns, including animal raising. Guinea pig production 139 Case study and methodology This research focused on the city of Cuenca, the capital of the province of Azuay in Ecuador (Figure 10.1). In 1999, the historic downtown center of Cuenca was declared a World Heritage Site in recognition of the perfect implementation of the principles of urban planning in the Rebirth of America, the fusion achieved by different societies and cultures of Latin America, and for being an exceptional example of a colonial Spanish city (Prada-Trigo, Gálvez, Pérez-Guztmán, & Pesantez, 2016). Tourism in Cuenca is of vital importance for its economy—253,051 travelers arrived at its airport in 2013. The tourism sector in the province of Azuay employs 4,358 workers, of which 1,412 work in the hotel sector and 2,363 in the restaurant sector (Ministry of Tourism of Ecuador, 2016). One of the most popular products in the gastronomy of Cuenca, the guinea pig or cuy, has been raised and consumed in this region since before the arrival

Figure 10.1 Location of Cuenca 140 José Prada-Trigo of the Spaniards to America (Morales, 1994; DeFrance, 2006). Although guinea pig raising has long been a traditional activity, recently the process of the mass production of cuys outside of the country farmhouse is turning these animals into a cash commodity. Many families and small entrepreneurs who have discovered the promising market for cuys are raising the animals to subsidize their salaries or even as their chief source of income (Archetti, 1997). In this sense, the increase of national and international tourism to Cuenca and the strengthening of the guinea pig as a traditional specialty of this city may have influenced this phenomenon (El Tiempo, 2009). Today, the industrial breeding of guinea pigs predominates in the medium and large companies who offer a product in large quantities, with homogeneity in feed and breeding characteristics. The perceptions of the guinea pig within the Andean region of South Amer- ica range from favorable to stigmatized and unacceptable. Positive views of the guinea pig include the perception that they are a rapidly reproducing commodity and a delectable meat source (Morales, 1994; Bourque, 2001). The cuy is also a cultural and gastronomic element that serves as a link for some communities of migrants who left Ecuador in favor of other countries. For them and for their families who remain in the country, delivery and consumption of cuy on special dates is a way to feel close to their culture (Abbots, 2011). Unfavorable views are that the guinea pig is an inedible, unwanted rodent consumed only by farmers and Indians. In this sense, some studies have pointed out the restrictions that the cuy presents when its consumption is largely associated with the less popular classes (Weismantel, 1988; Bourque, 2001). These studies indicate that a significant portion of the urban middle and upper classes do not consume guinea pig because they associate it with some indigenous or unpopu- lar class origins, something which appears to have a strong relationship with the domestic breeding method (Abbots, 2011). This is something that has changed the profile of consumers (mostly cosmopolitan), who now value the local products (such as the guinea pig) for having standardized the cuy aging process and having popularized its consumption by tourists. The modern consumption of guinea pigs by some people and its rejection by others reflects the complex interaction between ethnogenesis, geography, and history in the Andean region. In Cuenca, as in other places (DeFrance, 2006), cuy has evolved into a culinary specialty, while at the same time continuing to be a traditional dish. As DeFrance (2006) points out, in the Peruvian case, the availability of restaurants specializing in guinea pig preparation, the social circumstances in which they are eaten, as well as the behavior associated with partaking of a guinea pig meal signify that the cuy is a local symbol, generally consumed by middle class residents because of its high price. Added to this, the arrival of tourists interested in eating this product has generated a new impetus to try guinea pig, which has had an impact on the ethical aspects connected to tourism. Against this backdrop, an interpretation of the results of a customer survey (locals and tourists) of three major restaurants in the city of Cuenca and a series of in-depth interviews with experts on the subject will be seen. Guinea pig production 141 Within this research, different methods have been used. First, a literature review of the most relevant topics mentioned above: a review of tourism, ethics, and territory was performed allowing for the construction of a solvent theoretical framework to guide further work. Second, fieldwork through surveys in the main restaurants where cuy is served will allow us to know the origin, motivations, and consumer perception of local and tourist consumers of guinea pigs. This work was conducted with structured personal surveys targeting residents and tourists who were eating cuy in the most important restaurants in the city, Restaurant Tres Estrellas, Restaurant Kampa Wasi, and Restaurant Guajibamba. A questionnaire was piloted and improvements were made after analyzing the first results of the sample. Non-probability and convenience sampling were employed as a technique; Table 10.1 shows the values used to determine the sample from a clientele of 500 people per week in the three establishments where the research was conducted. The survey used in this research is based on various previous works (Poria, Rachel, & Cohen, 2013; Correia, Kozak, & Ferradeira, 2013; Remoaldo, Var- eiro, Ribeiro, & Freitas, 2014), having valued its research methodology in other contexts. In terms of structure, the survey instrument is divided into two main sections: the first contains several questions related to the consideration of the guinea pig and the reasons for its consumption and for the choice of the establishment and its evaluation. It uses a Likert scale from 1 to 5, where 1 corresponds to strongly disagree and 5 strongly agree. The second block of questions, meanwhile, focuses on the different demographic characteristics of visitors, such as their origin, age, gender, and level of education, thus allowing for an easier classification of the respondent. The sample shows the results of 150 Ecuadorians (71 percent of respondents) and 61 foreigners (29 percent). These two categories were used as the basis for understanding the different motivations that arose between them when consuming guinea pig. After the fieldwork phase, the tabulation and analysis of statistical information, and review and transcription of the interviews, we proceeded to col- late the information for interpretation. Finally, in order to triangulate different data and thus provide greater reliability to the research (Yeung, 2003), in-depth, semi-structured interviews were conducted.

Table 10.1 Technical sheet of the research

Survey element Description

Population 500 Sample 210 Procedure Convenience sampling Performance period The third week of April 2015 Sampling error ± 5.16% Confidence level 95.0%; p = q = 0.5 Sample control Implementation and monitoring of fieldwork by the author of the research 142 José Prada-Trigo First, this was implemented among a sample of local actors mainly composed of managers of the restaurants where surveys were conducted. Respondents were each given a code to preserve their anonymity and thus obtain a less conditioned, more honest opinion. Additionally, two expert teachers from the School of Hos- pitality Sciences of the University of Cuenca were interviewed as well, seeking to obtain the contrast between their views and the views of the restaurateurs and tourists. Thus, we have obtained results, detailed below, which show the different perceptions of tourists and locals in the gastronomic relationship that both groups have developed in the same place. Hence the relationships between gastronomy, society, and territory can be understood more clearly.

Results of research and discussion A primary motivation for cuy consumption is related to the territorial identity of this product. From this point of view, the survey results demonstrated a differentiation between Cuencanos, marked by the special flavor of the guinea pig, and visitors, for whom exoticism had an influence on the consumption of this product. The price of the guinea pig, meanwhile, did not show great dissimilarities as a motivation for consuming cuy. This situation may be related to the consideration of this product as a delicacy, a relatively large amount of money being paid for cuy compared with other dishes. Consumers were also asked if they felt some disgust when eating this product because of its appearance. In the case of Cuencanos the answer tended toward no and in the case of foreigners, their response was intermediate. However, it is important that evidence about the existence of cultural differences in the approach to this dish can be established, as was pointed out in the current theoretical framework as well as by Kuznesoft, Tregear, and Moxey (1997). On one hand, the exotic character of the guinea pig or, especially, its appearance and its consideration in other countries as a pet could represent an incentive for visitors and a differentiation between them and the locals, thus corroborating the hypothesis about differences between residents and tourists considered by this study. On the other hand, in relation to the choice of place, the results highlight the presence of a difference between the responses related to touristic reasons and the presence of the local population. While in the first case the differences are significant, distinguishing clearly between locals and visitors, in the case of the second, the answers do not differ. This means accepting the proposals of the theoretical framework on the existence of tourists seeking the most authentic places or restaurants frequented by locals (Kivela & Crotts, 2006; Henderson, 2009). In such cases, the application of an ANOVA analysis showed, as with the average robustness Brown–Forsythe test, a significance of <0.05, which meant the acceptance of significant differences, not produced by chance, between the two groups. This different perspective is even more amply demonstrated in the case of interviews where the distinction between Cuencanos and foreigners is sharper. All respondents agreed that the locals have familiar and cultural traditions linked to this product that has been raised in this area for centuries. Therefore, despite the Guinea pig production 143 Table 10.2 Average rating of motivations for consumption of guinea pig by locals and visitors, applying ANOVA (significance) and the Brown–Forsythe test

Local Visitor ANOVA Brown– (mean) (mean) (Sig.) Forsythe test

I usually eat guinea pig for its special 4.28 3.57 0.000 0.000 flavor. Guinea pig consumption is influenced 3.36 3.51 0.390 0.386 by its affordable price. Guinea pig consumption is influenced 3.35 3.92 0.002 0.001 by the fact that it is an exotic product. I chose this place because it is 3.71 3.83 0.466 0.46 frequented by locals. I chose this place because it is a 2.94 3.76 0.000 0.000 touristic place. Although I love guinea pig, I have a 2.54 3.02 0.027 0.027 certain distaste for its appearance. social changes that have occurred in Cuenca (urbanization, abandonment of family guinea pig breeding, etc.), the consumption of guinea pig has continued under these new norms in higher-quality restaurants. Meanwhile, in the case of foreigners, there are two factors that would influence their consumption—first, the exoticism of the product. As was pointed out in the theoretical framework and surveys (where no Ecuadorian segment gave an assessment of 4.18 or 5 to guinea pig as an exotic product), exoticism is a motivation in much of gastronomic tourism. Second, there is an influence on the recognition of guinea pig as a typical product of Cuenca. Despite this, as shown below, there is reluctance linked to the ethical or cultural consumption of guinea pig by foreigners. In this way, the influence of location as a generator of social or cultural barriers can be seen (McKercher & So-Ming, 2001). In this sense, visitors associate the guinea pig with its similarity in appearance to rats or its consideration as a pet:

E-3 The Cuencano is a major consumer of guinea pig [. . .] all the families of Cuenca for decades have consumed the guinea pig. For outsiders [. . .] it could be likened to me if I were to go to Korea and the typical food were the snake [. . .] foreigners come to Ecuador and ask for the typical food and seek to experience [. . .] more Europeans than Americans [. . .] more weird or exotic things. E-1 For locals [cuy] is a delicacy. By contrast, for the stranger, he comes to try it. They link it to Cuenca. [. . .] Foreigners often take photos before eating it. [. . .] The clientele [of this restaurant] comes mainly from Cuenca and the surrounding area. [. . .] Foreigners sometimes do not eat guinea pig [. . .] [because they] have pity, have misgivings, they think of them as pets [. . .] some do not serve cuy with the heads on the plate. E-2 [Abroad] the guinea pig is a pet. So they are a little reluctant to sacrifice the animal. 144 José Prada-Trigo One of the most complex issues for interpretation regards the changes in the supply of raw materials for the sector that have occurred as a result of the professionalization and generalization of guinea pig restaurants. The process, in this sense, has been very similar to what has happened in other places where they have changed from having a local provider (where in many cases the raw material supplier and manufacturer of the final product were the same person) to an extension of the markets (Boucher & Casasola, 2005; Espinosa-Ayala et al., 2013) in search of professionals who contribute a greater amount of product and greater standardization. The result, as reflected in surveys, is that even among locals, knowledge about the origin of the guinea pigs sold in restaurants is quite limited and is very similar to the tourists’ response (Table 10.3). Thus, it can be concluded that the professionalization and industrialization in guinea pig breeding has affected traditional links between product and territory. Finally, the consideration of the guinea pig as a link to the consumer’s environment, as an exotic product, or the appearance of the product itself showed significant differences in the views of residents and visitors. Something similar happens with the overall satisfaction with the product, which was significantly higher for Cuencanos, which could indicate a greater appreciation for a product that is considered representative of this area and local society. Thus, once again, there may be differences in the reasons for eating guinea pig, with exoticism the appeal for foreign tourists and traditional practice in local residents being the main drivers. The in-depth interviews confirmed this process, namely, where the purchase of guinea pigs from local breeders in the area has declined in favor of acquisition from large companies. These companies are engaged in the raising of thousands of animals and promoting improvement in the breed, the use of a more homogene- ous feed, and therefore a standardization of the product. Thus, the link between product and territory is weakened; however, the tradition of eating the cuy would have remained nonetheless, regardless of the change in the supply of the raw material. Despite the move toward industrialized production, it was revealed through interviews that there are still street stands in some squares where the guinea pig is roasted and sold. In these places, the variety of sizes and breeds

Table 10.3 Knowledge of the origin, consideration, and satisfaction with the guinea pig by Cuencanos and visitors, applying ANOVA (significance) and the Brown– Forsythe test

Local Visitor ANOVA Brown– (mean) (mean) (Sig.) Forsythe test

The guinea pig is a product linked to 3.92 2.89 0.000 0.000 my family or cultural environment. The guinea pig is an exotic product. 3.66 4.29 0.000 0.000 I know the origin of the guinea pig 3.1 2.83 0.231 0.229 I’m eating. Level of general satisfaction 4.51 4.1 0.002 0.003 Guinea pig production 145 remain. This would be possible through the domestic breeding of these animals and the difficulty of reaching these large suppliers:

E-1 [Before] the person who raised the guinea pig and served it was one and the same [. . .] breeding was very different [. . .] cuy was eaten at home. All Cuenca families had their properties. [. . .] The guinea pig is now more standardized in terms of weight, size; there is more variety of breeds. [. . .] In the street stands there are more varieties [. . .] here it is more standardized. E-5 [The] business has increased [. . .] today there is a great demand for guinea pigs. Before, the country people supplied the guinea pig market [. . .] today there are large companies that provide for the entire country. E-3 Before it was not so important to eat cuy, but to go with friends to the restaurant. [. . .] Today, however, the quality of the guinea pig is central. [. . .] We have been gradually standardizing the guinea pig we give our customers. At first, [suppliers] were well-known people and people coming from this area [. . .] they did traditional guinea pig breeding. [. . .] Then we found a supplier that produces quality and quantity [. . .] having standardized the guinea pig. I try to always give the same product. E-4 [Local restaurants and street stands] target different audiences. First, for their prices. [. . .] The restaurants are places where middle-class people frequent. And [Cuenca] has other places [. . .] [as the] market [for] the people of the neighborhood. [. . .] Market people raise their guinea pigs [at home]. [. . .] The link between product and territory is maintained. [. . .] There are no intermediaries.

Conclusions Food, as has been seen in this study, has different meanings to each person based on social and cultural elements (Mak et al., 2012). The influx of tourism, a process that has driven changes in societies and which has attracted different cultures, should not be underestimated in relation to changes in gastronomy. Thus, these places have been linked to such changes by adapting ways to present and sell the products with consequences because of ethical differences. The first consequence has been a clear distinction between the reasons for which visitors eat guinea pig (the exoticism of this dish) versus the local (cultural traditions). In this way, the restaurant has become a hybrid space, in which customers share a table but not the same values. Another ethical consequence of the relationship between food and tourism is the growth in large-scale production of guinea pigs, often to the detriment of artisanal and small-scale production and local legacies (Abbots, 2011). Thus, the traditional link in raising guinea pigs, an activity developed in the home and in proximity to the animal, is weakened in favor of the implementation of large- scale animal husbandry. Therefore, it is necessary to question how ethical it is to continue consuming a product that no longer comes from that area in places that offer it as a luxury product. 146 José Prada-Trigo In this sense, from the point of view of cultural relativism, there would be a crucial difference between the reasons for eating guinea pigs by local residents with their cultural traditions, and by visitors, where cuy is mostly an exotic dish (Yudina & Fennell (2013). From this viewpoint, for locals, eating guinea pigs in traditional establishments would be a cultural tradition, a time for family or access to a relatively cheap source of proteins. However, for visitors there exists a component of exoticism and even disgust. The presence of local residents in the places where a local product is consumed is for tourists a symbol of the authenticity of the experience and therefore an incentive for eating guinea pigs. This chapter adds new evidence to the fact that, although residents and visitors use guinea pig as food, their ethical reasons are very different. In this sense, cuy becomes an object (and not a subject) within the tourist experience (Hughes, 2001), and all of its socio-cultural importance in the Andean tradition is reduced to its consumption by tourists. For this reason, in the future, it would be interesting to conduct in-depth interviews with some tourists in order to know what level of knowledge about the socio-cultural background associated with this animal they have in order to better understand their interests and valuation when consuming it.

Acknowledgements The author acknowledges the collaboration of Restaurant Tres Estrellas, Res- taurant Kampa Wasi, and Restaurant Guajibamba in Cuenca in conducting this research, as well as Marlene Jaramillo Granda and José Reinoso Coronel, Profes- sors at the University of Cuenca.

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Christina T. Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy

Introduction This exploratory chapter grapples with the contentions that exist among agritourism providers, the hospitality industry, communities, and the population of wild white-tail deer (Odocoileus virginianus) in New Jersey, USA. The impetus for this exploration came forth from empirical data that were collected as part of a larger study focused on climate change perceptions of agritourism providers in the state (Cavaliere, 2017). The various agricultural and development pressures that impact the white-tail were not an anticipated outcome of the larger study and thus warranted further exploration. This chapter presents a discussion of the ethical implications of the management of white-tail as related to the state’s tourism and hospitality industries and stakeholders (see Figure 11.1), particularly as the current population of the species exceeds tolerable limits (NJ Department of Envi- ronmental Protection [NJDEP], 2016b). Figure 11.1 illustrates the white-tail’s connections to the tourism and hospitality sectors in NJ including agritourism, nature-based tourism, community hospitality/food banks, parks and protected area management, and hunting and sport tourism. New Jersey is the most densely populated geopolitical area in the country (Baiser, Lockwood, La Puma, & Aronson, 2008) and relates therefore to larger issues of the interrelationship of the burden of increased human populations, the environment, and the rights of sentient beings (McIntyre-Mills, 2014). NJ is known as the “Garden State,” which reflects that it is an agricultural region. Due to overdevelopment of wild spaces from human population, the state has a challenging relationship with its white-tail population. Unregulated hunting practices led to near decimation in the late nineteenth century, prior to the Lacey Act of 1900 that regulates transport and sale of game species nationwide (McCabe & McCabe, 1984). The number of white-tail have now recuperated to nuisance- level proportions that threaten the resources of NJ (Maslo & Wehman, 2013). This brings into question the ethical treatment of the white-tail in the context of a post-carbon society within an evolving food (Rudolph, Etter, & Schaefer, 2011) and tourism system. A post-carbon society is defined as one in which the supply of fossil fuels decreases each year (Garcia & Martinez-Iglesias, 2017) and thus is focused on decarbonization strategies (Wiseman & Alexander, 2017), where 150 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy

Figure 11.1 Tourism and hospitality connections to the white-tail reliance on and superfluous use of fossil fuels become impossible due to ecological and social limits and/or government intervention. Furthermore, there are quandaries among contemporary ethicists who debate meat consumption within the context of normalization through historical precedence, broad practice, and supposed necessity. Disagreement exists over the relevance of sentience as justification for meat consumption. Some researchers theorize that sentience without rational agency prioritizes humans in moral standing and therefore justifies meat consumption (Hsiao, 2015), while others counter that genealogy is an arbitrary guiding factor and believe that all sentient beings are to be considered equal (McIntyre-Mills, 2014), with recognition given to the existence of available nutritional substitutes (Bruers, 2015). Others believe that modern meat production is amoral and maintain that a virtuous human cannot reasonably participate in factory farming practices regardless of consequences Treatment of the wild whitetail deer 151 (Abbate, 2014). There are also ethical considerations regarding the use of slaughter with sufficient cause when there are no available substitutes, with consideration for efficiency, or when the killing of a few may mitigate a widespread crisis such as severe overpopulation (Ursin, 2016). These debates are beyond the scope of this chapter; however, it is important to note that the authors hold great compassion toward the need for improved rights of all sentient beings. This chapter aims to identify several ethical issues regarding the treatment of the white-tail as related to tourism and hospitality in New Jersey. The contemporary conundrum involving white-tail requires that agritourism providers and related stakeholders extend efforts to mitigate white-tail populations while often contending with the treatment of the carcasses. There are further ethical considerations that include climate change emissions as an environmental externality resulting from the importation of venison meat. In addition, the prohibitive challenges related to donating the carcass as supplementary protein for food pantries and restaurants statewide are considered. This discussion as it is related to tourism and hospitality is illustrated in Figure 11.1.

