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Redefining relationships: Aboriginal interests and biodiversity conservation in Australia Michael Adams University of Wollongong, [email protected]

Adams, Michael, Redefining relationships: Aboriginal interests and biodiversity conser- vation in Australia, Doctor of Philosophy thesis, School of Geosciences, University of Wollongong, 2001. http://ro.uow.edu.au/theses/1979

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Continue REDEFINING RELATIONSHIPS

Aboriginal Interests and Biodiversity Conservation in Australia

A thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the award of the degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY from UNIVERSITY OF WOLLONGONG by

MICHAEL ADAMS

School of Geosciences

2001 CERTIFICATION

I, Michael John Adams, declare that this thesis, submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the award of Doctor of Philosophy, in the School of Geosciences, University of Wollongong, is wholly my own work unless otherwise referenced or acknowledged. The document has not been submitted for qualifications at any other academic institution.

Michael John Adams 10th December 2001 ABSTRACT

There are many points of intersection between the interests of Aboriginal communities and organisations, and the interests of state conservation departments. While these intersections more often generate conflict and confrontation than co-operation and trust, attempts by governments to implement resolutions to these apparently different interests often lead to policy failure. Unresolved conflict over Aboriginal land claims, native title, and joint- management regimes for national parks are clearly evident in New South Wales and Queensland.

State conservation agencies, as subsets of mainstream Australian culture, hold normative cultural constructs which may be only tenuously linked to the 'realities' they symbolise. These constructs are institutionalised in the structure and processes of conservation agencies, and, as such, have a constant presence in the policy and decision-making process. Significant cultural constructions include those focusing on 'nature' and 'Aboriginality', and a spectrum of detailed issues around these. Contemporary Aboriginal interests in conservation issues have to engage and negotiate with this culture of conservation. Aboriginal constructions of nature and indigeneity may differ strongly from those held by conservation agencies. Importantly, many Aboriginal organisations, and the legal concept of native title, are both situated at points between non-Aboriginal Australian culture and Aboriginal culture, rather than simply reflecting Aboriginal culture.

This thesis argues that differences and corrrespondences between government conservation department and Aboriginal cultures are at the core of contested approaches to conservation landscapes. Empirical and theoretical analysis of a range of situations in Australia leads to the development of new theoretical positions. The thesis identifies the recognition spaces where new meetings can occur, and new relationships can be created. The recognition spaces are both theoretical conditions and geographic places. Focusing on concepts of epistemological and practical complementarity, new intellectual and practical approaches can be discovered. Complementarity can generate new understandings between different but equivalent worldviews, with possibilities for positive outcomes for both biodiversity conservation and Aboriginal social justice. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are many people to thank in a project like this, and not all of them are listed here. My supervisors, Lesley Head and Gordon Waitt, gave me much assistance and usefully contradictory advice on my thesis structure and drafts, and helped shape several conference presentations which directed my thinking. Their own research was an important part of the changing landscape of my work.

Paul Tapsell, at the Centre for Cross-Cultural Research at the Australian National University, provided me with a critical conceptual tool in cross-cultural research and action. My colleagues in the Visiting Scholars Program at the same place in April 1999, provided very useful critiques of my writing and research, especially Sumedha Dhani and Minoru Hokari.

Many individuals in the organisations linked to my research provided key information and much support. At the NSW Aboriginal Land Council, Steve Wright was crucial in supporting and enabling the project, and Gavin Andrews, Tom Smith and Sean Docker provided essential background. The then chairperson, Ossie Cruse, and the NSWALC Council supported the project. At Cape York Land Council, Richie Ah Mat, Anne Creek, James Whittaker, Jon Halloran, Dave Fell and Derek Oliver were supportive and professional colleagues. Buzz Symonds at Queensland Parks and Wildlife was a challenging and perceptive protagonist in negotiations. At the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, Russell Couch, Tony English and Denis Byrne gave me very useful critiques and much stimulating discussion.