Literature review

Agritourism Agritourism can be considered as any business conducted by a farmer to generate added income and for the enjoyment or education of the public (Arroyo, Bar- bieri, & Rich, 2013). Agritourism can include a variety of facilities and activities such as agricultural festivals, farm visits and tours, demonstration farms, farm stays, wineries, nursery trails, and agricultural museums. Benefits of agritourism can serve to generate diversification opportunities for local farmers, increase revenues and enhance the viability of their operations, and be used as a tool to inform the public about the importance of agriculture (Cavaliere, 2017; Arroyo et al., 2013; Tew & Barbieri, 2012; Dougherty & Green, 2011). Agritourism can also showcase the diversity of local agriculture, resulting in the improved appeal of locally grown products, regional marketing programs, and public-private partnerships that support and sustain agricultural areas (Phillip, Hunter, & Blackstock, 2010). It can instigate an appreciation for rural communities, both for the locals who are incentivized to reinvest in their communities and for urban visitors who seek interaction with agritourism services (Bagi & Reeder, 2012). Agritourism can extend beyond traditional economic spheres as a direct extension of the cultural and environmental offerings of a region. White-tail are related to the discussion of agritourism as they are a valued image and are representative of NJ’s culture and environment (NJDEP, 2016b). Though they remain a protected and integral image of NJ culture and provide viable recreational benefits to the region (Johnson et. al, 2014), deer populations exceed carrying capacities and have become a burden on the well-being, economies, and native lands of local communities and agritourism providers (NJDEP, 2016b). 152 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy Crop loss and environmental damage Species overpopulation is creating strain on economic and agricultural commodities (Maslo & Wehman, 2013), causing significant damage to private property, farmlands, and forests (Curtis, San Julien, & Mattfeld, 2005). Deer are her- bivorous grazers known as ‘ecosystem engineers’ (Baiser et al, 2008) for their preference for native flora and vulnerable tree seedlings that therefore reduce local biodiversity (Sterba, 2013) and damage forest and agricultural ecosystems (Maslo & Wehman, 2013). For example, Princeton Township in NJ estimated 114 deer per square mile (Duffy, 2011) before their 2010 culling efforts (NJDEP, 2016a), which exceeds the NJDEP Division of Fish and Wildlife’s benchmark of 10 deer per square mile, beyond which populations become a strain on local ecosystems. The NJ Agricultural Experiment Station reports $4.5 billion in national crop loss and NJ attributes 79 percent of all wildlife-caused agricultural damage to deer browsing, rubbing, and trampling (Maslo & Wehman, 2013). Due to crop loss from the white-tail, farmers are required to make management decisions which are resulting in underutilized carcasses and high-cost or non-lethal methods with delayed impact on population levels (VerCauteren et al, 2011). NJ farmers are limited in their capacity as pest managers by suburban sprawl that often inhibits the use of firearms. There are also high public costs associated with deer-induced damage to landscapes, motor vehicle accidents (Ng, Nielsen, & St. Clair, 2008), and Lyme disease (Storm Nielsen, Schauber, & Woolf, 2007). Currently, there is a failure of policy to successfully mitigate public damages (Rudolph, Etter, & Schaefer, 2011).

Hunting and culling The desire to interact with deer brings revenue to the state from visiting nature tourists and sport hunting enthusiasts. Hunters contribute more than $100 million annually to the state’s economy (NJDEP, 2016b). Yet, even with liberal hunting regulations and investment in hunting education, NJ faces unusual restraints, due to limited access to undeveloped spaces. Traditionally, population management has involved regulations that rely on wildlife consumption to curb population levels, but waning interest in and access to hunting areas (Storm et al., 2007) has forced further government involvement in coordinating public and private interests. Publicly funded methods by the Community-Based Deer Management Permit program (NJDEP, 2011) includes controlled capture and euthanizing, fer- tility control, and contracted harvesting (NJDEP, 2016b). At the same time, there is community aversion to lethal methods that incites anti-hunting sentiments due to densely populated communities, desires to maintain populations for wildlife viewing opportunities, and animal rights concerns (Curtis et. al, 2005). Cohen (2014) explores growing research that involves ethics and commodification aspects of hunting and tourism and highlights previous research that describes environmental and conservation perspectives of recreational and sport hunting (Dickson et al., 2009; Reis, 2009). Natural resource management agencies hold Treatment of the wild whitetail deer 153 responsibility to manage wildlife, such as the NJDEP Division of Fish and Wild- life, which crafted liberal hunting regulations by lengthening hunting seasons, increasing harvest limits and numbers of permits, and offering incentives to harvest more does and fawns (NJDEP, 2016b). However, the decline in skilled labor in NJ has resulted in a lack of valuable culling and butchering assistance available to the farming community due to a modern decline in hunting participation, loss of access, and insufficient demand for game consumption (Storm et al., 2007). The 2008 Farm Act established the Voluntary Public Access and Habitat Incen- tive Program, which assigned $50 million in federal funding to programs that provide incentives and technical support to landowners who allow the public access to recreational hunting activities on their land (United States Department of Agri- culture and Farm Service Agency, n.d.). Lethal removal of deer by ‘depredation permits’ (Walter et. al, 2010) is one of the most financially accessible and immediate methods of culling and allows limited hunting on privately owned farms (NJDEP, 2016a). Farmers can participate in successful management programs by offering land access to hunters and tracking culling records (NJDEP, 2016a). Community values and attitudes toward deer and wildlife in general must be incorporated into management methods. Community stakeholders enjoy viewing deer in nature but will support preventative measures to avoid human–deer conflict (Curtis et al., 2005), especially those who live adjacent to high density populations. Non-lethal management techniques such as habitat modification, exclusion, repellents, frightening devices, and public education (DeNicola et al., 2000) are effective in reducing deer damage but do not address the immediate need for population decrease and can be financial burdens on the farm operators (Vercauteren et. al, 2011). Preferential crop methods have been studied to give farmers more control over agriculture losses. Some corn hybrids and certain fertilizer/herbicide applications can be used to shortstop deer at the perimeter of cash crops (Delger, Monteith, Schmitz, & Jenks, 2011), and permanent fencing is effective but often cost prohibitive (VerCauteren, Lavelle, & Hygnstrom, 2006).

Venison Consumers have turned in greater numbers to venison for the provision of nutri- tious humanely raised and conscientiously processed protein (Ngapo & Drans- field, 2006). Some health-conscious consumers look to venison as a quality replacement for factory farmed meat due to the perception that venison is readily available in the state (Hoffman & Wiklund, 2006). Locavore chefs demand the hunting and sourcing of local game meats with a sense of responsibility to the sentient being as an important way of highlighting regional cuisine (Bell, 2010). NJ encompasses communities that express both a demand for venison and an unwillingness to change existing legislation relating to the sale and use of venison carcass (Shilton, 2014). Considering overpopulation, it would seem that venison meat would be highly accessible; however, policy strictly regulates how hunters can donate or sell their products, thus limiting hunters’ harvests (Van Deelen et al., 2010). The Lacey Act 154 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy prohibits wild caught venison from being sold in American restaurants and markets (McCabe & McCabe, 1984). A recent bill in NJ was put forth to create legislation that would allow hunters to sell their harvest with reasonable regulation, but the measure faced harsh contention from animal rights activists and competition- wary hunters (Shilton, 2014). Locals expressed an emotional investment in the indigenous species beyond that of other native animals and suggested non-lethal control methods as an alternative (Jordan, 2014). Hicks’s (2016) research demonstrates that deer are capable of eliciting both positive and negative emotional responses from communities and wildlife managers, which should be further investigated regarding impacts on management decisions. The prohibitive and substantial regulation of access to venison in NJ has resulted in the fact that 85 percent of the venison sold in America is imported from New Zealand (Sterba, 2013). NZ’s venison branding program hinged on widely publicized standardization and positive associations with the country (Beverland, 2005). While US deer farming is also increasing access to domestic venison supply, NZ remains the source of most of America’s venison retail market (Shilton, 2014). This shipping is energy intensive and involves increased food miles and greenhouse gas emissions. Commercial hunting culls deer inexpensively and supplies sustainable, free- range meat that doesn’t have to travel many miles to end up on consumers’ plates yet involves increased regulation and technicalities of processing (Shilton, 2014). Educated, eco-conscious consumers may be able to contribute to a reduction in food miles by consuming local venison; however, safety concerns, fears of total deer population eradication, and animal rights questions stand in the way (Shilton, 2014). The commercial availability of harvested deer could benefit local markets more than international imports (VerCauteren et. al, 2011) and could influence public perception favorably toward hunting as a humane and effective culling tool (VerCauteren et al., 2011). Additionally, laws that prohibit the sale of wild venison also limit its provision as a public good for food insecure communities (VerCauteren et al., 2011). The provision of venison meat to not-for-profit hospitality groups, including homeless shelters and foodbanks, is also hindered by antiquated legislation resulting in their reliance on public funding (Farmers & Hunters, 2016). Loophole programs have appeared in nearly every state that subsidize the processing fees of venison for local hunters who want to donate venison to food banks (Grabar, 2012), but the programs are costly and heavily dependent on public funding (VerCauteren et al., 2011). In 2010, US hunters donated over 10 million meals worth of game meat through programs that reduced processing rates and gave access to mobile freez- ers which preserve meat that cannot be immediately processed (Grabar, 2012).

Methodology In order to structure the theoretical and ethical considerations within this chapter, the authors positioned the research within notions of Utilitarian Theory (UT). In order to present various considerations of the use of the white-tail as food within Treatment of the wild whitetail deer 155 the context of tourism and hospitality, the authors also utilized a modified version of the New Economics Framework (NEF) (Seyfang, 2009). From a theoretical perspective UT positions this research as a way of understanding a very complex set of ethical issues as understood by a dynamic mix of stakeholders. UT is an ends-based theory that weighs pleasure and pain to find the potential outcome that will create the greatest amount of pleasure for the greatest number of parties with the interest of all parties generally being considered equal to that of any other, both human and animal (Fennell, 2012). Fennell (2012) explains that the variety of animal usage in the tourism industry becomes a mandate for utilitarian assessment, substantiating the need for equity of resource allocation in answering the ethical question of speciesism and animal rights. Utilitarianism evaluates equita- ble resource allocation along the triple bottom line while requiring that welfare, maximizing benefits, and reducing pain be considered among all stakeholders equally (Huntingford et al., 2006). The empirical data within this chapter resulted from a larger study that employed a qualitative inquiry approach and utilized social constructionism. The original empirical material was collected via a series of 36 semi-structured, open-ended interviews of agritourism providers in the state of NJ (Cavaliere, 2017), and five of those participants’ responses are encapsulated within this chapter. Interwoven participant and researcher reflectivity was critical to the original co-constructed narratives. The interviews were transcribed and content analysis of the empirical data resulted in the emergence of empirical themes. The role of the white-tail evolved as a subtheme both organically during the fieldwork as well as throughout the data analysis process. The NEF, as applied to the ethical treatment of white-tail in this chapter, involves the understanding of the role of new economics in localized food systems (Seyfang, 2009). The modified framework indicators allow a more nuanced examination of the impact, use, and management of deer populations along with the holistic wellbeing of the community rather than individualistic prosperity that is prioritized in classical economic models. New economics views equity in relation to resource allocation and measures economic potential through its impacts on localization, ecological footprints, community-building, collective action, and new institutions (Seyfang, 2009). Cavaliere’s (2017) research extended the framework to include an additional indicator involving understandings of temporal relationships.

Findings and discussion The NEF was applied to structure the findings and discussion of both the empirical data collected and the secondary literature reviewed regarding the use and management of white-tail in the agritourism and hospitality sectors of NJ. There are six framework indicators: localization, reduced ecological footprints, community- building, collective action, new institutions, and temporal relationships. Each of these indicators has a direct relationship to building post-carbon and localized economies. Therefore, the discussions within the subthemes all relate to notions of reducing our food miles and building more skilled, food-producing communities. 156 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy Localization The first indicator involves notions of localization, a concept which values the self-sufficiency of local economies and the promotion of local food systems for the greatest benefit of host communities. Grace (F, age 59), a farmer and agritourism provider, weighed in on the impact of deer damage on local food productions:

We never grew sorghum and we started growing sorghum because of so many deer. They won’t eat the sorghum but the soybeans. Last year we lost 60 acres. We probably lost $50 or $60 thousand dollars [of soybeans] last year to deer.

Her experiences illustrate the fact that NJ farmers are forced to take action to combat crop loss, reducing their agency as agricultural providers and their participation in local food systems and ultimately weakening local economies. Brandon (M, 32) a chef and agritourism provider, found that fulfilling his desire to support local food systems met opposing difficulties. When creating a menu, he said: “I came up with the 70 percent rule. Seventy percent of everything on the plate here is locally produced or grown here, less than 150 miles.” When asked about his interest in serving NJ venison, he explained a lack of access to venison meat counterintuitive to the problems previously outlined by agricultural providers: “You can’t get venison regularly that’s USDA inspected that’s legal to serve in the restaurant and it all comes from out West [or abroad]. . . . It’s really stupid.” He explained that he found sourcing the meat to be a difficult process. In Bergen County, NJ, due to dense human development, it is not permitted to discharge a firearm in the county, so hunting access is strictly limited.

Reduce ecological footprints Considering how to reduce ecological footprints is the second indicator, and participants expressed awareness of environmental impacts through their food choices. For example, Evan (M, 29), who had served as an agritourism provider, previous volunteer, stakeholder, and advocate, explained that as he learned more about food impacts he changed his diet choices to include healthy, low impact options:

[I]t’s funny because first of all it seems it’s healthier to make some different eating choices, so that’s actually a benefit to me, but you know, like, I love a McDonald’s hamburger and I haven’t had one for like six years because I know how the animals are raised, I know from a health standpoint it’s not healthy for me and I also know there are environmental impacts. You know, I eat a lot less meat than I ever did and when I do, it will be raised locally, so dietary habits have definitely changed.

Brandon (M, 32) explained that he included several vegetarian options on his farm- to-fork restaurant menu to reduce meat intake and the associated environmental Treatment of the wild whitetail deer 157 impacts but, “It’s weird. They don’t ask for it. To be honest, they don’t get a lot of play.”

Community-building Community-building, the third indicator, considers personal relationships, including producer and consumer interactions as well as the development of a sense of community and support networks. Dylan (M, 66), a farmer, agritourism provider, hunter, and long-standing farming advocate in the state, explains how the reduction of the hunting community and the increased suburban land development have compounded the issue of rising deer populations. His frustration with limited access to effective, lethal management methods becomes clear as follows:

We certainly have a deer population that doesn’t seem to be going away and they’ve tried a bunch of things . . . coyotes and all that crap . . . I’m not really into that way . . . I don’t think there’s as much hunting going on around here as there used to be, there’s hunting clubs but you see them dwindling too. The interest is not there.

His response reflects the literature’s evaluation of waning hunting interest and the need for creative incentive programs that complement liberal regulations to increase the impact of harvesting measures. In highly residential areas, lethal methods may remain prohibited:

[A]nd I mean this used to be the country, now you look that way there’s a development, you look that way there’s a development, you look that way there’s a development, it’s just getting overcrowded, so you just don’t do it.

Dylan’s statement reveals the complexities of stakeholder engagement in long- term solutions as well as the frustration he feels over weakening community identity.

Collective action Collective action is the NEF indicator that relates to collective ownership and production through cooperative structures, including those that influence public provision (Seyfang, 2009). For example, Evan (M, 29) reflects on the financial burden of deer management and the community-driven method he believes is most suitable to the requirements of the region:

My understanding is that there are real expensive ways that require a lot of capital to keep the deer herd down ‒ one is bringing in professional hunters, you know, cullers or shooters. Another is to use birth control ‒ really expensive and, you know, you have to do it every year and it seems . . . like the solution that is most sustainable over the long term is to encourage the kind 158 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy of hunting which will bring the population down. And by the way, hunters can use the meat. What’s more local, free range, and organic than venison?

Agritourism providers like Grace and Phil interviewed below share their frustration with the required wastefulness enforced by current legislation. They’d had to obtain a special permit out of hunting season to attempt to manage the herds that had been taking large portions of their agricultural crops the summer prior. Collective action also considers the roles of public services. The literature review expanded on the need for not-for-profit hospitality and stated the policy and financial barriers that disallowed willing hunters from donating to those community efforts. Farmers Grace (F, 59) and Phil (M, 62) expand on their experience with this process and their frustrations with not being able to easily donate the carcasses. They also shared their surprise and concern for the rising numbers of food-insecure families in their NJ community.

Phil: Well, we hunt a lot and I hate to shoot ’em that way [close range and out of season] but we shot 40 and we could’ve shot 140 and wouldn’t have hurt ’em. Interviewer: What do you do with the carcass? Phil: With the state you have to bury ’em. You can take six of ’em to eat if you want. Grace: You see, we had tried to donate them to a soup kitchen but the state will not allow it. Phil: Yeah you have to process it . . . Grace: . . . It is a shame when there are so many people that are hungry and these soup kitchens there’s more and more of ’em. We have 115 families . . . in Upper Freehold Township that use our food bank. One hundred and fifteen families in Upper Freehold. That’s sad. That tells ya how many people are really having it tough and you tell me people can’t use the meat . . .

New Institutions The indicator for new institutions considers new structures and legislation regarding localized food systems and value-based policy structures that reflect the will of the community. Participants shared community concerns that necessitated a combination of methods that integrated ecological concerns, community involvement, and economic capabilities, into management programs lacking. Farmer Phil (M, 62) explained the ways in which legislation does not reflect the needs of the community, and his feeling of the burden of isolated responsibility for farmers to handle the pest problem without the ability to access necessary resources:

There’s so many spots where the people can’t hunt. It used to be every field around was farm, so the deer had something to eat and now they only have Treatment of the wild whitetail deer 159 one spot – they live right in people’s back yards where nobody can hunt and it’s a problem . . . We had to get a special permit where we can shoot ’em.

Temporal relationships The final indicator considers the impacts and reflection on the role of time within these ethical issues. Interviews conducted for the empirical data revealed that agritourism providers struggled to reduce food miles due to timing and seasonality implications. In addition, pressures to produce and compete in the globalized economy resulted in an extreme increase in working hours, which left little free time to pursue alternative options, education, or additional community connections. A portion of the interview with Grace and Phil provides examples of concerns over an ineffective use of time and management resources imposed on the farmers by legislative institutions. They said they wished they had someone to call, like a mobile processing unit or mobile butcher that could have assisted them in processing the carcasses so that they would not have had to waste the meat by burying them. They discuss how to usefully dispose of the many deer they are responsible for culling:

Phil: Yeah they can but somebody has to package and freeze it and stuff. Interviewer: And I guess if someone were to take it off the property and off the books – and someone were to get sick. . . . Grace: Then you get in trouble . . .

Monetary restraints and additional season requirements hinder the farmers’ ability to distribute the venison product in a meaningful way:

Grace: We would have to pay to have them processed and packaged. It was 60 dollars per deer to do. Phil: This time a year [hot summer] say you shot one, within an hour you have to have it in a cooler or something.

Brandon (M, 39) also found the constraints of seasonality limiting in the production of a locally inspired menu but reiterated that the effort was worth it to reaffirm local food systems: “It’s hard, it’s a lot of timing, staying true to seasonality will allow you to do that. What am I going to do? You have cherries here and you’re not going to use them? They’re beautiful!” He also emphasized the role of education as part of his farm-to-table restaurant and farm tourism product in changing consumer understanding of food sourcing.

Conclusion and future research Through the review of literature and empirical data there has been an identification of a lack of utility in the ethical supply chain of deer use and management in NJ. In order to accomplish the localization of food systems to reduce food miles 160 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy in a post-carbon context, the state will need to further reconsider the management of the white-tail. Through the exploration of the six NEF indicators, the authors discussed more nuanced connections of tourism and hospitality with the white- tail in NJ. More ethical and sustainable solutions to deer management must be found within these constructs. Increased communication between stakeholders (see Fig- ure 11.2), adjacent properties, agritourism providers offering hunting activities, and centers for public research could allow for coordinated efforts and improved record keeping (NJAES, 1998). In an increasingly human-dominated landscape, policymakers must be responsive as public servants while implementing programs that conserve natural resources (Rudolph, Etter, & Schaefer, 2011). While the impact on natural and agricultural resources is significant, the public is often more concerned with threats to public safety (Storm et al., 2007). Figure 11.2 showcases the various stakeholder motivations and ethical considerations that were overviewed in this chapter and includes the white-tail as a primary stakeholder in this discussion. As the quantity of humans and deer increases and the number of wildlife agencies decreases, collaborative measures must be taken within the community to form a cohesive solution (Curtis et al., 2005). The high cost of deer damage requires the input of public partnerships among local, private, public, governmental, institutional, and educational entities. Ethical considerations and perspectives by various stakeholders (see Figure 11.2) creates a need for more cooperation and dialogue to structure and mitigate impacts resulting from and to this mega fauna population. This chapter presents agritourism providers’ experiences concerning burdens resulting from interactions with deer populations in a densely populated state that includes the disposal and processing of sentient life along with limited access to resources or community support for management. White-tail are an important and iconic part of NJ culture and this includes the visual landscape and the tourism and hospitality sectors. White-tail can also serve to lessen the needs of the food insecure if they could be more sustainably utilized. At the same time, NJ farmers and agritourism providers are being negatively impacted by overpopulation of humans and white-tail and continued unsustainable development from suburban sprawl. Therefore, this exploration resulted in more questions and indications of areas for future research. This chapter serves to identify an unethical relationship between an iconic mega fauna and a geopolitical region. How can the white-tail become further included in the agritourism product while the management of herd populations becomes more ethical? How can we utilize the white-tail more efficiently in our local food systems (agritourism providers, restaurants, and food shelters) as opposed to wasting/burying edible food sources and reducing food miles in preparation for post-carbon livelihoods? Can we understand the plight and rights of the white-tail as a driver for stopping further human development to conserve the last remaining wild spaces in the state? How can regulatory policy be more reflective of current circumstances along with the needs and wants of the community? How can the development of local menus better incorporate wild caught game? Ultimately, the authors propose that the wild Figure 11.2 Stakeholder motivations and ethical considerations summary 162 Christina Cavaliere and Rachael Viscidy white-tail can call us to question more deeply our human and animal intrarelation- ships particularly in densely populated communities.

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Yoko Kito

Introduction In recent years, animal treatment in Japan has been covered critically by global media. To name a few examples, Japan’s claim at the International Whaling Com- mission on research whaling was criticized by Greenpeace and attracted the attention of people abroad (Ishii & Okubo, 2007). The documentary film The Cove (2009) portrayed a cruel image of dolphin hunting in Taiji, Wakayama, Japan. Another animal ethics issue in Japan is that dolphin or seal shows are still held at many aquariums (Ishida, 2013). Furthermore, the regulations on animal welfare in Japan are looser than those in the EU (Sato, 2005; Ueno & Takeda, 2015). In yet another case, Japanese traditional monkey showmen trained to dance or play (“sarumawashi”) can be criticized from the standpoint of animal welfare and animal liberation. A recently popular Japanese TV show includes a young chim- panzee that is dressed up and made to appear on the program every week (Nippon Television Network). Personifying and displaying wild animals in this way has been criticized by animal experts in the country (Ishida, 2013), which suggests that the Japanese mass media have little understanding of animal ethics. Through tourism or as tourists, people may discover these problems of animal ethics in Japan. They can even be put on the side of “dark tourism.” However, it is beyond the scope of this short essay to fully cover the background and status of animal treatment in Japan, for dealing with it encyclopedically at the surface level does not reveal the essence of the problem. Thus, this paper keeps the analysis of particular cases of animal treatment to a minimum, and instead considers animal treatment metaphysically, exploring the metaphysical meaning of tourism with regard to animal ethics in Japan. A metaphysical approach is useful for thinking about animal ethics, as shown by previous research proceeding from such subjects as Jeremy Bentham’s utilitarianism and Kant’s deontology. Naturally, this does not imply that specific analysis does not have a place. In this paper, the discussion starts from a physical and specific case and expands to a metaphysical consideration. However, the focus of my paper is primarily on researching Japanese animal treatment metaphysically and defining the metaphysical meaning of tourism. When the reader actually visits Japan as a foreign tourist and encounters this problematic animal treatment, it will be possible to fully understand the situation from a metaphysical perspective, especially 166 Yoko Kito since there is little research on this published in English and it will be an unknown issue for most readers. In my previous work, I revealed that the approach based on religious methodology and philosophical methodology is effective for considering the problem of animal ethics in Japan (Kito, 2015).

The metaphysical redefinition of tourism and the philosophical situation of animal ethics in Japan: the concept of tourism In this chapter, we will consider the concept of tourism metaphysically. Since the word “tourist” first appeared inThe Shorter Oxford English Dictionary (1800 version) (Fuster & Teoria, 1971; Netto, 2009), various definitions of tourist/tourism have emerged. Along with this development, the field of tourism for social science research has been established. According to the definition of the United Nations World Tourism Organization (UNWTO), tourism is staying away from one’s usual environment whether domestic or abroad as a phenomenon of transitioning the body. However, the UNWTO definition is technical, mainly being concerned with tourism’s political, commercial, and normative principles without approaching its conceptual aspects. As such, it does not effectively match the metaphysical discussion. Tribe (1997) points out that two definitions of tourism are mixed into the concept of tourism: one about the tourism phenomenon and the other about the study of tourism (Tribe, 1997). To attempt a metaphysical discussion about animal treatment and the role of tourism, it is necessary to focus on the phenomenon of tourism. Netto recognizes, following Trigo (1998), that since our society is involved in the commercialization of values or actions, as a phenomenon, the sector guarantees comfort, security, and sanitary experiences. However, he adds:

[I]n a trip, there are elements involved that at the first moment do not show up, like the wishes and longings of the tourist, the search for the new, the necessity of new experiences. The study of tourism should help to compre- hend the role of human beings in the context of their trips and the search for new solutions to old problems. . . . New paradigms must continue to be proposed, because when we push ourselves away from the normal and the taken for granted, we have the possibility of looking at ourselves and our habitat in a different way. (Netto, 2009, p. 59)

In the last sentence, Netto suggests the possibility of looking at oneself in a different way. Many philosophers, from Plato in Phaedo to Jacques Derrida in Memoires d’aveugle, have discussed what it means to look. From the viewpoint of metaphysical thinking, the phenomenon of tourism is redefined as looking at things differently as a result of the transition from one place to another. Metaphysical ethics and tourism in Japan 167 Furthermore, tourism presents a deeper possibility of the tourist’s self- transformation. Sociologist Erik Cohen (2004) writes about becoming an “experimental” or “existential tourist”:

[T]ourists ordinarily seek at most to experience the strangeness of other cultures and religions; these are, in my terminology, “experiential” tourists. However, there are some who do not seek to experience other religions merely vicariously, but in their quest for an alternative to secular modernity seek to “taste” them or immerse themselves in them, thus becoming “experimental” or “existential” tourists. (Cohen, 2004, p. 155)

Cohen’s argument is about the relationship between tourism and religion. Accord- ing to Cohen, some researchers “sought to conceptualize a category of travelers that is intermediate between pilgrims and tourists – ‘religious tourists’ – who both tour and worship on the concepts of journey” (Cohen, 2004, p. 148). However, Cohen considers tourism itself as a secular activity and of little relevance to religion. Religious tourism has an aspect of the “quest for an alternative to secular modernity” (Cohen, 2004, p. 155). Interestingly, Cohen points out that tourists can experience an existential transformation of self through tourism and yet considers existential transformation as having a clear cause-and-effect relationship with the tourist’s intention. Tourists search for an alternative to their everyday lives, and, therefore, existential tourism becomes an objective or inward purpose. As mentioned above, our understanding of Cohen’s existential tourists has nar- rowed the meaning from the religious philosophical and theological perspective. However, I agree with Cohen’s point that tourism can cause self-transformation or conversion. In addition to the redefinition of the phenomenon of tourism from the metaphysical point of view, tourism can cause human self-transformation, introducing the possibility of living a new life differently from before. So far we have metaphysically redefined tourism as a phenomenon with reference to Netto and Cohen. Tourism viewed metaphysically acknowledges that the tourist acquires a new perspective on things, in an accidental way by shifting place, and, in some cases, achieves self-transformation. The next section provides a metaphysical analysis on the treatment of animals in Japan.

Theoretical situations of animal ethics in Japan Before entering into the analysis, an overview of the existing research on the philosophy on animals in Japan is in this section. I will outline the literature related to the relationship between Japanese philosophy, Japanese religion, and animals, including (1) the history of philosophical thought about animals in Japan, (2) the history of religious thought about animals in Japan, and (3) the intellectual history of the correlation between philosophy and religion. 168 Yoko Kito In Japan, most of the philosophy on animals is imported thought from Western countries. As for the intellectual history of animal ethics in Europe and America, Utilitarianism, as advocated by Jeremy Bentham, was a pioneering concept in animal ethics. Since the twentieth century, several new theories have been proposed, such as that of “animal liberation” by Peter Singer and “animal rights” by Tom Regan. In 1988, 13 years after the original study was published, Singer’s “Animal Liberation” was translated into Japanese. It represented the broad introduction of Western animal ethics to Japan. Then, several other important studies of Western animal ethics were translated into Japanese after the 1990s, although there are still not enough. Only a few studies have been introduced on the theory of animal liberation, the study of the law, and the philosophy of animals. Notably, writings about animal ethics and feminism have not been introduced into the country at all. For more on this background and its theoretical and historical significance, see my previous study (Kito, 2015). Just as animal ethics from Europe and America have been insufficiently introduced, there are also very few independent and original considerations on the topic by Japanese philosophers. Among these, two Japa- nese thinkers, Tetsuji Iseda from the philosophy of science and Masaki Ichinose (2011), who studies British analytical philosophy, are making distinctive contributions to animal ethics. I will mention Iseda’s study later. Next, I will outline the Japanese intellectual history of religious thought on animals. While there are plenty of statistics on religions in Japan from several sources, they are all controversial. The Agency for Cultural Affairs in Japan reported them as: Shintoism 46.8 percent, Buddhism 42.6 percent, Christianity 2.5 percent, other 8.0 percent (Japan Ministry of Internal Affairs and Commu- nications, 2013). According to the World Fact Book published by the Central Intelligence Agency (2016), the numbers are: Shintoism 79.2 percent, Buddhism 66.8 percent, Christianity 1.5 percent, other 7.1 percent. This report notes that the total numbers exceed 100 percent because many people practice both Shintoism and Buddhism. Yet another source (Dentsu-Soken, 2004) presents still different data: atheism 51.8 percent, Buddhism 34.9 percent, Christianity 2.3 percent, other 4.0 percent. Regarding the religious situation in Japan, much research has been done from the standpoint of religious studies. However, little work has been done on the connection between Japanese religion and animals. After the 1990s, scholars outside of religious studies have pointed out the connection between Japanese religion and animals. For example, philosopher of science Yoichiro Murakami (1999) discusses religious ceremonies and animal sacrifice in Japan. Noriko Niijima (Ichinose & Niijima, 2011), a sociologist, highlights the religious significance of pet funerals in Japan, including statistical data. However, in these studies, no connection is made to metaphysical aspects of Western animal ethics. Shusuke Sato (2005), an animal behaviorist, looks at animal ethics in Japanese society but does not go far enough, as the religious background of Japanese society is not discussed and animal ethics is limited to the welfare of livestock. A series of seminal works by zool- ogist Makoto Hanazono (2013) attempts to explain the situation of the treatment of animals in Japan related to religious background. However, the perspective of Metaphysical ethics and tourism in Japan 169 the metaphysical thought of animal ethics and religious understanding in Japan is lacking here too. In summary, the existing literature does not sufficiently consider the treatment of animals in Japan in terms of religious background, and, further, there are very few metaphysical discussions about animal ethics overall. In the next section, I will critically consider the opinions of select scholars. In keeping with the purpose of this essay, religion here is limited to that which can significantly influence the treatment of animals in Japan. Therefore, Christian- ity and Islam are excluded due to demographics. Very few scholars have philosophically and systematically considered Japanese religious thought. Prominent examples who have include Manshi Kiyozawa (2002), Daisetsu Suzuki (1972), and some philosophers of the Kyoto School, such as Kitaro Nishida (2002–2009), Keiji Nishitani (1986–1995), Hajime Tanabe (1948), Kiyoshi Miki (1928), and Shizuteru Ueda (1997). Obviously, these philosophers do not specifically discuss the treatment of animals in Japan. In addition, the animals themselves are not the subjects of philosophical discussion. However, the correlation between Japanese philosophy and religion as discussed by philosophers of the Kyoto School has proven extremely useful in metaphysically viewing animal ethics in Japan. I will focus on the thought of Shizuteru Ueda, who deepened his thought on Zen Bud- dhism and philosophy in considering social issues philosophically.

Animals and closed spaces Here we discuss the metaphysical background of animal handling in Japan with the theme of domesticated meat livestock. Since the Meiji restoration at the end of nineteenth century, farming and meat-eating have become common. Before the Meiji restoration, only people in the mountainous areas hunted and ate wild game and used animals for medicines (Murai, 1984). After the Meiji restoration, West- ern cultures were imported to Japan, and the custom of meat-eating and raising livestock began (Hanazono, 2013). Before the 1960s, small companies and individuals were engaged in the business of farming but following the high economic growth of the 1960s, small-scale farming declined and the large-scale livestock industry became mainstream (Japan Ministry of the Environment, 1980). As a result, the few domestic animals that were bred on the farmer’s property disappeared and animals were bred in “places that almost no one knows about” (Hana- zono, 2013, p. 124). Thus, domestic animals are not familiar to Japanese people, as they are not beings with which people share their lives. Contrary to domestic animals, Japanese people have formed close relationships with companion animals. Companion animals have become “Uchi” (内) beings, which in Japanese means beings that are in the home and/or personal space. On the other hand, industrial animals including domestic animals have become “Soto” (外) beings, which refers to beings outside of the personal space (Hana- zono, 2013). In Japan, industrial animals are “Soto” because they are separated from the personal space of almost all Japanese people, spatially and conceptually (Uchisawa, 2007). Thus, industrial animals in Japan are often placed outside the scope of ethics, making the creation of a comprehensive animal ethics difficult. 170 Yoko Kito Consumers forget about the death of the animal when they eat animal meat. An ethical awareness of the plight of industrial animals as “Soto” beings is not observed by consumers; rather, it is only observed by the people engaged in the livestock industry (Kamata, 1998). Additionally, in that case, “ethical awareness” is a voluntary standard. Thus, because of the view of animals in the dominant space of high industrialization, it is difficult to create a comprehensive animal ethics that includes industrial animals. It is characteristic for Japanese people to separate “Uchi” and “Soto,” emphasizing the notion of “Uchi” and believing that that which is “Soto” is unconnected (Abe, 1995). “Soto” means outside of the home and is a spatial concept regarded as “Kegare” (dirty, 穢れ) (Hanazono, 2013). Because humans cannot touch the “Soto” world, people do not have an assertive involvement and/or interest in that which is “Soto.” “Uchi,” on the other hand, means inside the home, and is the spatial concept for those united through blood ties (in Japanese society, the ultimate being who belongs to “Uchi” is the Emperor and his blood relatives. Cf. Hanazono, 2013). A being that goes from “Uchi” to “Soto” is controlled by the “Soto” space, regardless of the properties of the being. Despite the fact that stray dogs and stray cats have the same nature as companion animals, Japanese society does not regard them with an ethical awareness. Thus, it is a challenge that there are still many abandoned dogs and cats being euthanized in Japan (Japan Ministry of the Environment, 2010). “Uchi” and “Soto” are spatial concepts still deeply rooted in Japanese society today. Many Japanese people believe that gods appear in special locations such as in shrines, in nature, etc. This “space dominant” concept limits the types of animals which humans should treat ethically. Therefore, it has been difficult to construct a comprehensive animal ethics in Japan. In contrast, the Christian faith is based on confidence in God, who is believed to be the lord of universal time and beyond the limits of a particular space (Tillich, 1959, pp. 32–33). Therefore, the situation wherein humans and domestic animals are separated between the inside and outside leads to inadequate animal welfare. From the viewpoint of metaphysics, this situation can be said to be due to the structure of the space dominance in Japan.

Japanese people as ethical consumers? It is difficult to directly link consumption behavior with the “ethical” consumption of animals in Japan because of the separation between the inside and the outside as well as the space dominance already described. “Ethical consumption” in Japan is primarily not directly linked to animal ethics. Furthermore, Peter Singer, a renowned philosopher, visited Japan for the first time in the 1980s to defend an environmental activist’s actions of releasing dolphins from fishing nets. After visiting Japan several times, Singer wrote about life in Japan in his book How Are We to Live? (Singer, 1997). He stated that “Japanese ethics is still deeply influenced by the idea that one’s obligations to one’s own group override those toward strangers and to the public at large” (Singer, 1997, p. 149). According to Singer, this idea prevents many Japanese people from taking responsibility for that which is outside of their own group, such as the environment or animals. Metaphysical ethics and tourism in Japan 171 As Singer points out, there are few social movements in support of the ethical treatment of domestic animals. Because domestic animals live in a “closed space,” actions to improve their bad conditions are not widespread across Japanese society. On the other hand, the term “ethical consumption” has become popular among the general Japanese population over the last several years and there are even business models based on ethical consumption. In Japan, “ethical consumption” also means buying fair-trade products or products not made with the use of child labor. Japanese ethical consumers care for workers and children in foreign countries, but animal ethics is not the primary purpose of ethical consumption in Japan. Delphys Inc. reported from a public opinion study that the primary goals of ethical consumption are to care for the environment (39 percent), to make social contributions (37 percent), and to improve the future of children (32 percent) (Delphys Inc., 2014). Japanese animal protection groups, such as the Animal Rights Center, have attempted to combine animal ethics and ethical consumption (Animal Rights Center Japan, n.d.). These groups advocate not buying products from animal fac- tories, fur and feather items, or cosmetics tested on animals. It seems a reasonable claim because fashion and cosmetics are not essential life goods. However, there is a high demand for animal products such as meat, eggs, and milk. Therefore, when the price of animal products increases as a result of animal welfare, consumers will be seriously affected. I am concerned that many Japanese “ethical consumers” will not accept the cost burden of animal welfare (Sato, 2005). In addition, I wonder how Japanese consumers as taxpayers or citizens will support government subsidies for farmers who take animal welfare seriously. Furthermore, what do Japanese consumers think about animal experiments to test medicine, which is different from animal experiments to test cosmetics? These topics have been addressed in academic fields such as ethics, zoology, and agriculture but are not yet considered to be social problems. Therefore, I claim that Japanese “ethical consumers” do not aim to reform society by including animals as community members, but through self-improvement or personal development. Notably, the fact that one reason why people buy ethical products is “for the future of their children” is a characteristic type of anthropocentrism. Japanese “ethical consumers,” as parents, hope for the sustainability of the environment for the sake of their own children with an inward-looking (“Uchi”) attitude. I suppose that this attitude is to obtain self-satisfaction through making contributions to society or to justify the use of ethical products. If my supposition is right, when the consumption actions of these types of “ethical consumers” are restricted or if considerable costs are imposed, it will become very difficult for them to choose ethical products. Thus “ethical consumption” in Japan does not directly aim to treat animals outside of human groups ethically. It is a decision by an individual regarding what type of product or food to purchase. Japanese ethologist Syusuke Sato points out that animal ethics in Japan is not much more than fostering a socially moral tone or public order (Sato, 2005). He suggests that animal ethics in Japan does not lead to the review of consumption actions or thoughts about our relationships with animals but simply “to be kind to animals.” 172 Yoko Kito Cultural, philosophical, and religious background of animal ethics in Japan

Phenomenon of religion and animal ethics in Japan However significant the Buddhist influence is on the view of animals in Japan, the belief in and practice of Buddhism has diminished. In the 1960s era of high economic growth, the number of people who left rural areas and immigrated to urban areas seeking employment increased. As a result, the traditional Buddhist religious service known as “Ie” (home, 家) faded. After the terrorist attacks by the religious cult “Aum Shinrikyo” in 1995, the number of people who despised conventional religion and saw themselves as “irreligious” increased. However, the belief that Japanese people are “non-religious” is off the mark. Shizuteru Ueda, a Japanese philosopher of the Kyoto school, said that animism, which is the “filling of the vacancy of non-religion,” is increasing (Ueda, 2007, p. 38), and the “invisible personalization of religion” and the “non-religiousness of society” has spurred “the appearance of friendly and solid new-religion and new-new-religion.” How- ever, this “non-religiousness” with which many Japanese people identify is note- worthy in that it does not include a religious “goodness” that involves the anguish of dealing with ethical conflicts. Fundamentally, many Japanese people know the concept of “ahiṃsā” (to practice compassion and non-violence toward all living things), which is a command- ment of Buddhism. However, in general the public disregards conflicts between actual situations and religious commandments related to eating animals or using animals for experiments, and in these instances “ahiṃsā” is a façade or pretense. Typically killing animals that would not have died otherwise elicits “a sense of guilt” (Iseda, 2011, p. 117), therefore a religious ceremony known as a “Kuyō” (供養) is performed for grieving the sacrifice of animals. Those who engage in animal experiments or slaughter justify the killing of animals by playing the role of the agent of the consumer. They participate in the “Kuyo” as a coping technique for the sense of regret (Nishikawa & Morishita, 2012). In many cases, Buddhist monks conduct “Kuyo” ceremonies. In the traditional Buddhist meaning, a “Kuyo” (pūjā) was to “provide something for a valuable person” (Keown, 2004, p. 81); however, the original meaning of “Kuyo” (pūjā) has gradually changed. One of the reasons is the syncretism of Buddhism and Shintoism. The custom of an animal “Kuyo” involves animism from Shintoism combined with the Buddhist term. Traditionally, Japanese people abandon material things such as dolls and sewing needles, which they no longer need or are in disrepair, after a “Kuyo.” The location/field on which a “Kuyo-to” (the tower of “Kuyo”) is built contains the spirits of the animals and those material things and is a space for the agents of the consumers to comfort those spirits. Surprisingly, a few labs in Christian universities also implement a worship service to comfort the spirits of experimental animals (Omiya, 2012). This seems to be an integration of Christianity, Buddhism, and animism. In this religious syncretism, individuals are not worrying about the antilogy of religious dogma and/or commandments Metaphysical ethics and tourism in Japan 173 but are suffering with ethical conflicts. The “Kuyo” ceremony can be a form of professional ethics for agents of animal use but this will not change the ethical sense of consumers. Because the “Kuyo” is closed to collective comfort, it does not give the individual the opportunity to make an ethical decision about animal use for consumption.