Most of all, three groups of people were central to my ability to carry out this research: Ross and Luana Johnston; my family (Eva, Ruby and Finn); and the Aboriginal people of Cape York, North Queensland and New South Wales with whom I worked. Ross and Luana generously shared thirty years of experience, insights, knowledge and networks. My family supported me in all the absences, physical and mental, shared the fieldwork when they could, and provided a critical 'first reader' role. I have been researching this thesis for the entire lives of my two children, reflected in their passion for wild foods ('did you bring any vertical plums dad?1), and their immersion in the whole process. The Aboriginal people in my research locations were welcoming, humorous, acute, challenging, tolerant and persistent. I came into those communities as yet another white person asking lots of questions, and they endured, educated and directed me. I would especially like to thank Tex Skuthorpe, Sunlight and Florrie Bassini, Philip Port, Blade Omeenyo and Peter Kyle, and Anne and Allan Creek and their families. TABLE OF CONTENTS

Abstract Acknowledgements Introduction 1

PARTI

Chapter 1 Nature and Race as Social Constructions Introduction 9 Indigenous Peoples and Conservation 10 The Construction of Nature 16 Western Constructions 16 Aboriginal Natures 29 The Construction of Race 39 Indigeneity and Aboriginality 39 Aboriginality and Nation 44 Modalities of Aboriginality 49 Challenges and Correspondences 54 Conclusion 56 Chapter 2 Institutional Change Introduction 59 Cross-Cultural Challenges 62 Changing Institutional Themes: Property 66 Land and Conservation 66 Land and Aboriginal Rights 73 Knowledge 76 Correspondences 78 Changing Institutional Themes: Conservation Agencies 80 Theories of Organisational Change and the Adaptive Cycle 80 Collaboration 91 Conclusions 94 Chapter 3 Methods Introduction 97 Geography, Research and Indigenous People 99 Complementarity and the Recognition Space 104 Research Design 107 Ethics and Negotiation 110 Research Biography 114 Across Disciplines 119 Methods 121 Sources and Techniques 122 Text Sources 124 Oral Sources 126 Participant Observation 130 Conclusions 133 PART II

Chapter 4 Race, Nature and Change: Conservation Agencies Introduction 135 Agency Constructions of Nature 136 Institutionalising Conservation 136 Other Species: Native, Naturalised and Neglected 142 Kosciuszko: Australia's First Inhabited National Park ? 145 Agency Constructions of Race 153 Legal Constructions 154 Cultural Heritage 156 Land Rights and Native Title 158 Challenges and Correspondences 16° Nature and Culture: Institutional Change 160 Body and Spirit 162 Conclusion 165

Chapter 5 Conservation: Politics, Culture and Science Introduction 167 Conservation Agencies 168 Institutional and Global Influences 168 Public Sector Reform 178 Organisational Culture 180 Profile: Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service 182 Profile: NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service 183 Comparative Cultures 185 Conservation Agencies and Science 190 Science and Culture 190 Protected Areas 193 Wilderness 195 Conservation and Aboriginal Issues 199 Government Institutions and Aboriginal people 199 Cultural and Natural Heritage 201 Science, conservation and Aboriginal people 202 Conclusions 205

Chapter 6 Aboriginal Domains: People, Land and Rights Introduction 207 Aboriginal Domains and Conservation 210 People and Land 214 Population 214 Land 219 Culture 221 Continuity and Change' 221 Organisations 223 Land Rights 226 New South Wales 226 Queensland 229 Native Title 231 Conclusion 238 PART III

Chapter 7 Queensland: From Place to Process Inroduction 241 The Proposal 244 The Place 245 Aboriginal Relationships to Land 252 Historic Relationships 252 Contemporary Relationships 255 Conservation Interests 259 Project Negotiations: 1998-2000 264 Issues 264 Mapping 265 Meetings 269 Culture and Relationships 276 Aboriginality, Nature and QPWS 280 Divergent Worlds 285 The Maps 288 Outcomes: Potential and Probable 291 Conclusions 295

Chapter 8 New South Wales: From Process to Place Introduction 299 Encounters: The Policy Process 301 The Aboriginal Ownership Amendments 302 Aboriginal Land Claims 307 Native Title 310 Jervis Bay 313 The Place 313 Tenure and Land Claims 317 Negotiations 321 Western Sydney 326 The Place 326 Land Claims and Court Judgements 329 Aboriginality, Nature and NPWS 335 Constructions of Nature: Western Sydney as Rubbish Land? 335 Constructions of Race 338 Department Interests and Crown Interests 340 Social Justice, Tenure and Management 341 Constraints and Priorities 345 Conclusion 346 PART IV