Religious philosophy’s view on life in Japan: “physicality,” which is perceived through a body As mentioned above, because of the attitude of indifference toward animals that exist outside of human groups, Japanese people maintain the passive standpoint of a consumer. This characteristic prevents the development of an animal ethics as compared with European and North American countries (Sato, 2005). I would like to consider the cultural and philosophical background of this situation. In current Japanese thought, Buddhism and the Kyoto School are not dominant. However, many Japanese people have a common view of the world influenced by these traditional schools of thought. I argue that these schools of thought form the background of Japanese attitudes toward animals. For example, there is a view of life that can be summed up in the phrase respect for all living things (Omiya, 2012) that can be applied to the way we think about animal ethics. This view is different from the Christian view of life that can be summed up in the phrase we are the same creatures (Pinches & McDaniel, 1993). Respect for all living things means respect for every human, animal, and plant, without separating them into different categories. This Japanese view of life is advantageous in that there is respect for everything but the disadvantage is the holistic approach to anything that is different (plants vs. animals). Additionally, this holistic approach leans toward mysticism or self-centeredness in that it is an anthropocentric viewpoint. In contrast, the view of life that “we are the same creatures” is a close relational concept to the Creator. Both humans and animals are vulnerable and finite beings in front of the Creator who gives life (Pinches & McDaniel, 1993). Furthermore, I argue that the Japanese view of life, “respect for all living things,” is different from Schweitzer’s “Reverence for Life.” Schweitzer says, “[m]y knowledge is pessimistic, but my will and hope are optimistic (Sch- weitzer, 1998[1933], p. 242).” Schweitzer appreciated the “ethics of universal compassion” (Ethik des universellen Mitleid in German), which is the concept propounded by Arthur Schopenhauer (Schweitzer, 1998[1933], pp. 156–157). However, Schweitzer attempted to overcome the resignation that is included in Schopenhauer’s concept of “the denial of the will-to-live” and tried to emphasize devotion to others. He did not limit “others” to humans. Schweitzer integrates three essential elements into the worldview Reverence for Life: “resignation,” “an affirmative attitude toward the world,” and “ethics.” Reverence for Life shows sympathy toward animals while traditional ethics focuses solely on the behavior of man towards humans (Schweitzer, 1998[1933], p. 237). Additionally, Schweitzer claims “all previous ethical systems have failed to recognize that life as such has mysterious value.” Schweitzer’s mysticism is 174 Yoko Kito “ethical mysticism” that “allows a union with the Infinite to be realized by ethical action” (Schweitzer, 1998[1933], p. 238). His “ethical mysticism” is not the same as being pantheistic. Schweitzer says: [A]ll living Christianity is pantheistic, since it regards everything that exists as having its origin in the source of all being. But at the same time all ethical piety is superior to any pantheistic mysticism, in that it does not find the God of love in nature, but knows about Him only from the fact that He announces Himself in us as the will to love. (Schweitzer, 1998[1933], p. 241) In contrast, the Japanese view, “respect for all living things,” does not necessarily bring humans into a relationship with the Infinite. Sizuteru Ueda, a philosopher of religion and member of the Kyoto School, divides the Japanese concept of life into three types: biological life (Seimei, “生命”), life of the human including daily life and span of life (Sei, “生”), and the radical nature of “life” (Inochi, “いのち”). Every person, animal, and plant has the radical nature of “life,” even material things and Hotoke “仏” (Buddha, Buddhahood, Buddha nature, and the dead) have this “life.” Ueda claims that the radical nature of “life” (Inochi) is expressed not through philosophy or logic, but through poems, literature, art, and religion. Ueda said, “When we humans live, we communicate with things and Hotoke through Inochi” (Ueda, 2007, p. 89). I consider it problematic if even material things and the dead have “life” (Ino- chi) because this idea makes the living life and the non-living life ambiguous. If by this concept, non-vital things and Hotoke, which in Japan includes the deceased, also have Inochi, then life and death are not distinct from each other. The consecu- tiveness of life and death does not make death special and at the same time, the radical nature of “life” (Inochi) makes both life and death relative matters. Even today, many Japanese people use the word “Inochi.” For example, “Inochi education” means to learn about the dignity of the life of a human or animal and “eating Inochi” means to eat animals and plants to maintain human life. “Eating Inochi” is a concept similar to the food chain. “Inochi” also has another meaning: that the human is connected to the ancestors that are related by blood. However, I argue that “Inochi,” which means life chain, hides the death of animals. To kill animals for food means to end both their biological lives and their spiritual lives. The concept of the radical nature of “life” (Inochi) is obviously influenced by Buddhism. Because the concept of “Inochi” is an anthropocentric viewpoint and because it has an ambiguous view of life and death, the difference between the life and death of an animal will become ambiguous. For Japanese people, it is difficult to become ethical vegetarians because this view of life makes Japanese people forget the reality that they are killing animals for meat.

Care of nature and animals: the case of ecofeminism in Japan In 1985, “ecofeminism” was proposed by Yayoi Aoki, a Japanese non-fiction writer, and at the same time, the “Japanese ecofeminism debate” began in the Metaphysical ethics and tourism in Japan 175 academic field (Yokoyama, 2007); however, the “ecofeminism” proposed by Ms. Aoki had a different character from ecofeminism in Western society. Aoki’s “ecofeminism” included mythical elements such as women being closer to nature and having primitive powers from an ancient world. Ms. Aoki worshipped these pre-modern and non-Western elements and the “natural power” of women. By contrast, Professor Chizuko Ueno, a sociologist and feminist, criticized this “ecofeminism” as having revisionist features of the ideology of motherhood and female principles. In the midst of the 1980s bubble economy, many Japanese people expected further economic growth. The sustainability of society had not yet become an issue in Japan. Criticism of capitalism and development or exploitation, which are core issues for Western ecofeminists, did not take root in the society and culture of Japan at the time. Additionally Western ecofeminism included issues of animal and environmental exploitation caused by male dominance. At that time in Japanese society, even though Japanese feminists such as Chizuko Ueno fought to ensure that women were able to contribute to economic and social activities in the same way as men, in that particular debate there was no place for the care of the environment or animals.

The characteristics of Japanese traditional ethics: sense of ownership and otherness I will close with an analysis of publicity in Japan by Peter Singer and Tetsuro Wat- suji. As Singer pointed out, the characteristic of ethics in Japan, which involves a lack of public responsibility to others outside one’s own group, can be seen in the history of ethics in Japan. A pioneer of ethics in Japan, Tetsuro Watsuji, defined the scene in which something comes to light as publicity (“seken” 世間) (Watsuji, 1996[1937–1949], p. 146); publicity for Watsuji is simply that which is known by everyone. By contrast, a private being is a “being whose actions are not disclosed at some place where they are thought to be destined to be disclosed; that is, a defi- ciency of publicity” (Watsuji, 1996[1937–1949], p. 146). Thus, the private being is not an individual. A private being refers to a family, couple, friend, or village in which particular people are required to participate and, adversely, other people are not required to participate. Publicity is larger than the private being, and the largest public group is the state. In Watsuji’s ethics, publicity (e.g., a nation) contains private beings (e.g., families) concentrically. Therefore, there is neither conflict nor responsibility to other groups that do not contain private beings (e.g., another state or animals other than humans). Additionally, to participate does not mean to make a social contribution because publicity for Watsuji means to be disclosed to many people. The private-public relationship articulated by Watsuji continued through the 1980s. Peter Singer discussed the social situation of Japan in the 1980s in his book How Are We to Live? Singer’s main theme in the book was what to do when ethics and self-interest are in conflict. This question could not be a controversial theme in Japan. A traditional Japanese sense of publicity prevents responsibility toward animals other than humans as well as the development of animal ethics. 176 Yoko Kito Furthermore, Singer criticized the situation relating to Buddhism in Japanese society at the time while valuing the essence of Buddhism.

[B]uddhists do, however, use techniques of meditation to reach states in which their deep sense of self is taken over and replaced by a stronger feeling of being part of a larger whole. This feeling of oneness with others and the universe is, at the same time, a feeling of joy and zest for life. Thus Buddhism attempts to solve the antagonism of self and other by finding the deepest fulfillment of the self and other by finding the deepest fulfillment of the self in a state of mind dominated by feelings of kindness towards others. In this state the enlightened person acts on the basis of these feelings for the good of all, without thought of further reward. Yet the Buddhist tradition must be counted as a failure in social terms. Instead of challenging conventional practices, Buddhism has accommodated itself to the status quo. (Singer, 1997, p. 225)

While approving of the opinion of Singer, I would also like to add to it. In Japa- nese society in the 1980s, when Singer was describing it, there were still many people who had loyalty to “the group” either as a company organization or a traditional family to which they belonged. They were able to evade interactions with others outside the community in those days by identifying the members of their particular community. However, in the last decade, the number of people with no sense of belonging or loyalty increased in Japan as a result of the destabilization of employment by neoliberalism and broken traditional families.

Conclusion In this paper, firstly, the metaphysical barriers between humans and animals, and the spatial gap that underlies the physical are discussed. Next, the space-dominant problem and lack of a metaphysical “sense of ownership” and “othernesss” are shown to be intricately connected to Japanese consciousness of animal consumption and to underlie the immutability of human-centered consumer behavior. In Japanese religious philosophy or traditional animism, “dominance of space” is more important than direction of time, which breaks the predominance of space toward something new or future. Emphasizing space dominance suggests that tourism may have a great influence on Japanese people. Because the culture is dominated by space, it is extremely significant that a body moves in a specific space through tourism, or by seeing and hearing unknown things or having new experiences. 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Adam Keul

Introduction In the southern half of the U.S. state of Louisiana, the American alligator (alligator mississippiensis) is the king of the swamp landscape. In these wetlands, the alligator is an apex predator, but the throne on which the alligator sits is exalted not only through ecological dominance but through human cultural symbolism. The alligator’s symbolic importance is historic in the region, but in the past 40 years the character of human–alligator relations has changed. Rather than being a subsistence resource or a potential predator of humans, the alligator’s role has shifted to becoming the “king” of nature-based tourism. In what follows, I will dissect the unique and sometimes contradictory roles that alligators have played in the production of South Louisiana tourism. Using insights from research on swamp tours, alligator hunting and farming, and alligator meat consumption, I suggest that the production of tourism effectively blurs the significant roles humans play in manufacturing the “wild” alligator. Perceptions of alligators have changed over time in this region, but in the context of tourism, alligators are reified as wild and exotic beasts to suit visitors’ expectations. Visitors can consume a variety of alligator encounters in the swamp and can culminate a day of sightseeing by literally consuming a plate of exotic alligator meat. However, the maintenance of these tourist–alligator encounters depends on a globalized commodification of alligator bodies for the exotic leather trade and leaves an uneven economic impact in the swamp. Two important moral implications arise from these practices. First, the reduction of the alligator’s body to a length of tanned hide for exotic fashion is an act that ignores their ecological value to the swamp, denies alligators any individual agency in their lives, and (under the pressures of mass production) creates a system of factory farming for a commodity that has little to no utility. Second, the system of alligator hide production, despite depending on Louisiana ecologies, bodies, and labor, brings nowhere near as much economic impact to Louisiana as it does to far-off markets in Europe and Asia. All of this manufacture of alligator bodies paradoxically occurs in the same region as alligator tourism, where the myth of the reptile’s wildness is sold to visitors. In the end, tourists’ consumption of alligator bodies and experiences in Louisiana mask a demoralized global trade in exotic hides. 180 Adam Keul This work posits the theoretical position that the neoliberal capitalist economic system effectively reduces large swaths of natural spaces and species to potential profits, and that this act of reduction deepens the constructed divide between human and non-human animals. Using Bakker’s (2010) typology for placing “neoliberal natures,” this paper would sit alongside Duffy’s (2008) work on ecotourism where neoliberalism con- fers values from the landscape as an “ecological service.” In this case, the production of alligator hides, meat, and tourism experiences can be implicated in the profit-led “conservation” of the alligator. Echoing Harvey’s (2001) “spatial fix” to the crisis of over-accumulation, Fletcher (2011) suggests that neoliberal conservation efforts such as this offer an “environmental fix” solving O’Connor’s (1998) “second contradiction” of capitalism – where the need for constant growth is limited by finite resources (2011). Duffy explains this paradox by suggesting that the fix allows the economic system “to sustain itself via the creation of new commodities from the environmental crises it has created” (2013, p. 611). As environmentalism has fostered a more widespread appreciation for ecological complexity, aesthetics, and outdoor experiences, the destructive tendencies of industrial capitalism needed to “re-tool” in response to a new “social nature” – one where people valued intact environments. Smith refers to this as the production of nature “all the way down” (2007, p. 22). Thus as earlier iterations of market alligator hunting had significantly reduced their populations, a new process of factory farming was created to ensure both the continued flows of capital from alligator hides and the exotic encounters with alligators sought by tourists. Tourism then, by providing the “ecological service” of outdoor entertainment, justifies both the conservation of environments and their commodification. Using an economic rationale to protect this species entails their management as a reaction to a public demand for entertainment and exotic goods. While this strategy may work in certain periods for certain types of charismatic species, it uses a narrow set of values. In this case, the value of the “king of the swamp” is not intrinsic, but determined by an international demand for exotic goods and experiences. This is a not sustainable justification for the protection of the American alligator. This work is based on participant observation, interview, archival, and content analysis research. The central setting was the Atchafalaya Basin, “America’s largest river swamp,” which surrounds the 137-mile Atchafalaya River with nearly one million acres of marsh, seasonally flooded forest, and lakes (Atchafalaya National Heritage Area, 2016). As part of a larger project that sought to understand the process of swamp social spatialization, I participated in 15 different swamp tours – two-hour guided excursions in a small craft with a handful of tourists – spoke with commercial fishermen and hunters, and attended planning meetings for the Atchafalaya National Heritage Area (ANHA), a 13-parish, con- gressionally sanctioned, tourism development region. Alongside more than 25 interviews with tour guides and tourists, further information was gathered from a variety of Louisiana tourism websites, including those from swamp tours, hunting guides, state tourism promotion sites, and tourist-focused restaurants. These Consuming the king of the swamp 181 sources in particular illustrated the symbolic importance of alligators to tourism in the region. This combination of methods allowed for an understanding of the juxtaposition of material and symbolic consumption of alligators in the swamp tourism landscape.

History: native royalty To grasp the complexities of today’s tourism–alligator relations, the reader must understand the environmental history of alligators in Louisiana. The American alligator has been a part of the Louisiana landscape throughout all of recorded history. Father Paul du Ru wrote in 1700, “The beast which passes for something so terrible in Europe is seen here as another fish, the Savages, while bathing, play with it, without coming to any harm” (quoted in Glasgow, 1991, p. 1). Native Americans used the alligator for several purposes both instrumental and symbolic. Native Americans in the Atchafalaya used the animal to complement subsistence diets but did not depend upon it. Kniffen, Gregory, and Stokes found that “the range of animal life taken by Louisiana’s Indians knew no limits” (1987, p. 201). It is likely that the alligator occupied a fairly similar spot within the food economy of Native Americans and the Acadian (or “Cajun”) immigrants who arrived in the Atchafalaya Basin beginning in 1785 from what is today Nova Scotia. The story of human–alligator interaction began to change around the Civil War, when desperate southern troops began to tan alligator hides as more conventional leather supplies were exhausted. Although some commercial tanning did occur before this era, markets for alligator hide products that necessitated commercial hunting did not emerge outside of Louisiana until the Gilded Age. By 1869 the demand for alligator leather in Europe had grown unabated, supported by new tanning techniques in France and Italy (Glasgow, 1991). Thus began the fruitful yet exploitive pattern of extraction in Louisiana and tanning in Europe that is still in place today. Commercial and private hunting for skins continued virtually unregulated until 1948, when hunting seasons began to be limited. Another notable tourism practice from this period that can be differentiated from alligator hunting was alligator shooting. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries “riverboat era” tourists were guided through the swamps where they used alligators as target practice for sport. “Gator killing was for some a genial sport and was frequently practiced along the Mississippi drainage” (Doughty, 1989, p. 66). Barrow found an early conservation practice: “[F]earful that the indiscriminate shooting was decimating alligator and other wildlife populations along the rivers – the very attractions their customers found so fascinating – steamboat owners banned the practice by the 1880s” (Barrow 2010, p. 134). This was also noted by Ingersoll, who wrote:

As for the alligator, it is now a treat to see one over a thousand miles of half submerged country where a few years ago they swarmed in countless throngs. This is owing partly to the utility of their rugged hides; but more to 182 Adam Keul the senseless habit tourists call amusement, of shooting at every one that can be spied from the deck of a steamboat. (1885, p. 36)

Whether due to killings for amusement or for profit, by the mid-twentieth century alligator numbers were noticeably lower (at least in some locations). Though Florida was quicker to reign in the race for hides, Louisiana eventually followed suit and canceled the 1963 season due to low populations. For the next 10 years, hunting alligators was illegal in Louisiana. Under pressure from the Audubon Society and other like-minded groups, the alligator was listed as an endangered species in 1967. In 1972 a small season was opened under strict regulation (Glas- gow, 1991). Over the next decade the entire state was opened back up for hunting, and the seasons have continued since then as hide prices have fairly steadily risen (though fallen in recent years with less global demand for exotic animal products). The American alligator was de-listed as an endangered species in 1987 and has been lauded as one of the program’s greatest success stories (Glasgow, 1991). The most pivotal point in the story of Louisiana human–alligator relations came during the 10-year ban. In 1964 the state first commissioned a scientific study of the alligator farming process, and thereafter growing alligators became more lucrative than hunting them. The researchers found that under specific conditions alligator eggs could be incubated and the reptiles raised in captivity. In the wild, less than 10 percent of the eggs survive to reproductive maturity but in captivity, rates of over 90 percent are not unknown (Louisiana Alligator Advisory Council, 2016). This has led to a process of captive breeding where the vast majority are slaughtered at around 1.3 meters or 18 months old and a small and varying percentage are re-released into the wild. In 1988 farm-raised alligator skins overtook wild-hunted skins, and since 2000 hunted skins have been less than 20 percent of the total market (Louisiana Alligator Advisory Council, 2016). Today, the profitable practice of egg gathering is aided by GPS and helicopters but is highly regulated. As a veteran Atchafalaya alligator hunter put it, “There’s more paperwork on a baby alligator than there is on a baby person” (Interview A, 2009). Beyond these basic statistics is a vibrant symbolic, economic, and political history that has seen the alligator portrayed along a continuum from a monster of pestilence to the revered and commodified king of a landscape.

Adoption: how the king gained its throne In the span of 100 years, the Louisiana alligator went from “ugly beast,” as penned by Wilkinson in an 1892 issue of Century (p. 400), to the official Louisiana State Reptile in 1983, “promoted to the ranks of the pelican and other symbols of Loui- siana’s totem pole” (Glasgow, 1991, p. 142). This transformation is the story of the adoption of the alligator as a meaningful symbol by the people and industries of Louisiana. Barrow has also investigated the species’ symbolic meaning. “Layered onto and related to the perception of the alligator as a fierce man-eating predator is the view of the species as a symbol of Consuming the king of the swamp 183 the landscape it inhabits” (Barrow, 2010, p. 132). I see this process of adoption in Louisiana not as an event shaped by the alligator’s fearsome social rap sheet, but a turnaround from negative to positive, partially motivated by the gains of the environmental movement but more so by the concurrent creation of a diverse alligator product and tourism market in the 1980s. Until the middle of the twentieth century, the alligator was largely seen in negative terms. Perceptions of the alligator as a ferocious beast were drawn from travel narratives and the journals of explorers and colonialists during the early colonialization of the Americas. Don Ferdinand, son of Christopher Columbus, characterized Hispaniola’s alligators as “so ravenous that if they find a man sleep- ing they drag him to the water to devour him” (quoted in Barrow, 2010, p. 130). This image of the fierce alligator helped characterize the spaces occupied by alligators as land that needed to be “civilized.” Although some authors – including Audubon (1827) and McIlhenny (1934) – attempted to dispel these myths, the overwhelming majority of writing about the alligator was motivated by its sup- posedly menacing traits. The turnaround in alligator attitudes seems to have occurred in the 1950s. A 1947 New Orleans Times-Picayune article gives a snapshot of the changing times. “Poor little ‘gator! For all his armor plate and savage ferocity, he is being rapidly killed off” (Snyder, 1947). The author continues, “So ruthless has been this free-for-all slaughter that B’rer ‘Gator is just about gone from our Gulf coast and this is not as it should be” (Snyder, 1947). Here the beast is both “ferocious” and “poor” and is portrayed as a colloquial Br[oth]‘er. In an even greater appeal to the alligator, Pie Dufour’s lively 1951 Picayune article was titled “Alligators Won the Battle of New Orleans.” “So when they started charging on Jan. 8th, there was an alligator hole for every British soldier to trip and fall in. There were holes for the horses too, and the cannons” (Dufour, 1951). This piece exemplifies the turnaround of alligator attitudes and illustrated how the reptile was becoming the celebrated hero of the landscape. Presenting the alligator as an object of state pride has been common since this period. Dennie’s (1973) account in Louisiana Conservationist claims that “many people have learned the difference in alligators that live in other places . . . and alligators that live in Louisiana” (p. 14). A 1999 article by Vaughn states: “[M]anaged as a renewable resource, Louisiana’s symbol of wetland wilderness will continue to flourish” (p. 7). Notwithstanding the paradox of “managed wildness,” the embrace of the symbol is evident. The adoption of the alligator as a symbol of the state has driven the creation of several alligator markets. Tour hunting has been offered (at least) since the incep- tion of the post-ban hunting seasons. Out-of-state hunters are allowed to buy tags at an elevated price and are charged several thousand dollars by a private guide to kill an alligator. This industry markets an experience that is often complemented by Cajun foods and accents. A hunting guide reported, “Most people don’t just come for the alligators, they come for the Louisiana experience” (Interview A, 2009). An alligator hunter and Hollywood location consultant who focuses on Louisiana landscapes pinned this emergence down to the early 1990s when Cajun culture became a display in New Orleans. “You saw the Cajun culture and you 184 Adam Keul saw the alligators and you saw the swamps and it created a need for people to go out. And [the alligator] is one of the things the tourists wanted to see” (Inter- view B, 2009). Wiley’s piece on swamp tours also noted the importance of the reptiles. “The alligator stands out as the star of many tours, as evidenced by its prominence in tour names, road signs, and brochures” (2002, p. 123). That the alligator has been fully constructed as the symbolic animal of Louisiana can be blatantly proven by a trip to any shop that sells Louisiana-themed merchandise. Kitschy lacquered alligator heads, teeth, and the image of the alligator on any sort of clothing can be found in plenty at all major tourist destinations and often on the shelves at interstate gas stations. By adopting the alligator as a symbol of Louisiana and marketing it whole- heartedly, the creature has come to be a point of pride. The rise of the alligator symbolically has paralleled its population and economic rise, and these are not coincidental events. The turnaround in attitudes has been motivated by the production of the species in a diverse group of markets so that for visitors, interact- ing with alligators through swamp tourism, hunting, or consumption of meat and hides has become a significant attraction in Louisiana.

Consumption: bringing the king to the table Two common alligator tourism products in Louisiana today are swamp tours and dining on alligator meat at a restaurant. The visual consumption of alligators through swamp tours is easier to estimate than tourists’ consumption of alligator meat, since non-tourists certainly eat alligator meat. Yet both rely on the symbolic turnaround and celebration of the reptile. Here, I summarize these and other placements of the alligator on the Louisiana visitor’s “plate.” Swamp tours are a highlight of many tourists’ visits to South Louisiana. The two most dominant swamp tourism destinations are the regions around New Orleans and Lafayette. Both destinations are surrounded by alligator habitat and are similarly teeming with other types of tourism. They lie about two hours’ drive from each other, and while New Orleans receives more visits, both attract regional, national, and international tourists. A TripAdvisor search in these cities netted 19 operational swamp tour companies near New Orleans and 14 near Lafayette (TripAdvisor, 2016). Louisiana swamp tourism has been addressed specifically in several publications (Keul 2013a, 2014; Wiley 2002), as has the specific role of alligators on swamp tours (Keul, 2013b). While the dynamics of each swamp tour are driven by season, guides, tourists, and location, the basics are fairly comparable. Tours take place on a boat but vary from the small native 6-person “crawfish skiff” to airboats or large pontoon boats capable of carrying up to 30 passengers. Air- boat swamp tours are more for adventure-seekers who are given a loud and fast ride, but most also include more peaceful stops deep in the swamp. The flooded cypress swamp landscape is an important draw for tourists, but the highlight of a swamp tour is the chance to see a “wild” alligator. Feeding alligators is illegal in Louisiana but despite this, many guides entice the reptiles to approach the boat Consuming the king of the swamp 185 with bits of chicken or marshmallows. The gators who are familiar with visitation are personified, anthropomorphized stars of the show who have been taught to jump from the murky swamp and clap their jaws for meat – all to the flashes of cameras and phones (Keul, 2013). Tours usually last about two hours and cost $20–$50 per person. While an honest guarantee that visitors will see a “wild” alligator is impossible (especially in late summer or winter), witnessing the king of the swamp is assured by guides and expected by tourists. On tours, alongside a quick lesson in swamp and alligator ecology, the further modes of consuming alligators are addressed. The process of alligator farming is usually explained as are the types of alligator hide products that are produced. Guides often position themselves as authentic “swampers” by explaining their favorite alligator recipes, though tours do not directly offer samples of alligator meat. The connection between touristed consumption and physical consumption of alligators is not as direct as in Icelandic whale and puffin watching/eating (Hui- jbens and Einarsson, this volume), yet the tourists’ physical and social paths from the water to the table are just as short. Alligator hunting seasons reopened in the mid-1970s, and hunters were able to harvest and sell the reptile’s hide. A market soon developed for alligator meat from these wild hunts. Joanen et al. reported that in the first five years of the hunts, more than 45,000 kilograms of alligator meat were sold commercially for $1–$3 per kilogram (1984). They note that about half of the meat was sold to individuals for home consumption and half for commercial preparation and that markets for the meat were beginning to emerge in California and on the east coast as well. Today, wild alligator hunts are a popular consumptive tourism product that may cost upward of $2000 per licensed (out- of-state) hunter and include the processed meat from the alligator the hunter kills. These hunts take place during alligator season in September and are doled out to hunters (including commercial guides) by a lottery process. This crossover of alligator consumptions (visual and physical) is perhaps the strongest nexus of visual and material consumption of alligators in tourism, but most alligator meat eaten by tourists is not harvested in this manner from the “wild.” Since the creation of the alligator farming process, a glut of meat is produced and is thus treated as a by-product rather than a major source of returns. The Louisiana Alligator Advisory Council (2016) lists 39 dealers in alligator products, most of whom sell meat alongside whole alligators or hides. These dealers supply the restaurants and many also deal in other swamp and seafood products. Alligator meat is not an especially exotic dish in Louisiana, but when served in the context of tourism it is marketed as exotic for visitors. While it would be difficult to know how much alligator meat is consumed by tourists, we can understand the basics of how alligator meat accents dining in touristed areas. For this portion of the study, the menus of 61 restaurants in the heart of New Orleans’ tourist district – the French Quarter – were analyzed. Res- taurants were chosen from frenchquarter.com, a travel website that catalogs lodging, dining, and attractions within the boundaries of the district (2016). More than 21 percent of the restaurants served alligator meat in some fashion. Most popular were alligator meat appetizers characterized as “Gator Balls” or fried “Gator 186 Adam Keul Bites.” These dishes seem to be standard tourist forays into exotic dishes – not an entire entrée commitment, but still a story to tell at home. Other dishes relied more on traditional Cajun cuisine such as alligator bisque or alligator sauce piquante. Another celebration of the alligator that caters to tourists can be found at the Luling, Louisiana Alligator Festival, where alligator meat can be found in a great variety of preparations (Luling Alligator Festival, 2016). The festival has taken place since 1980 and alongside food rides and music, offers an exhibit where visitors can handle small live alligators. Like the swamp tours and alligator dishes, the handling and eating of alligators at the festival illustrates the odd positioning of the reptile in the Louisiana tourism landscape. At once wild and farmed, the gator’s important social stature masks the hyper-managed condition of its existence – the exotic leather market. The industrial character of alligator production relies on spatial separations to maintain the mystique of the creature ahead of the globalized network that upholds its exchange value.

Separation: hiding the networks of production Separation is intended in this case to note physical distances created between different living and non-living actors in the networks of global production. Through- out, I refer to Castree’s (2003) unraveling of the specific aspects of the capitalist commodification of nature as a means to relate the story of human–alligator relations in Louisiana to his understanding of similar processes across the global market. Spatial crevasses have been constructed between alligator and human bodies and landscapes and are maintained as a way to draw profits from the diverse industries that alligators support. I note four specific spatial separations in what follows. These separations effectively lock in the patterns of exploitation that have marginalized the alligator hunter, farmer, and especially the animal itself, even as the alligator is adopted and adored as a state symbol. To begin – perhaps the most meaningful separation, from the alligator’s perspective – the reptiles’ skin and muscles are separated from the remainder of its body after being “harvested.” This process involves a meaningful physical transformation for the animal but also an important human-economic shift from living being to commodity. Using Castree’s work, this is a process of abstraction – where a qualitatively unique (natural) object is reduced to a general form (2003). A tree becomes a piece of lumber; an alligator becomes a hide or measure of meat. This simplification is necessary to ensure unabated flows of products that are qualitatively equivalent and only quantitatively measured, here through dollars per meter or pound. Once separated, the alligator meat products travel a network stemming from the slaughterhouse to regional and national retailers and restaurants while hides enter a global trade. The second separation is created between the landscapes of alligator production to the places of processing and manufacturing. The exotic crocodilian tanning market is global, and with some exceptions, the market for this sort of hide is not species specific. American alligators, Nile crocodiles, South American caimans, Consuming the king of the swamp 187 and other rarer and endangered species can all end up in a reptile tannery where they are made comparable. Again, this illustrates an abstraction where even species is no longer a qualitative difference. Hides are shipped mostly to Europe for tanning from Colombia, Australia, Zimbabwe, and the US (Joanen, 1999). Once tanned, the hides of common and endangered crocodilians are difficult to differentiate, thus necessitating all crocodilian hide products be covered under the Convention on the International Trades in Endangered Species (CITES) regulations (see CITES.org). Two-thirds of today’s Louisiana alligator skins are sold overseas, where most of the value-added labor is performed (Regini, 1998). Perran Ross, a Florida wildlife biologist, notes: “[T]he value of finished alligator skin products may be anywhere from five to ten times the raw-product value” (quoted in Woods, 2006). Thus, most of the profit made from exorbitantly priced alligator purses and wallets has remained in the hands of Europeans or urban Americans rather than providing a significant local economic impact. In Louisiana this failure of the alligator industry to accumulate capital locally is also well noted. Glasgow states,”An unfortunate aspect of alligator economics in most alligator producing areas is that only the prices paid for raw products remain within the region” (Glasgow, 1991, p. 216). Alligator farmers and economic developers have sought to shorten this commodity chain by creating a Louisiana tanning process, though they have failed to take the market from the more established European tanneries. Ress (2005) reveals the inconsistencies in locating tanning facilities and the value-added processes in Europe instead of near the source, not to mention the lost revenue to Louisiana if tanneries could be developed locally. Another result of this spatial inequality is the mass production of hides. Alligator farmers make only marginal returns on skins and even less per alligator when the animal is sold ‘on hoof.’ Therefore, more and more alligators must be grown for the venture to be profitable. This type of separation is systemic to globalized capitalism and contributes to the uneven development of alligator economies. The third separation is the removal of alligators from the swamps and marshes to live on farms where humans may more easily manage them for slaughter. Cas- tree refers to this practice as individuation, or “the representational and physical act of separating a specific thing or entity from its supporting context” (2003, p. 280). Over the last 150 years, the Louisiana alligator has undergone several radical transformations that have served to individuate it from its habitat. The moves from subsistence hunting to market hunting to commercialized hunting to wild/captive breeding and ultimately to full domestication have shifted the control over many alligators’ bodies into human hands. With the ban on alligator hunting, 1964 stood out as a pivotal year for this separation of animal from the swamp, as did 1978 when Allan Ensminger presented a plan to the state that set up the egg collection and farming practices of today (Sheldon & Joanen, 1986). These authors reproduce the necessity of the removal of the alligator from its habitat, “Scientific farming produces an unmarred, more marketable hide than can be obtained in the wild” (Sheldon & Joanen, 1986, p. 6). The subjugation of the alligator to scientific farming turns its body into a factory where the alligator 188 Adam Keul becomes a human tool for the creation of wealth. Ignoring intrinsic symbolic and cultural values, Lewis calls the farming process “value-added conservation” (1987, p. 17). In many sources, the dominant motivations of alligator farming are economic, and the ontological misgivings of the common “kill it to save it” narratives are rarely, if ever, addressed. The move in Louisiana to farmed alligator production appears to parallel shifts in crocodile production in Colombia and Zimbabwe, where “the drivers for the shift in crocodilian skin production from wild to captive animals were initially mainly conservation, regulation, science . . . but a second wave of incentives for market production were more commercial in nature and, ultimately, market-led” (MacGregor, 2006). While MacGregor suggests that producers should not turn their backs on wild supply, he found a pattern of production that eventually moved the alligator out of its habitat completely and bred it in captivity (MacGregor, 2006; also Joanen, 1999). If the alligator is valued for purely economic means, it is in danger of becoming a fully domesticated animal, in which case its ties to the region’s culture would become solely economic (as expressed through the commodified form of exchange value) and historical. The fourth separation that maintains alligator industries is specific to tourism. The swamp tour and meat markets rely on distant tourists who will travel to (what are for them) exotic environments and eat exotic foods. Thus the tourism industry relies on the distance (both physical and social) between tourist sending and tourist receiving locales. The exoticized natures and cultures of the Louisiana swamp are significant drivers of visitation, as evidenced by the marketing slogan of the Atchafalaya National Heritage Area, “America’s Foreign Country” (Atchafalaya National Heritage Area, 2016). This separation and foreign-ness is maintained on swamp tours and in dining establishments alike to cater to urbanites and international visitors. Of course, this separation is also rooted in the historic unevenness of development as well. Louisiana and the US South in general have long been marginalized regions with regard to income, education, race relations, health care, and other measures of well-being (Domosh, 2015). Leisure travel to the state reit- erates the colonial core–periphery relationships. Without great spatial differences in wealth and development on a global scale, large segments of the tourism industry would not exist – including Louisiana’s. By separating the animal from its marketable body parts, the production of hides from the creation of alligator products, the alligators from the swamp, and the tourists from alligators, the structure of the international market has served to marginalize both human and non-human swamp dwellers. The comparison to past colonialist politics of extraction becomes directly evident as these sorts of processes have long served the production of Louisiana’s landscape. Globalized capitalism has served to maintain these separations and to keep them paradoxically invisible and gazed upon.

Discussion: the demoralized swamp Alongside the falsified notion of wildness that is marketed to tourists (despite the fact that alligators are managed and farmed), two moral problems are notable Consuming the king of the swamp 189 in the alligator industry. First, we cannot ignore the fact that in Louisiana, more than 250,000 alligators are taken from wild nests, raised in captivity, and slaughtered for exorbitantly priced yet needless leather hides (Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, 2017). The justification for this process is solely economic. Second, because of the spread of the alligator economy across the globe, and because of the hierarchical nature of capital accumulation, the producers of crocodilian hides in Louisiana (and elsewhere) receive a scant proportion of the overall profits. The alligator tourism economy depends on the maintenance of alligator populations through farming, but this step in the manufactured ecology of the Louisiana alligator could certainly be eliminated. The eggs that are taken for alligator farming may otherwise not survive in the wild, but this does not mean that they would be of no value to the swamp ecosystem. Alligator populations could thrive both for their own intrinsic right and for tourism without the farming process. A global upwelling of opposition to factory farming has emerged in the past decades, and while this opposition has generally focused on more familiar “farm” animals such as chickens, hogs, and cattle, the “exotic fringes” of animal production must also be resisted. Therefore, this paper suggests that a balance between the demand for alligator products and the need for a more ethical manner of production could be achieved by a regulated, wild-only alligator meat and hide market. This would create a source of income for guides, maintain the history of alligator hunting in the region, and provide sources of meat (wild hunted alligator meat is legally marketable), all while removing the reptile from the farm setting. Finally, the symbolic and material importance of the alligator to tourism in Louisi- ana is unquestionable and is, for the most part, ethical. A wild-only harvest would rectify the paradox of factory farming the “wild” king of the swamp. This could allow tourists and locals alike to be educated about alligators, wetlands, and their respective ecologies, rather than simply being entertained by them.

Conclusion This study presents a unique context where the dominant “wild” symbol of the landscape is consumed both as a symbol and as a dish. But the general reliance on exoticism and spatial separations fostered by global capitalism are fairly standard, as illustrated by this volume. The spatial separations I have noted with regard to alligators have meaningful impacts on those actors involved in these industries, but what can analysis of these divides teach us about touristed human–animal relations more generally? John Knight’s (2005) edited volume of anthropologists’ perspectives on human– animal intimacies offers several important points. His own comments on hunted vs. domestic animals question which set of relations are more intimate. He argues that while hunters (in hunter-gatherer societies) may have deeper cosmologies of inter-species connections, such as respect for and ecological understanding of the prey, domestic human–animal connections are more intimate because they relate an individual human to an individual non-human animal. Whereas the hunter seeks a class of animal which he or she understands in a general sense, 190 Adam Keul the day-to-day intimacy created by domestication is greater evidence of the interspecies sociality that Knight strives to recognize. These conjectures probably hold true in Louisiana with regard to the local people who actually farm alligators and commonly hunt them. But what about the tourists? I have suggested above that tourists’ interactions with alligators are produced through spatial divides and are thus not particularly intimate, yet why are these interactions so prized as experience and food commodities? The answer stems from the inherent contradictions between the symbolic and material productions of tourism. The everyday activities of an alligator farmer or swamp tour guide are more imbued with being-to-being moralities than are those of the destination marketers, who may use an image of an alligator or the New Orleans server who brings out an appetizer of fried gator balls. The value of the tourism encounter with an alligator is thus symbolic rather than moralized. The life and death materiality and morality between the swamp- dwelling actors is back-staged to support the novelty and exoticism demanded by tourists. Castree’s study of seal hunting (1997) and his subsequent work on theories of commodification suggest that alienability allows “a given commodity and specific classes of commodities to be physically and morally separated from their sellers” (2003, p. 279). Alienability with regard to alligators has over a long period of time created a demoralized relationship between alligators and visitors – one that is ultimately aesthetic rather than moral. While recognizing the symbolic value of alligators to tourists is necessary, in this case it has not bred a recognition of intrinsic value and mutual respect, but rather a temporary fascination that is upheld by globalized exploitation of the “star” of the landscape. While it is doubtful that short visits and “bites” of tourist–animal relationships could have the degree of intimacy of day-to-day interactions, a more robust morality can be fostered through tourism by education and an honest and transparent understanding of the ways human and non-human lives are intertwined.

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Hannah Brown

Each year at the intersection of Lincoln Avenue and Irving Park Road in Chicago’s North Center neighborhood, 60,000 rib fans gather across three days of “music, BBQ and summer fun” at RibFest, Chicago’s “largest cookout.” In-between the crowded plastic tents, plumes of BBQ smoke, beer gardens, and kids’ activities, festivalgoers will consume some 50,000 pounds of pork ribs. Entertainment is all rib themed. Highlights include “RibMania,” the Midwest’s only professional rib-eating competition featuring eight minutes, eight professional food eaters, and over 30 pounds of BBQ King Smokehouse ribs, the celebrity-judged “Best Ribs” competition, and Culinary Fight Club, where cooks battle it out to create the most standout pork dish. Broadcast on Food Network’s Eating America with Anthony Anderson (a television series in which the host travels to the most colorful and delicious food festivals in America to discover “what’s truly at the heart of Amer- ica”), the festival atmosphere is shared with over 100 million viewers throughout 150 countries across the globe. Transcending place, culture, and language, food provides access to a destination’s cultural and historical heritage through tasting, experiencing, and purchasing. Food festivals bring together different elements of gastronomic tourism such as tastings, cooking shows, demonstrations, and local produce markets in entertaining, friendly environments where visitors can relax, socialize, and escape from the daily routine. While some food festivals have been running for centuries, their roots based on humble food fairs or harvest festivals, with over a third of tourist spending devoted to gastronomy, food tourism is now big business and food festivals are a growing trend (World Tourism Organization, 2012). For local communities, particularly in poorer, rural areas where jobs and other attractions for visitors may be scarce (by comparison with, for example, a major city with museums, galleries, historic buildings, etc.), food festivals can be an important means of attracting visitors who spend both on and off site. With food festivals usually focusing on a food unique to the particular geographical location, a sense of localized identity can be created among the local community, evoking positive feelings of pride and belonging. The Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival, like many other food festivals taking place all over the world, is a relatively new festival, intended to generate income 194 Hannah Brown from tourism. Local officials in Yulin were initially supportive of the new festival, as it was thought it could help promote Yulin’s image as a tourist destination for lychee wine and dog meat (Huang, 2015), and indeed the festival has had a very positive economic impact – the BBC reports that banning the festival would be devastating for the (local) economy (BBC, 2017). However, visitors to the festival today are faced with protest groups, traders on edge, and a tense atmosphere. International visitors are not welcome and will be ejected from the festival site. Yulin has become famous for all the wrong reasons, attracting condemnation from animal welfare organizations, celebrities, and it seems much of the Western media. In 2016 the Humane Society International gathered a petition signed by more than 11 million people calling for the Yulin festival to end (HSI/UK, 2016). What is it that separates the Yulin festival from the likes of Chicago’s RibFest, and can a ban on the festival at Yulin be justified?

From cage to plate The Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival takes place during the summer solstice in Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region in southern China. It starts on June 21 each year and lasts for 10 days. During the festival, thousands of dogs and cats are slaughtered for their meat, as many as 10,000 to 15,000 during the festival’s peak years. The festival is in essence a combination of a wet market (the largest being the Dongkou Market), where live as well as freshly slaughtered dogs are bought and sold, along with a number of restaurants serving dog meat (the most popular being found along the nearby Jiangbin Road). Festivalgoers can choose to buy a live dog from the wet market and slaughter him/her at home or purchase some freshly butchered meat (often having chosen the live dog for slaughter). Alterna- tively, visitors can feast at one of Yulin’s dog meat restaurants. There is no escaping the connection between live animal and food at Yulin. Festivalgoers are confronted with truckloads of live dogs who are slaughtered, butchered, and cooked on site. Live animals are transformed into limp, lifeless bodies of blood, flesh, guts, and bones with diners tucking into dog meat hot pot a matter of meters away. These images are deeply troubling for some audiences and sit in stark contrast to the fun, jovial festival atmosphere created by organizers (via entertainment such as live music, pageants, and competitions, etc.) to entice attendees back year on year. As David Foster Wallace wrote in his review of the 2003 Maine Lobster Festival:

[I]t’s not just that lobsters get boiled alive, it’s that you do it yourself – or at least it’s done specifically for you, on-site. As mentioned, the World’s Larg- est Lobster Cooker, which is highlighted as an attraction in the Festival’s program, is right out there on the MLF’s north grounds for everyone to see. Try to imagine a Nebraska Beef Festival at which part of the festivities is watching trucks pull up and the live cattle get driven down the ramp and Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival 195 slaughtered right there on the World’s Largest Killing Floor or something – there’s no way. (Wallace, 2004)

Why are the scenes of animals being transported, handled, and slaughtered so troubling? For audiences who are accustomed to purchasing their meat already slaughtered and butchered at the local supermarket, these scenes are unfamiliar. They are troubling because, having never witnessed these scenes before, such audiences are unlikely to have fully acknowledged and accepted the connection between live animal and the food on their plate. By including live animals arriving on site for slaughter at a food festival, attendees who have yet to confront this connection are forced to do so in the most untimely manner and in the most inconvenient of locations, potentially ruining the fun of the food festival. Why then, would the festival organizers at Yulin create a food festival featuring precisely this at its heart? In China there is a preference for fresh, unfrozen meat. In rural areas, wet markets remain the predominant sellers of fresh meat, while in urban areas, despite the increase in modern supermarkets, traditional wet markets still feature in most neighborhoods. At these markets, alongside the fruit, vegetables, and fish stalls, consumers can select a live animal and then watch him/her being slaughtered and butchered, or choose a live animal for slaughter at home. In choosing a live animal, the consumer will be checking for health and quality, thereby ensuring not only that the meat is fresh but is safe to eat. This is an understandable desire in a country where there have been a number of food safety scandals in recent years. For example, in 2014 the meat supplier to McDonald’s, KFC, and Starbucks in China was found to have forged production dates and used long-expired meat (FT, 2014). In 2015 Chinese authorities found more than 100,000 metric tons of smuggled, rotten, frozen meat, as well as meat which was more than 40 years old (China Daily, 2015). These food scandals also affect the dog meat trade, where there are “two lines” of dog meat: live dogs and dead dogs. Due to particular issues surrounding the source of the meat, dead or frozen dog meat can be unsafe to eat. For example, in August 2014, seventeen men stood trial in the eastern province of Zhejiang for selling poisoned dog meat. The accused were part of a group that had used cya- nide and anesthetic darts to snatch live pets and stray dogs whom they then sold to meat traders and restaurants. This poisoned meat was to be served to consumers, despite the accused knowing the meat was poisoned and admitting that they would not eat it themselves (Financial Times, 2014). The juxtaposition of live animals slaughtered alongside diners at Yulin is very likely a key pull for festivalgoers. Indeed, the discovery of frozen dog meat being served at the Jinhua festival was one of the reasons the local population accepted the permanent closure of the festival (Kerr & Yu, 2015). It is precisely because Yulin features live dogs arriving by the truck load and slaughtered on site or in nearby slaughterhouses that the festival has been successful – it provides a space 196 Hannah Brown where those who want to eat dog meat can do so with the assurance that the meat they are eating is fresh and safe.

Crossing the “unnecessary suffering” threshold For David Foster Wallace the Maine Lobster Festival was deeply troubling, not just because the transformation of live animal to food took place on the festival site, but because armed with research on lobster sentience, it became apparent to him that he was witnessing (at the World’s Largest Lobster Cooker) sentient animals subjected to pain and suffering for no other reason than to provide the food on his plate. For Wallace, the Maine Lobster Festival began to take on aspects of a Roman circus or medieval torture fest (Wallace, 2004). Underlying the uncomfortable connection between live animal and food is the knowledge that (at least some) animals are sentient, i.e., capable of experiencing pain and suffering. Therefore, the process from cage to plate (i.e., transport, handling, and slaughter) for sentient animals will involve at least some pain and suffering. The capacity to experience pain and suffering is one of the most important criteria for the moral status of an animal in Western society. Once it is accepted that an animal is sentient, the next question is what to do with that knowledge. In countries such as the UK and USA, where animal welfare laws are based on the utilitarian theories of nineteenth-century philosophers such as Mill and Bentham, the difficult moral question of eating sentient animals is met by the theory that it is morally acceptable to eat animals provided that we do not subject them to “unnecessary suffering” (or in the case of the USA, “needless suffering” and “inhumane handling/slaughter” – while there is undoubtedly some difference between the various terms, given that any differences are irrelevant for the purposes of this chapter, I will continue to use the words “unnecessary suffering” to encapsu- late all of these terms). With regard to animals intended for food (such as pigs, cows, sheep, etc.), there are laws and regulations in place in the UK which are intended to minimize suffering during transport, handling, and slaughter. In terms of slaughter, for example, the animal should be separated physically and visually from other animals waiting for slaughter, stunned first, and then slaughtered using the method most appropriate to the animal in question so that death occurs as quickly as possible. This is the standard of treatment which consumers in Western countries expect if a sentient animal is to make the journey from cage to plate. On the other hand, at Yulin dogs arrive crammed into tiny cages crudely stacked on top of each other without sufficient space, water, or food. In full view of attendees dogs are dragged out of their cages with metal tongs and slaughtered, skinned, and butchered in front of other terrified dogs. With no agreed method on humane slaughter, some dogs are bludgeoned to death, others electrocuted, and some appear to be skinned alive. There appears to be no concern for minimizing pain and suffering of the dogs and yet, this does not seem to be problematic for many Yulin attendees. On the contrary, photos show Yulin attendees looking on at such scenes smiling and taking pictures on their camera phone. Why is this the case? Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival 197 As set out above, the logical stage prior to concern with minimizing pain and suffering during handling and slaughter, etc., is acceptance of animal sentience. In most Western countries, scientific proof has established sentience in at least some animals (including dogs) as a generally accepted concept, confirmed and enforced by animal protection laws. However, animal sentience in China is not universally accepted and there is a dearth of animal protection laws (those laws that do exist are mainly concerned with preserving wildlife resources for future human use, protecting human health, and appeasing countries with which China trades). On 29 January 2002, Liu Haiyang, a high achieving electromechanical engineering student at China’s prestigious Tsinghua University went to the brown and black bear exhibit at the Beijing Zoo and poured caustic soda onto the bears’ coats. Liu said that he wanted to satisfy his curiosity as to the animals’ intelligence (albeit with the “experiment” he conducted, it seems Liu wanted to test sentience rather than intelligence). Liu watched the bears as they rolled on their backs and screamed, but was still not satisfied that the bears had demonstrated intelligence. He returned to the zoo on 23 February 2002 and this time fed the bears sulphuric acid. Five of the bears suffered severe burns, one later died, and two had to be euthanized (Song, 2006). There was debate as to what to do with Liu Haiyang. The University Direc- tor Zong Chunshan thought that Liu’s punishment required further discussion because it depended on whether the aim was to punish a troublemaker or to save a talent for society. He suggested community service instead of a fine (Song, 2006). Those who did want to see Liu severely punished had difficulty determining what crime he had committed. There were no laws in China prohibiting animal cruelty and China’s existing wildlife law only protected endangered species or those valuable to economic or scientific research, which these bears were not. Eventually Liu was charged with the offense of damaging state property, but while impris- onment and fine were available to the judge, he was spared any criminal penalty (Whitford, 2012). How did a highly educated university student find himself questioning the intelligence of brown and black bears? Professor Song Wei, of the University of Science and Technology of China, argued that lack of education was key and suggested that Liu Haiyang was not an extreme special case, but a product of the system (Song, 2006). In 2002, Professor Qiu Renzhong of the CASS Institute of Philosophy published an article entitled “It Is High Time that We Discuss the Question of Animal Rights in China.” Qiu argued that Chinese academics should not only discuss the question of animal rights but should push for attitude and policy changes in China. Qiu set out a number of compelling reasons for discussing the issue and advocated a gradualist approach to animal liberation through steady improvement of animal welfare, animal protection education, law enforcement, and China’s involvement in international animal protection work (Li, 2006). While Qiu’s work was generally well received, it attracted almost immediate rebuttal from Zhao Nanyuan, a professor of automation science at Tsinghua Uni- versity. Zhao argued that pro-animal legislation was anti-human (because there is 198 Hannah Brown an irreconcilable conflict between animal welfare and human welfare in that by increasing meat prices people will be deprived of their “right” to eat meat) and viewed the attempts to introduce such laws into China as a crude form of Western moral imperialism. Most incredible was his argument that animals do not feel pain, based on the (apparent) fact that foxes, unlike humans, will bite off their own feet when caught in a trap (Kerr & Yu, 2015). In September 2009 the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences (the Chinese central government’s top think tank) released a draft animal protection law for the People’s Republic of China. The first draft of the legislation imposed a duty of care on owners of economic (farm), pet, laboratory, and entertainment animals. This first draft proved controversial (notably members of the public could not support animal welfare laws at a time when China had yet to adequately protect human welfare)(Watts, 2010) and when formally submitted to the National Peo- ple’s Congress in March 2011 had been cut down to protect animals from deliberate cruelty only (Whitford, 2012). However even that watered down version of the law has yet to be implemented. Meanwhile, cruelty toward animals in China continues, including in public spaces. In order to attract customers at wet markets, sellers sometimes resort to cruel methods of slaughter (Li, 2006). In safari-style wildlife parks, visitors can purchase live poultry, and reportedly even goats, to be thrown from the tour bus as it passes through the carnivore enclosures (Littlefair, 2006). For Professor Song, public consciousness in China needs to change, and the key to that is social education among the Chinese population along with animal welfare legislation to lead the will of the public (Song, 2006). However, with a mass change in public consciousness yet to take place (albeit change is occurring; see below) and anti-cruelty legislation still not in place, the festivalgoers at Yulin are unmoved by the scenes of the dogs in distress and in pain.

Contrasting views of dogs In a 2008 interview, Andrew Zimmern, host of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zim- mern was questioned about eating dog: “I tried dog two different ways in Viet- nam. I don’t need to try it again. We have a pug at home” (Boston Globe, 2008). Zimmern’s sentiments are understandable to most who have a dog as a pet, or know someone with a dog as a pet – the thought of eating one’s pet creates feelings of uneasiness, sometimes disgust. In many countries a seemingly inviolable distinction has been drawn between dogs, who sit within the category of pet, and other animals such as cow, pig, sheep, and chicken, who sit within the category of farm animal, bred for human consumption. In those locations, such as the US, UK, and much of Europe it is generally considered socially unacceptable to eat dog – no matter how well the dog is treated prior to and during slaughter, eating dog is taboo. On the other hand, in areas where dog meat consumption occurs, such as China, South Korea, and Vietnam, dogs can fulfill the role of both pet and food at the same time. For example, the draft anti-cruelty laws in China previously referred to Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival 199 proposed a ban on the killing and consumption of dogs in the pet animal category but allowed the consumption of dogs in the economic (farm) animal category (Sima & O’Sullivan, 2016). Some Chinese animal welfare organizations that res- cue stray dogs defend the consumption of dog meat, seeing the protection of dogs and the consumption of dogs as two separate things (Chinese Animal Protection Network, 2008). How have these differences in approach occurred? In Europe until the late eighteenth century, pet keeping was more common among the ruling class. However in the nineteenth century the practice spread as a thriving middle class emerged. It became not only a fashionable hobby (with lap dogs particularly favored) but also an important reflection of one’s religion and household – a dog was a visible demonstration of man’s domination over nature, reflective of the predominant Judeo-Christian thinking. The spread in pet ownership to the general population coincided with an increased affluence among the poorer classes, as people were better able to spare resources for pets (from a Darwinian perspective, pet-keeping is counter-intuitive, as it diverts resources away from the host species. Where resources are scarce, therefore, the costs of keeping a pet, particularly a dog, which consumes significant resources, will be higher in relative terms and prohibitively expensive (Archer, 1996). Eventually pet dogs became prevalent among all parts of Western society and the strong bond between human and dog developed. Many people have come to view their relationships with their pets as similar to those they have with children. Some people see their pets as child substitutes and within those who have lost a pet, grief responses are comparable to those who have lost a par- ent, child, or spouse (Archer, 1996). China also has a long history of domesticating dogs, and in fact the Chinese were among the first to domesticate dogs, potentially some 15,000 years ago (Cao, 2015). In China pet dogs were originally the preserve of the crust of society. Colorful stories can be found of Chinese dynastic royals lavishing luxuries on their pet dogs. Emperor Ling Ti (168 to 190 ce) loved his dogs so much that he gave them the rank of senior court officials, enabling them to eat the finest food available, sleep on oriental rugs, and have special bodyguards. In 742 ce a “sleeve-dog” interrupted the Emperor’s game of chess, much to his delight, and in 990 ce small dogs sat at the side of the Emperor’s couch (Various, 2010). Empress Dowager Cixi (1835 to 1908) was famously fond of her pet dogs, who were kept in a beautiful pavilion with marble floors, slept on silk cushions, and were tended to by special eunuchs (Carl, 1905). The practice of keeping pet dogs trickled through to the Chinese gentry. How- ever, in China pet dogs remained a luxury enjoyed by the elite. For the general Chinese population, with limited resources to even feed themselves, a pet dog was a luxury they simply could not afford. Dogs remained working animals, guarding homes and undertaking hunting and farming roles. For the lower strata of society the dog remained a source of food (Kerr & Yu, 2015). During China’s Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976) the keeping of companion animals was condemned as part of an undesirable ‘bourgeois lifestyle’ and with 200 Hannah Brown rabies rife among the dog population, they were condemned as pests. This dispar- aging view of dogs is reflected in Chinese law. Until 1992, dogs were banned in urban areas in China (Li & Davey, 2013). The Family Dog Management Regulations (1980) issued by the Ministry of Health and Ministry of Agriculture set out a nationwide policy which prohibited dogs in cities and outer suburbs near cities. Permitted dogs, such as those used for scientific research, had to be vaccinated for rabies. Dogs without the requisite vaccinations were deemed wild, giving a police officer or militia member the right to kill them. Catch-to-kill campaigns in which dogs, sometimes in the thousands, were beaten to death in the streets by local police took place in cities across China, often sparked by a single incidence of rabies or a dog bite (Littlefair, 2006). Cities such as Beijing adopted specific laws prohibiting dogs, such as the Bei- jing Dog Keeping Management Provisional Measures. Subsequently these total bans were lifted but replaced with severe restrictions on pet dog ownership. China’s one-child policy is well known. Less well known is its one-dog policy. The Beijing Regulations for Severe Restriction of Dog Keeping (1994) restricted families to one small and “non vicious” dog. Ownership of a dog required permission from the local police station, payment of a high annual registration fee, and vaccination against rabies. These regulations have been relaxed somewhat but the one dog rule remains with bizarre restrictions in place. Dogs continue to be barred from certain areas such as parks, public transport, and residential building lifts during peak hours. Dog owners must be careful to keep their pets away from the elderly, disabled people, pregnant women, and children (Cao, 2015). China has the second highest number of reported rabies cases in the world. Sig- nificantly, dogs are the primary reservoir and transmitter of rabies in the country, with an epidemiological investigation in Beijing showing that most of the rabies deaths (85–95 percent) occurred in persons exposed to rabies-suspected dogs (World Health Organization, 2017) the view of dogs as pests remains for many. According to NBC News, an op-ed piece featured in People’s Daily (a Chinese newspaper which is generally regarded as reflecting state views) as recently as 2014 described pet dogs as detrimental for “social peace and harmony” and decried the “dog infestation” in Chinese cities (Winn, 2014). The result is that a strong bond between human and dog did not develop in China. With dogs not enjoying the special categorization as companions and members of the family, they are simply another source of meat. (It should be noted that with an emerging middle class in China, pet ownership is becoming more common among the younger generation, particularly in urban areas, however this is a relatively new phenomenon.) The contrasting views of dogs therefore are primarily based on historical, political, and geographical differences. In other words many believe it is wrong to eat dog meat because of their own particular perspective. Accepting that a difference in perspective is not a valid basis on which to condemn the eating habits of others who happen to have a different perspective from ours, some might seek to find ethical bases on which to distinguish dogs from other food animals. For example, it could be argued that dogs are not an animal suitable for human consumption because they are emotionally evolved, intelligent creatures (i.e., they have Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival 201 attributes going beyond mere sentience, thereby justifying distinct treatment from animals which do not display such intelligence). However, the logical consequence of that argument would be that other animals displaying such intelligence, such as pigs, should also be excluded from the category of food animal (Kerr & Yu, 2015). In the context of food festivals, if Yulin were banned on the basis of the dog’s intelligence, then Chicago’s RibFest would also have to be banned. However, there are other reasons as to why the fact that Yulin features dog, as opposed to say, pork or beef, is of significance.

Yulin’s criminal secrets Many dog meat companies claim that the meat they process comes from their own breeding farms. This suggests that there are dogs bred specifically for the meat trade in specialist facilities and distinct from domestic dogs. However, an Animals Asia investigation found that there are only a few meat dog farms in existence in China and those that do exist are not large scale. In other words, there is no evidence of facilities with the capacity to supply the thousands of dogs needed to meet the demands of Yulin (and the dog meat restaurants found in cities across China). This is because unlike other animals such as cows, pigs, and sheep, dogs are prohibitively expensive to raise in the farming context due to their meat-rich diet, territorial nature (leading to fights if confined in groups), and the riskof disease among dogs in close confinement (Animals Asia, 2015a). Gao Guan, vice secretary-general of the China Meat Association, has confirmed that China has no industry breeding dogs for meat (Luan & Yuan, 2016). So where do the dogs at Yulin come from? The dog meat trade in China is hidden and illegal, meaning that tracking of the meat to source is difficult. However, the extensive research carried out by Animals Asia uncovered a widespread problem of stolen domestic dogs and captured strays. A survey in rural areas found that nearly 70 percent of villages had lost dogs and 75 percent of interviewees believed their dogs had been stolen and slaughtered for food (Animals Asia, 2015c). It seems that many of the dog meat comes from stolen pets ‒ a conclusion supported by the fact that the dogs arriving at Yulin and similar places are of differing breeds (including pedigrees and domestic breeds such as Labradors, golden retrievers, huskies, German shep- herds, greyhounds, Tibetan mastiffs, etc.) and sometimes still wearing their col- lars (Animals Asia, 2015a). Dog thieves have numerous and ever more sophisticated methods of catching their prey. Many rural dogs are guard dogs that are free to roam outside rather than kept indoors. These dogs, who are used to human contact, can be easily captured with lassos. Dogs kept indoors are also at risk of being stolen – thieves break into family homes and threaten the occupants with knives. People who attempt to protect their dogs risk serious injury, sometimes death. There are also reported cases of dogs being stolen while on their leashes in public spaces. Sometimes this simply involves the dog thief snatching the dog and making a getaway in a waiting van. In other instances, dogs are shot with crossbows or darts loaded with poison 202 Hannah Brown or anesthetic, and sometimes these weapons are used against people protecting the dog, causing fatal consequences (Animals Asia, 2015b). Animal Asia’s research found that violence was escalating, with many villagers believing they were under serious threat of harm. Quite apart from those who have been seriously injured or killed attempting to protect their dogs, those who have had their dogs stolen reported traumatic feelings, anger, sadness, and insecurity. They also felt that there was no hope of recovering their dogs and so did not attempt to find their lost dogs or report their dogs as stolen to the police. Around 40 percent of interviewees said that reducing the demand for dog meat would help stop the thefts (Animals Asia, 2015c). While the typical food festival is intended as a “clean” source of profit via tourism, as dogs cannot be bred profitably on a commercial scale in China, or indeed the scale required to meet the demands of a food festival, the dogs at Yulin will typically be stolen pets or captured strays. Yulin is fueling crime and causing devastation in rural communities across China and represents the very opposite of “clean tourism.”

Yulin – a divisive topic Yulin is a contentious topic within China. Those who defend the festival point out that eating dog meat has been a tradition among communities in China for hundreds of years, and Western consumers with “schizophrenic views” on what animals are suitable for consumption should not try to interfere with China’s cultural identity. They are proud of their customs and seek to resist imposition of what they view as unnecessary Western influence on Chinese culture. On the other hand, Yulin has become a source of deep embarrassment for a large segment of the Chinese population, which only serves to fuel an unwelcome image of a poor country out of step with the rest of the modern world (HSI, 2016). Exposure to the West and an emerging middle class in China has changed the lifestyle habits of many of the younger Chinese population. Pet dogs (and cats) are now becoming popular among the urban middle class, who see them as fashion items and status symbols. Some estimate that China now has over 100 million pet dogs (Sima & O’Sullivan, 2016). Concern for animal welfare is growing with Chi- nese animal NGOs able to establish themselves and operate in China’s post-reform era (Li, 2006). The Chinese media now reports cases of animal cruelty instead of remaining silent, acknowledging that the public are troubled by such stories. Those against Yulin argue that the festival is not part of China’s cultural heritage but rather a sinister attempt to profit from a cruel and immoral practice enjoyed by merely a few individuals on a few occasions – the consumption of dog meat is not mainstream in China and while there is a non-mainstream minority who do eat dog meat, such as in Yulin, they only eat dog meat once or twice a year at gatherings with friends; it is not part of a staple diet or a common family meal (Animals Asia, 2015d). The local government has responded in the face of international criticism, contesting the notion of a “festival” even existing and in declaring that the consumption of dog meat in Yulin occurs without official support (Kerr & Yu, 2015). In 2014, Yulin’s local government closed several markets and slaughterhouses and Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival 203 banned official from eating dog meat at local restaurants (HSI, 2016). In 2016 China’s foreign ministry spokesperson Hua Chunying stated that “the local government of Yulin has never supported, organized or hosted any so-called dog meat festival” (The South China Sea Issue, 2016). Unlike many food festivals that unite communities through organization and participation, Yulin divides the local and national Chinese population, driving a wedge between young and old, rural and city, rich and poor, and polarizing opinions.

A shift in focus The focus of the Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival is the consumption of an animal which for many sits firmly within the category of pet. That animal is stolen from his home, crammed into a tiny cage without any food or water, slaughtered and butchered in the cruelest of fashions in front of festivalgoers, and then served up in a hot pot to hungry crowds. The festival takes place in the face of ever-growing protests from both inside and outside China and divides both the local and the national community. Yulin is in many respects the opposite of what many understand as a “food festival” and has drawn particularly negative attention because it sits so starkly in contrast to what should be a positive, clean form of tourism. However, the festival has its fans, for whom the event creates a convenient space to enjoy fresh and safe dog meat. For them the scenes of slaughter and any associated cruelty are quite unremarkable, as is the fact that the animal in question is a dog, as opposed to say a pig or a cow. The basis of any condemnation leading to a ban therefore needs to be carefully considered in order that it can be justified in the face of opposition. A ban on Yulin should not be based on the fact that for some populations dogs sit within a special category of animals which should not be eaten. The special relationship some populations have with their dogs creates an uneasiness around the prospect of eating dog meat, but this does not distinguish dogs from other animals such as pigs and cows when determining what animals it is morally acceptable to eat. If Yulin were banned on this basis, then other food festivals, such as Chicago’s RibFest, should also be banned. Seeking to carve out a special category for dogs (consciously or subconsciously) on the basis of this special human–animal relationship undermines efforts to deal with the real issues at Yulin. It can also have the opposite intended effect as defiant festivalgoers vow to eat ever more dog meat. Consumers who are accustomed to purchasing their meat in neat little chunks from the supermarket are likely to have had no need previously to fully acknowledge the connection between live animal and food on the plate. Consumers who eat meat and attend food festivals such as RibFest buy (consciously or subconsciously) into a system that seeks to address the difficult moral issue of killing and eating a sentient animal by permitting pain and suffering provided it is minimized ie the animal is not subjected to more pain and suffering than is considered necessary. However, the details of how to achieve that minimal level are left to the architects of the regulatory system, and the handling and slaughter of the animals take place behind closed doors (or in the case of RibFest, off site completely) so that the actuality of (at least some) pain and suffering does not need to be 204 Hannah Brown confronted by the consumer. The public scenes of dogs in cramped transport, violent handling, and bloody slaughter at Yulin are problematic for such consumers because they throw into sharp relief the connection between live animal and food and force acceptance of the fact that to eat meat and enjoy festivals such as Rib- Fest a sentient animal must endure at least some pain and suffering. However, the personal moral dilemmas inconveniently exposed by Yulin cannot be the basis of criticism of the festival. If the same consumers were to fully confront what happens behind closed doors in trucks and at slaughterhouses in their own countries (where they will also find animals crammed into small spaces, in distress, cowering, whimpering, shrieking, violence, lots of blood, guts, etc.), they might also wish for the whole process to stop. But if such consumers wish to continue eating meat and enjoying festivals such as RibFest (while maintaining that such practices are morally acceptable), then they unavoidably continue to buy into the system which prohibits only “unnecessary suffering system.” If it is accepted that pigs are at least as intelligent as dogs and, if pigs are to be subjected to this “unnecessary suffering” system, then it must be accepted that the only basis for criticizing Yulin (in terms of the dogs being crammed into tiny cages, methods of slaughter, etc.) is by reference to whether or not the “unnecessary suffering” threshold has been crossed. Many of the practices at Yulin are so far removed from what would be permitted in countries adhering to the “unnecessary suffering” concept that even without the scientific evidence it is possible to conclude with some confidence that the treatment of the dogs at Yulin regularly crosses the “unnecessary suffering” threshold; therefore this is an appropriate basis for criticism. (It should be clarified that I do not condone dog meat consumption, nor do I personally believe that dogs can morally be killed for human consumption provided they are not subject to “unnecessary suffering.” I am merely setting out the concessions that a meat eater must make when seeking to justify a ban on dog meat consumption at Yulin. My personal standpoint is that no sentient and/ or intelligent animal should be killed for human consumption and as a vegan my arguments against Yulin would be less restricted, but this chapter is written in the acknowledgment that many of those who condemn Yulin also consider eating meat morally justifiable.) Concerned critics of Yulin need to confront and accept their moral role in the journey of sentient (and sometimes intelligent) animals from cage to plate and put to one side their visceral feelings surrounding the slaughter and consumption of a kin animal. Once these sentiments have been identified and removed from the picture, the focus can then defensibly shift to the issues at Yulin which do justify its ban, namely the cruel methods of transport, handling, and slaughter and the source of the dogs. No laws exist in China to regulate transport from the perspective of animal welfare (the laws which do exist are primarily concerned with human safety) or to minimize pain and suffering during handling and at the point of slaughter (whether inside or outside the slaughterhouse). While it may in theory be possible to enact laws which regulate transport and slaughter so as to minimize pain and suffering, enforcement in China would be extremely difficult given the size and spread of the population and rampant crimi- nality in the dog meat trade (attempts to regulate the dog meat trade from the Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival 205 perspective of human safety in terms of ensuring dogs transported for meat have been vaccinated against rabies have not been successful on the whole (Animals Asia, 2015a). Any such laws would need to be complemented with public education on animal sentience, and this is not yet a program which the Chinese government seems to have adopted. This is the first reason why Yulin should be banned. Even if transport and slaughter could be successfully regulated, the source of the meat still remains a key issue. Dog meat is an inappropriate focus for a food festival such as Yulin because it is not profitable to breed dogs on a commercial scale for consumption, meaning that the dogs are sourced illegally, fueling crime and devastation in communities across China. Given that there appears to be no solution to that problem anytime soon (Animal Asia’s report found supposed dog meat farms and slaughterhouses in decline), a legislative ban on Yulin can be justified on the basis that it is wrong to steal a pet and such ban would prevent the crime and devastation caused by the festival. This is the second reason why Yulin should be banned. (This concept of “stealing a pet” is predicated on the concept of a pet dog constituting the property of a human being. While this is not a concept I agree with morally, it is a concept that is widely accepted, including from the legal point of view, and hence is an acceptable and comprehensible argument for justifying a ban on dog meat consumption.) In 2017 it was announced that sale of dog meat at the Yulin festival was to be banned. Given that the reasons which justify a ban of Yulin (namely animal cruelty and the illegal supply chain) would apply equally to all instances where dog meat is being consumed on a commercial scale, the next logical step would be for all dog meat festivals in China to be banned, along with all commercial sales of the meat (i.e., sales at dog meat markets, at dog meat restaurants, and at supermarkets). The focus on the welfare of the dogs at Yulin has shone a light on the poor state of animal welfare in China generally in terms of both widespread cruelty (caused by a lack of animal welfare education and the airtime given to those who refuse to accept the concept of non-human animal sentience) and a dearth of animal protection laws. As and when the dog meat festivals, restaurants, and wet markets pack up for the very last time, the media attention should be exploited to reinforce efforts to establish animal protection/welfare education and law in China generally.

Note from the author: This chapter focuses on the dogs at Yulin and the dog meat trade generally in China. When researching this chapter I found very little by way of in-depth research on the cat meat trade in China. It seems that this trade has been lost in the shadow cast by the intense focus on the dog meat trade. I would advocate further research in this area, in particular (given the conclusions reached in this chapter) an in-depth investigation into the source of the cat meat and the methods of transport, handling, and slaughter. 206 Hannah Brown Acknowledgements I would like to thank Alice Collinson, Magdalena Grey, and Natalie Harney for their assistance in researching this chapter. I would also like to thank Peter Li, Associate Professor at the University of Houston-Downtown, who is clearly the expert in this area and who patiently answered my numerous questions during the research phase for this chapter.

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Retrieved from http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2016-06/19/c_135448611. htm (Accessed 7 April 2017). Sima, Y., & O’Sullivan, S. (2016). Chinese animal protection laws and the globalisation of welfare norms. International Journal of Law in Context, 12(1), 1–23. Song, W. (2006). Animal welfare legislation in China: Public understanding and education. In J. Turner & J. D’Silva (Eds.), Animals, ethics and trade: The challenge of animal sentience (pp. 101–110). Abingdon: Earthscan. The South China Sea Issue. (2016). Foreign ministry spokesperson Hua Chunying’s regular press conference.’ Retrieved from www.fmprc.gov.cn/nanhai/eng/fyrbt_1/t1374019. htm (Accessed 14 March 2017). Various. (2010). A complete anthology of the dog: The Pekingese. Vintage Dog Books. Wallace, D. F. (2004). Consider the lobster. Gourmet, 50–64. Retrieved from www.gour met.com/magazine/2000s/2004/08/consider_the_lobster.html (Accessed 20 June 2017). Watts, J. (2010). Chinese legal experts call for ban on eating cats and dogs. Retrieved from www.theguardian.com/environment/2010/jan/26/dog-meat-china (Accessed 7 April 2017). Whitford, A. (2012). Evaluating China’s draft animal protection legislation. Sydney Law Review, 34(347). Winn, P. (2014). China denounces pet dogs as filthy imports from the West. NBC News, 13 August 2014. Retrieved from www.nbcnews.com/news/world/china-denounces-pet- dogs-filthy-imports-west-n179491 (Accessed 22 December 2016). World Health Organization. (2017). Retrieved from www.wpro.who.int/china/mediacen tre/factsheets/rabies/en/ (Accessed 20 June 2017). World Tourism Organization. (2012). Global report on food tourism. Retrieved from http://cf.cdn.unwto.org/sites/all/files/docpdf/amreports4-foodtourism.pdf (Accessed 20 June 2017). Yeandle, P. (2016). Why the world’s most expensive dogs are being killed. Retrieved from http://3milliondogs.com/dogbook/alarming-increase-in-the-number-of-tibetan-mastiffs- abandoned-in-china/ (Accessed 7 April 2017). 15 Abstracting animals through tourism

Carol Kline

Within this concluding chapter, I will address why this compendium of work is needed and why its emphasis is on tourism. Additionally, I want to outline its implications to broader contexts such as culture and heritage studies and, where possible, integrate ethical theory used within the volume. Thus far, the approach to acknowledging and establishing the need for an ethical position regarding animals and tourism has been from the ground up; an ethical approach to eating animals within tourism is rare in academic realms. Hence, the chapters within this volume advance the slowly evolving literature on this topic and demonstrate how vast the issues are worldwide. It is my hope that this book, along with the complementary book Animals, Food and Tourism, serves as a “call to arms” to scholars, advocates, and practitioners who care about animals, food systems, ethics, or sustainability to expand the ethical questions and conversations around eating animals beyond those that currently exist. With the ever-increasing mobility of humans, continued loss of biodiversity, and intensified threats from climate change, the ethics of eating animals will continue to be a critical topic for consideration. The range of work yet to be done within the ethics in eating animals within a tourism context is nothing short of considerable. Within this volume, the authors present their cases from a variety of cultural, political, and economic viewpoints. Along each of these realms, ethical issues are present but receive little to no attention by many of the actors within each situation – including the tourism industry and tourists themselves. By shining a light on the ethical considerations, and providing a theoretical, legal, or philosophical framework in which to understand them, the ethical and moral violations become much clearer. Indeed, taken in total, the chapters within Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption: Contested Values, Morality and Ethics provide a wide-ranging interpretation of the ethics of eating animals beyond the offenses that humans make in the production and slaughter processes. Even beyond the treatment of animals as sentient beings, the book raised a number of ethical angles from which to view the act of eating them.

Commonalities across political and cultural borders Despite the fact that most restaurant menus feature a wealth of meat, egg, and dairy dishes, and food and beverages are key elements in current destination Abstracting animals through tourism 209 positioning, the ethics of animal protein does not seem to have occupied the concerns of tourism scholarship. Culinary tourism is an ever-growing body of literature; however, tourism and hospitality scholars have only begun to address this critical issue. Besides its link to culinary arts and destination marketing, eating animals is firmly entrenched within the realm of culture and heritage studies, as well as cultural geography, with connections to family studies, sociology, psychology, and nutrition. However dissimilar the chapters are from one another, there are some common threads that run throughout. Some chapters address the ethics of viewing animal bodies solely as a means to our ends (Brown; de Franco; Keul; Singleton; Zhou & Grimwood) and how tourism masks or exacerbates this view. Some chapters provide lessons on distortions or misappropriations of culture (see Alderman & Caspersen; Mognard; Perdue; Prada), while others remind us of the environmental hazards in the wake of the supply chain that often accompany eating meat (see Keul; Zhao & Grimwood). Within all of the chapters there runs an economic thread whereby the financial capital gained by those peddling meat stands as an over-riding force in individual, firm, community, and national decisions regarding meat production. The authors in this volume have given us many lenses in which to view eating animals, a “non-reflective activity” as Cohen calls it in his introductory chapter. Additionally, within each chapter, the authors do a masterful job of explaining the complexity of eating animals. Jenkins, for example, details the myriad of offenses to which slaughterhouse workers are subjected. She opens our eyes to “just how bad” it can be as an unrepresented, underserved member of society. She begins and ends her chapter relating slaughterhouses to tourism, a juxtaposition that is rare in tourism literature. What makes this striking stylistically is that we begin and end on the surface of “vacations” and “leisure” and take a deep dive into some of the horrors of the meat industry. While these two scenarios seem very far apart and unrelated, Jenkins points out that they should not be understood that way. We do not absolve ourselves from the responsibility of being a moral global citizen when traveling. Jenkins drives this point home by showing us the ripple effects and ethical considerations of the demand for cheap meat. Eating animals is a daily ritual for many of us and connects with travel as much as it does our daily lives. If you pull on one thread within its web of associations, so many others tighten or unravel. Cavaliere and Viscidy explore the tensions that exist among agritourism providers, restaurants, hunters, community members, and local government regarding the treatment and use of the wild white- tail deer. She delineates the various opinions and ethical considerations regarding deer from the many stakeholders within her study. Rosales and Mejia similarly outline a myriad of perspectives on peccary, linking lofty conservation ideals, international demand for leather goods, and local marketplace dynamics. Cer- tainly, the story of peccaries is not a singular example and could be considered a symbol of situations where the trade of skins and meat intersect with subsistence hunting or fishing, where actors view animals from their particular view in the supply chain, and where conservation policies are difficult to enforce. In his case 210 Carol Kline based on swamp tours in the southeastern United States, Keul paints a similarly complex state of affairs situating alligators within the center of human greed, local pride, and touristic appetite for myth. He shows us how “tourists’ consumption of alligator bodies and experiences in Louisiana mask a demoralized global trade in exotic hides.” Each chapter provides its own set of ethical considerations regarding eating animals; however, taken as a whole, this volume offers much to deliberate and debate in how tourism co-opts, constructs, and distorts animal identities, as well as feeds off their bodies to the detriment of societies, environmental habitats, tourists, and the animals themselves. Huijbens and Einarsson reflect oneating animals from an industrial standpoint and what it should look like in the age of the Anthropocene. Their ethical lens questions the moral structuring of animals, whereby their value to humans is weighed: as food, as destination mascots, as attractions to view, as representations to sell as merchandise. They remind us: “The humanizing . . . of both whales and puffins for marketing purposes represents, however, a shift in our moral registers. What becomes deemed as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ when relating to these animals is becoming more complex than simply perceiving them as food or sustenance.” They point out that by ‘cuteifying’ animals through stuffed toys and marketing mascot representations, it makes it harder to want to eat them and raises the interest in them for preservation purposes but also makes them more profitable to be ‘watched’ within tourism. Hence this debate about whether to watch an animal or eat it is not only within individuals (see Burns, Öqvist, Angerbjörn and Granquist in Animals, Food and Tourism) but also among industries. In both cases the animal is thought of in terms of its higher use to humans and as Kuel puts it “ignores their ecological value [and] denies . . . any individual agency in their lives.” Huijbens and Einars- son admonish: “The point is the entrenched narrative surrounding the notion that animals must pay for their own survival.” These cases highlight the commonality that eating animals is not only a dietary choice made by many people in the world, but rather a supply chain and economic phenomenon embedded in local heritage, culture, and identities. In each situation, eating animals is propelled by financial, political, and cultural drives, rarely mitigated by anything beyond supply depletion. These cases explicate just how unsustainable, and unethical, the current form of eating animals is. Ethical standards are formalized in various ways to impart a common understanding of how things should be, and more specifically how humans should act. One universal way to formalize expectations for behavior is through laws. Both Brown and Jenkins offer a legal view of eating animals, Brown with her deconstruction of the Yulin Dog Meat Festival and Jenkins with her discussion of slaughterhouse worker rights. In Brown’s chapter, she details a rationale for why the Yulin Dog Meat Festi- val should be banned, methodically negating potential arguments against it. She ultimately arrives at a legal reason for stopping the festival, reminding us that differences in a cultural perspective (whereby a Western view may render unsavory to eat cats and dogs) are not reason enough for ending a practice. In taking on the Abstracting animals through tourism 211 festival from a legal perspective, she moves us from a philosophical employment of ethics to a secular one. Indeed, laws are derived from commonly construed ideas about right and wrong, and enacted within a system whereby restitution can be made if someone has suffered a transgression. There are few laws that protect animals from transgressions, and the few that do exist are often lenient, sometimes voluntary, and difficult to monitor. Future research within tourism cataloging animal-based legal battles, lessons learned, and the public’s reaction to them would be welcome. (For one example, see “The Elimination of Marius the Giraffe” by Cohen & Fennell, 2016.) Brown also mentions tourism’s reputation as a “clean” industry (thought of as such because it is “smokestackless”); however, it would not be registered as such if the total accounting included animal welfare, alongside social and environmental costs; yet another example of the incomplete conversation being had regarding eating animals. Kito, within this volume, also reminds us that there are many interpretations and gradations of the term “ethical consumption” and that anyone concerned with animal ethics should wish that the welfare of animals would be included in this label. Codes of conduct are another way to formalize expectations of behavior. Rosales and Mejia use the United Nations Global Code of Ethics for Tourism as an ethical guide for their critique, which is an interesting and valid angle because there seems to be a dearth of conduct codes that include animals. (Bricker and Joyner use a similar tactic in Animals, Food and Tourism with their consideration of the Global Sustainable Tourism Criteria.) Certainly the Sustainable Devel- opment Goals have implications for animals. However, there are strikingly few formalized codes of ethics with a tourism context that apply to animals. The Inter- national Institute of Animal Ethics is worth mentioning here because of their cutting edge work in raising awareness of animal welfare issues within the tourism industry as well as others.

The ethics of eating animals At the heart of ethical issues involved in considering eating animals at all are: their sentience, their role in economics, the associated conservation/destruction of habitat, our moral designation as the earth’s steward, and our and their emotional lives, which at times intertwine. In the introduction, Erik Cohen reminds us that eating animals “is a non-reflective activity, a normal or ‘natural,’ routine; hence a conscious effort is needed to become aware of the ethical dilemmas it poses.” He reviews relevant theories that apply to eating animals, provides an overview of vegetarianism and related beliefs, and reminds us that the majority of people do not consider philosophical or historical arguments for or against eating meat; it simply is part of current societal activity. Relevant to tourism, Cohen asks: “To what extent do people leave their ethics at home and participate in activities out of the norm for them, when they are displaced in time and space?” I also wonder to what extent people are open to learning more about the ethics of meat while removed from their element. Cohen addressed this as well in his earlier works on existential tourism. It is for these 212 Carol Kline two divergent queries – to what extent do we become increasingly or decreasingly less conscious and conscientious people when traveling – that the ethics of eating animals within tourism has significant implications. Cohen helps us begin our quest to understand the ethics of eating animals by outlining an agenda for scholars to explore, and makes an interesting point about the present and visual nature of the animal products eaten, versus other human activities that also result in the death of animals but not as overtly as when we eat them. At times within tourism, however, it is this (animal) body to (human) body contact that is the very nature of the experience. The practice of eating insects is not common in Western cultures, therefore the novel act of consuming their bodies is the attraction. In his chapter on entomophagy, Perdue reminds us that eating insects is a growing facet of festivals and ecotourism, and for those who are not accustomed to eating insects, “eating the other” can represent the ultimate embodiment and symbolic dominance of the destination’s culture and people. Per- due explains how eating insects “can relieve pressure on our increasingly taxed world” and challenges us to decide where we come down on the issue of eating insects, citing arguments regarding eating the other, insect sentience, and environmental considerations. Several authors differentiate a tourist’s motives for eating animals from those of a local resident; this contrast draws into focus ethical concerns of commodifying local folk and lifeways. For example, Mognard’s chapter on foie gras addresses eating animals from a cultural view. She contextualizes her chapter within two broader social issues: modern relations between animals and human beings and foie gras as an authentic cultural icon of local food heritage. In her empirical analysis, she elaborates on how the “tourist-eater’s” experiences “contribute to the production and re-production of food-related systems of values and, as such, of ethics.” She brings into play the duality of what is “natural” and what is “cultural” through the eyes of tourists to the Périgord of France. Similarly, Prada points out the different motives for eating guinea pig in Ecuador. His empirical work demonstrates that “eating guinea pigs in traditional establishments would be a cultural tradition, a time for family or access to a relatively cheap source of proteins. However, for visitors there exists a component of exoticism and even disgust. The presence of local residents in the places where a local product is consumed is for tourists a symbol of the authenticity of the experience and therefore an incentive for eating guinea pigs.” Further he states that because a cultural tradition of eating guinea pig is reduced to a thing to be mimicked by tourists, “all of its socio-cultural importance in the Andean tradition is reduced to its consumption by tourists.” In another example of consuming place and “othering,” Zhao and Grimwood use the theoretical context of orientalism to inform the eating of Tibetan savory pigs by Han Chinese tourists. They “trace how ideas and representations of Shangri-la impel tourist desires to eat animals as an emblematic dimension of their Tibetan experience.” Not only is eating these pigs an activity amplified because of and through tourism; the authors note that their essay demonstrates “the material and ethical consequences of such practices, some of which foreshadow a looming Abstracting animals through tourism 213 collapse of systems that make the very image and experience of Tibet as Shangri- la possible.” Zhao and Grimwood also explain how the exploitation of animals is normalized through tourism: “Whether animals are observed in the wild, cooked in restaurants, or used in touristic performances, they are instrumentalized as a source of pleasure for tourists and non-human representatives of the Orient.” In another chapter about our porcine earth fellows, Alderman and Caspersen introduce us to the “cult of the pig” whereby folkways and social norms have evolved around the human–pig relationship that ultimately denote “exclusive ideas about . . . who constitutes a legitimate member of the devoted community of barbecue followers, innovators, and promoters, thus placing clear limits on how the benefits of barbecue tourism are distributed socially.” They explain: “The current barbeque tourism boom is one of several entry points into understanding the racialization of travel, memory, and identity within America and the ethical consequences it holds for the lives and livelihoods of people of color.” Regarding tourists, they note that “barbecue tourists do not simply eat a distinctive food type but also participate in a performance of place and cultural memory.” Regarding race, Alderman and Caspersen question if the cultural memory being consumed is white, black, contrived, or authentic. Their chapter begs the question as to how many other animal-related cultural norms have been taken or “adapted” by a dominant group to the end of their economic gain. A final common thread that runs throughout this volume and perhaps at the heart of all animal debates is animals as object to be manipulated for human gain. We speak of the “use” of animals and their “value” to our purposes. While it may be an innate, useful, and unavoidable tendency for humans to view many things (e.g., a rock, a cotton plant, a stapler, a book) according to their utility, we tend to look unfavorably on individuals who adopt a utility-only view of people or relationships. In general, we are taught to believe that people have inherent value regardless of the purposes they serve us. When it comes to animals, a great conflict exists as to whether you/I/we view them as inherently valuable, systemically valuable, or personally valuable, or some combination. Noting the distinction of “Uchi” and “Soto,” Kito explains that the Japanese sense of “value,” and subsequently ethics, is controlled by their sense of space, regardless of the properties of the object or being in that space. She inspires us to think about the nature of “public responsibility” and how it is nurtured within societies. Singleton, in his literature review of whaling and whale watching, approaches this question relative to cetaceans through a political ecology lens, that is, identifying “the winners and losers, costs and benefits (hidden or otherwise) and power relations corresponding to particular social and environmental outcomes.” Ceta- ceans are again objectified according to what they represent to us (e.g., income, sustenance meat, nostalgia of whaling culture) and are “ordered” according to their value. He stresses that when tourism is considered an essential part of a modern economy, this can obfuscate nuanced views of whaling and whale watching, noting that “a growing body of research is challenging [the dichotomy], with whale watching and whaling coexisting in several countries.” Singleton outlines 214 Carol Kline research gaps in the whaling vs. whale-watching literature, and calls for a holistic examination of the “social, ecological, economic, political, ethical, and health consequences of whale meat production (or its cessation) and tourism in different parts of the world.” I wonder what parallels can be drawn regarding other animals whereby lessons can be learned. Perhaps there is social value in asking ourselves when and where else do we engage in moral ordering when it comes to watching vs. eating vs. some other use? Where else do our research efforts need to be more nuanced and holistic?

Hope for an ethic of eating animals It is with Kito that we turn our thoughts to hopeful ones. In her chapter, Kito approaches tourism with a metaphysical lens, reminding us that “the phenomenon of tourism is redefined as looking at things differently as a result of the transition from one place to another.” According to Kito, the dominant culture in which we live shapes our ethics as much as our individual tendencies. Therefore, she notes, the notions of Uchi and Soto within the dominant culture of Japan prevent many residents from taking responsibility for that which is outside of their own group or family, such as for the environment or for animals. However, traveling to experience other dominant cultures may expand our perspective and perhaps our sense of ethics. She concludes that tourism is the hope by which cultures can expand their worldview on animals. She hopes that “the ‘space dominance’ of Japanese people may be radically changed by the experience of tourism rather than by the confrontation between a theory and another theory.” Kito reminds us: “From the viewpoint of metaphysical thinking, the phenomenon of tourism is redefined as looking at things differently as a result of the transition from one place to another.” Basing her thoughts on Cohen’s work (2004), she offers hope in that “[t]ourists search for an alternative to their everyday lives, and, therefore, existential tourism becomes an objective or inward purpose” and “tourism can cause human self-transformation, introducing the possibility of living a new life differently from before.” Jenkins similarly encourages us: “Although there is a lot of injustice in the meat industry, and in our food systems more generally, there is cause for hope. The area of food justice is an area where many of us, as consumers, hold a lot of power to shape the policies and practices of even very large corporations.” Huijbens and Einarsson suggest moving from an anthropocentric stance to a geocentric one. Brown provides legal leverage to shut down a festival where dog suffering per- vades, while Perdue gives us hope to lessen our culinary environmental impact by eating insects. The cause for hope is there (Pritchard, Morgan, & Ateljevic, 2011). And the ethical imperative is real. As tourism scholars, we have a significant, complex, and nuanced landscape of ethical issues to investigate regarding eating animals. And there is just cause for exploring this topic within the context of travel: because a number of culinary dishes including meat are offered to tourists as Abstracting animals through tourism 215 the quintessential way of consuming a destination. Because there are specific ways animals are exploited for tourists whereby they are not for local residents. Because tourism’s ‘demand’ increases the financial gain for such exploitation and hence the production and reproduction of socially adverse practices. Because people sometimes leave their ethics at home while traveling. But also, they can be more open to new experiences, new knowledge, and new insights that would not have occurred to them at home in their everyday routines. They can transform themselves and be ‘experiential tourists’ and seek to add value to their seemingly routine lives.

Where we go from here The chapters are a mix of conceptual pieces, case studies, and empirical works. While the scope of species, contexts, geographies, theories, and ethical frameworks are limited because of space, this collection provides a rich ‘jumping off point’ for future animal studies and animal advocacy to come. Missing from Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption: Contested Values, Morality and Ethics are reports of many species, and from many nations. Contexts from the continent of Africa, for example, represent a large gap in this book. Having three chapters on pigs and two on whales underscores the value we place on these species; however, future studies will, I hope broaden to include big and small game, other marine species, bats, birds, reptiles, amphibians, and endangered or iconic animals. Additionally, it seems that we humans do not have any trouble reconciling the various “uses” of animals for our benefit: clothing, entertainment, work assistance, companionship, emotional healing, scientific testing, and food. The essence of conflicting or complementary values for animals, and how this is intensified or masked through tourism, remains unknown. Addi- tionally, with reports that our globe has entered into its sixth mass extinction of vertebrate species (Ceballos, Ehrlich, & Dirzo, 2017), we must take into account the contribution that eating animals is having on the degradation of our earth’s habitats. Theoretically, there is much work to do. As with other topics in tourism, we can borrow from other disciplines to attribute psychological, anthropological, sociological, and political frameworks to understanding eating animals. However, because the context of tourism exacerbates, nullifies, and/or obfuscates our intentions and actions toward animals, we need to develop our own theory as well. Can there be and should there be a unified theory of animal ethics that takes into account all the various animal “uses” and perceived “values,” cultural and heritage meanings, religious and philosophical views, as well as political economy? I propose as a starting point the notion of “tourism animal abstraction.” Similar to othering, tourism animal abstraction would have us position the value of animals as “exotic,” “intriguing,” “stimulating,” but undoubtedly “less than.” Consider- ing animals as morally less important than humans occurs on a daily basis, and tourism seems to amplify this perspective. Similar to othering, tourism animal 216 Carol Kline abstraction represents a preservation mechanism by many individuals and institutions to hold intact views (e.g., animals are without thoughts, animals do not have emotional lives, animals have no memory) that are more convenient and financially expedient despite evidence (both scientific and personal) that strongly suggests otherwise. Undergirding this disposition are societal forces belittling those who “anthropomorphize” animals or who are “overly sentimental” toward them (Donovan & Adams, 2007). Commonly speaking, there are both positive and negative meanings of the term ‘abstraction.’ Animal abstraction can be intensified while traveling, just as othering is, because we are removed from the routine and normalized context of our daily lives, thereby rendering a certain use of an animal both ‘interesting’ and ‘curious’ as well as culturally appropriate to the destination’s regional culture. Ani- mal abstraction is abstracting animals to a fuzzy concept – abstracting animals to a collection of things. Kito describes it in her discussion of Uchi and Soto as “separated from the personal space, spatially and conceptually.” By abstracting the animal, we remove culpability from ourselves of any need to have concern for the animals or responsibility for enabling and allowing a particular use to occur. Kito writes, “Thus, industrial animals in Japan are often placed outside the scope of ethics, making the creation of a comprehensive animal ethics difficult.” More specific to the topic of this book, it is more comfortable and more convenient to think of eating animals abstractly, removing them from the realm of what is ethically relevant to think about on a daily basis. However challenging conceptualizing animal ethics is because of the multitude of species and our many uses of them, working towards a unified theory of animal ethics would benefit most all species. At minimum, Tourism Experiences and Animal Consumption: Contested Values, Morality and Ethics has made it a bit more difficult to abstract, or distance, the notion of eating animals and has positioned the topic firmly within the realm of tourism ethics. In summary, this volume provides various perspectives of applied and academic understandings regarding the evolution of eating animals. The heritage and current practices of eating animals within a tourism context is illustrated via transdisciplinary perspectives throughout this text. Indeed, it seems from many of the chapters within this volume that tourism and eating animals fuel one another, making it even more imperative for individuals and collective institutions within tourism to define their ethical positions. The research presented in this volume represents a call to pivot from a reflexively instrumental viewpoint regardingeat- ing animals to a thoughtfully considered, normative, and intrinsic-value orien- tation toward animals and eating, as well as the need for additional academic inquiry, as well as bridging this inquiry to practice, advocacy, and pedagogy.

References Ceballos, G., Ehrlich, P. R., & Dirzo, R. (2017). Biological annihilation via the ongoing sixth mass extinction signaled by vertebrate population losses and declines. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 114(30), E6089–E6096. Abstracting animals through tourism 217 Cohen, E., & Fennell, D. (2016). The elimination of Marius, the giraffe: humanitarian act or callous management decision? Tourism Recreation Research, 41(2), 168–176. Donovan, J., & Adams, C. J. (Eds.) (2007). The feminist care tradition in animal ethics: A reader. New York: Columbia University Press. Pritchard, A., Morgan, N., & Ateljevic, I. (2011). Hopeful tourism: A new transformative perspective. Annals of Tourism Research, 38(3), 941–963. Index

advocacy 39, 52, 215, 216 Convention on International Trade in African-American 43, 49, 103, 111 – 116 Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and agritourism 123, 131, 151, 155 – 160, 209 Flora (CITES) 58 – 60, 187 alligators: farming 19, 182, 185, 188, 189; culinary tourism 76 – 78, 209 hides 179 – 181, 185; hunting 179 – 181, cultural heritage 67, 68, 103 185, 189 cultural interpretation 10, 11, 135 Andean 60, 64, 65, 135, 140, 146, 212 cultural relativism 94, 136, 146 animal abstraction 215, 216 cultural tradition 22, 31, 107, 136, 138, animal ethics 1 – 3, 5, 35, 80, 120, 137, 142, 145, 146, 212 165, 166, 168 – 172, 175, 211, 216 animal rights 23, 38, 81, 137, 152, 154, deforestation 60, 68, 73 155, 168, 197 dichotomy 92, 213 Animal Rights Theory 2 dietary 1 – 4, 6, 7, 34, 102, 110, 138, animal welfare 81, 119, 121, 137, 165, 170, 156, 210 171, 194, 196, 198, 199, 202, 204, 205, 211 dog meat 7, 193 – 206, 210 Animal Welfare Theory 2 domestic animal 1, 4, 7, 169, 170, animals as food 11, 112, 137 171, 189 Anthropocene 10, 11, 20, 21, 23, 210 duality 2, 212 Anthropomorph10, 11, 18 – 20, 23, duck 7, 79, 82, 119 – 131 185, 216 Australia 76, 79, 105, 187 ecofeminism 2, 174, 175 authenticity 78, 94, 126, 137, 146, 212 ecotourism 18, 76, 87, 92, 94, 180, 212 axiology 120, 125 Ecuador 7, 61, 76, 135 – 146, 212 entomophagy 73 – 76, 80, 82, 84, 212 barbecue/barbeque tourism 103, 104, 106, environmental justice 22, 43, 49, 52 109, 110, 111, 112, 115, 213 ethical consumption 170, 171 Bentham, Jeremy 81, 165, 168, 196 ethical implications 30, 35, 110 biodiversity 59, 152, 208 exoticism 29 – 39, 78, 79, 83, 91, 93, 94, Brazil 61, 64, 76 135 – 138, 142 – 146, 179, 180, 182, 185, Buddhism 28, 168, 172, 173, 174, 176 186, 188 – 190, 210, 212, 215

CAFO 49, 50 factory farming 1, 3, 5, 42, 52, 136, 150, Cajun 181, 183, 186 153, 179, 180, 189 Chicago’s RibFest 193, 194, 201, 203 Faroe Islands 14, 88, 89, 93, 96 Civil Rights/Act/Movement 113 – 115 foie gras 5, 7, 119 – 131, 212 climate change 1, 20, 22, 50, 149, 151, 208 food chain 94, 174 commodification/commodify 7, 10, 12, 13, Food education 120, 130 19, 20, 23, 111, 152, 179, 180, 182, 186, food festival 193, 195, 201 – 203 188, 190, 212 food heritage 1, 212 Consumptive Tourism 185 food justice 53, 214 Index 219 food system, 53, 155, 156, 158, 159, 160, meat production 45, 48, 96, 97, 150, 208, 214 209, 214 food tourism 94, 107, 109, 136, 137, 138, 193 meatpacking 62 foodways 79 menu 15, 65, 136, 156, 159, 160, 185, 208 force-feeding 7, 119 – 131 metaphysic 165 – 170, 176, 214 Freedom of Association 45 – 47 morality 2, 11, 35, 68, 190 gastronomic tourism 42, 46, 47 National Employment Law Project 44 gastronomy 65, 138, 139, 142, 145, 193 nature-based tourism 149, 179 Global Sustainable Tourism Criteria 211 New Jersey 51, 106, 149, 151 goose 125 Norway 7, 89, 90, 105 greenhouse gas emissions 73, 154 guinea pig 7, 135 – 146, 212 Orientalism 29 – 35, 38, 39, 212 Other, The 28, 31, 78, 121, 136, 212 heritage studies 208, 209 othering 31, 32, 78, 80, 83, 212, 215, 216 hermeneutic circle 30, 31, 34 overpopulation 151 – 153, 160 hides, 179 – 190, 210 hospitality 11, 20, 23, 68, 103, 149 – 155, peccary 58 – 70, 209 158, 160, 209 Peruvian Trust Fund for National Parks human rights 23, 25, 43, 44, 46 and Protected Areas 66 Human Rights Watch (HRW) 43 – 51 pig 3, 7, 28 – 39, 45, 81, 82, 102 – 116, hunting 2, 11, 13 – 15, 19, 20, 23, 58 – 61, 135 – 137, 139 – 146, 196, 198, 201, 203, 64, 68, 69, 87 – 97, 138, 149 – 154, 204, 212, 213, 215 156 – 160, 165, 179 – 185, 187, 189, 190, pitmaster 103 – 116 199, 209 political ecology 7, 88, 89, 213 Húsavík 15 – 23, 90 political economy 215 population conservation 59, 66, 68 Iceland 10 – 24, 89 – 96, 185 pork 7, 29, 34, 35, 37, 39, 46, 102 – 116, identity 31, 51, 78, 89, 91, 102 – 104, 109, 193, 201 126, 135, 137, 142, 157, 193, 202, 213 post-carbon 149, 155, 160 immigration 43, 44, 48, 50 – 52 protected area 61, 69 indigenous people(s) 36, 37, 61 protest groups 194 Indonesia 31, 76, 91 puffin 10 – 24, 185, 210 insects 4, 73 – 84, 212, 214 pūjā see Kuyo international trade 59 – 63, 69 interview 88, 123 – 126, 140 – 142, 144, race and racism 10, 43, 47 – 49, 78, 146, 155, 158, 159, 180, 182 – 184, 112 – 116, 188, 213 201, 202 representation 22, 28 – 30, 35, 38, 103, 111, intrinsic value 190 121, 130, 187, 210, 212

Japan 75, 80, 89, 91, 165 – 176, 213, Schweitzer, Albert 173, 174 214, 216 seals 13, 165, 190 sentience 75, 76, 80 – 84, 150, 196, 197, Kuyo 172 – 173 201, 205, 211, 212 Kyoto School 169, 172 – 174 Shangri-la 28 – 39, 212 Singer, Peter 3, 7, 168, 170, 175 livelihood hunting 58 skins 58, 60, 61, 63, 68, 181, 182, 187, livestock 29, 50, 73, 83, 168 – 170 209 local food 6, 7, 93, 119, 123, 156, 160, 212 slaughter 1, 5, 8, 48, 52, 107, 110, 172, locavore 4, 153 182, 183, 187, 194 – 198, 201, 202, 204, Louisiana 7, 42, 179 – 190 205, 208 slaughterhouse 38, 43, 48, 49, 52, 186, Maine Lobster Festival 194, 196 195, 202, 204, 205, 209, 210 marine tourism 12, 19 socially responsible tourism 53 220 Index Soto 169, 170, 213, 214, 216 value system 137 Southeastern United States 102, 210 values 23, 37, 94, 95, 103, 104, 119, 121, speciesism 155 122, 125, 130, 131, 138, 153, 156, 166, statistical analysis 125 – 129, 141 180, 188, 212, 215 Subsistence hunting 58, 60, 61, 187 vegan 4, 7, 78, 82, 204 Supply chain 65, 159, 205, 209, 210 vegetarianism 2 – 7, 156, 174, 211 survey(s) 19, 46, 66, 70, 90, 93, 95, 130, venison 151, 153 – 154, 156, 158 140 – 144, 201 view of life 173, 174 sustainability 2, 22, 38, 97, 171, 175 swamp tours 180, 184, 186, 188 210 Wallace, David Foster 194, 196 Watsuji, Tetsuro 175 Thailand 5, 75 whale meat 7, 15, 87 – 97, 214 Tibet 7, 28 – 39, 201, 213 whale watching 15 – 21, 89 – 96, 213 Tibetan savory pig 29, 32 – 39, 212 whaling 11, 13 – 15, 87 – 97, 165, 213, 214 Tonga 94 – 96 Whitetail Deer 149 – 162 tourist experiences 105, 119, 120, wildlife encounters 10, 18 122, 125 wildlife management 61 tourist restaurants 58, 59, 65 wildlife resources 59, 60, 197 wildlife tourism 10 Uchi 169 – 171, 213 – 216 wildness 179, 183, 188 unnecessary suffering 196, 204 worker rights 210 utilitarianism 3, 19, 20, 22, 23, 37, 81, 137, 154, 155, 165, 168, 196 Yulin Lychee and Dog Meat Festival utility 37, 159, 179, 181, 213 193 – 205