Chapter 9 A Framework For Change Introduction 349 Emergent Themes 350 Maps as Metaphors 354 Complementarity 358 Theories for Change 358 Reciprocity 359 The Transforming Myth: Complementarity 363 Reciprocal, Complementary and Hybrid ? 369 The Recognition Space 373 Culture and Conservation 373 Spaces for Change 375 Conclusion 378 Chapter 10 Redefining Relationships Introduction 381 Wicked Problems and the Adaptive Cycle 382 Overview 382 The Adaptive Cycle in NPWS and QPWS 387 Tenure, Rights and Management 391 Mechanisms 392 Joint Management Arrangements 392 Indigenous Protected Areas 395 Indigenous (Conservation) Estate 398 Native Title Rights to Conservation Reserves and Issues 403 Redefining Relationships 405 Conclusions 410 Conclusion 413

Bibliography 417

Appendix 1 441 LIST OF TABLES

Table 5.1 Administration of protected areas in Australia 172 Table 5.2 Expenditure on national parks 1997/98 186 Table 6.1 NSW Aboriginal Land Claim statistics 228 Table 6.2 Number of active claimant applications 2000 232 Table 7.1 Cross-cultural differences in Cape York agencies and Aboriginal organisations 284 Table 7.2 Different knowledge and different perceptions of Cape York landscapes 294 Table 7.3 Potential and probable outcomes at Silver Plains 295 Table 10.1 Joint management arrangements in NSW and Queensland 394 LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1.1 'Colonial' and 'settled' Australia 38 Figure 2.1 The recognition space 62 Figure 2.2 The four phase adaptive model 86 Figure 2.3 A model for 'institutional panarchy' 91 Figure 3.1 NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service organisational chart 129 Figure 6.1 Early European settlement 216 Figure 6.2 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander population in western Sydney 1996 217 Figure 6.3 Native title claims and determinations 2000 233 Figure 7.1 Location of study area, and tenures of Cape York Peninsula 243 Figure 7.2 Landscapes of Silver Plains 246 Figure 7.3 Location of rare and threatened fauna as an indicator of conservation value 247 Figure 7.4 Macllwraith Range-Silver Plains area, showing timber reserve, pastoral lease, roads, and surrounding tenures 249 Figure 7.5 Wunta - the Umpila Wind Story place 251 Figure 7.6 Donald Thomson's map of Cape York Aboriginal 'tribes' 252 Figure 7.7 Lamalama and Ayapathu outstations 256 Figure 7.8 Field mapping at Silver Plains 267 Figure 7.9 Media coverage of handover of Silver Plains 274 Figure 7.10 Organisational structure QPWS Far Northern Region 277 Figure 7.11 CYLC organisational structure 280 Figure 7.12 Aboriginal concerns about national parks declared 'claimable' 282 Figure 7.13 Examples of maps used in Silver Plains negotiations 291 Figure 7.14 The birthplace of the first Lamalama child born on traditional country since the 1960s 293 Figure 8.1 Process for transfer of ownership under Schedule 14, National Parks and Wildlife Act 306 Figure 8.2 Aerial photograph of Jervis Bay region 315 Figure 8.3 Jervis Bay National Park, Booderee National Park, Jervis Bay Marine Park 318 Figure 8.4 Jervis Bay land claims possible processes 325 Figure 8.5 Maroota, Castlereagh and other Aboriginal Land Claims 328 Figure 8.6 Maroota and Castleareagh Aboriginal Land Claims and national parks 329 Figure 8.7 Rubbish land or crown jewels ? 336 Figure 8.8 Aboriginal site locations' at Jervis Bay 338 Figure 8.9 Contemporary Aboriginal landscapes 347 Figure 9.1 Relationships and contexts in an acentred system 368 Figure 10.1 The four phase adaptive cycle 386 Figure 10.2 The current negotiation process in Queensland 390 Figure 10.3 Decision-making process at Dhimurru 397 Figure 10.4 Proposed process for indigenous participation 402 Redefining Relationships - Introduction

INTRODUCTION

A different tradition has left us tongueless and earless towards this other world of meaning and significance. (Stunner 1979, p 230)

Twelve years ago, an Aboriginal boy was bom in the bush on Cape York Peninsula. He was born in the sand under a paperbark tree, where a bush track crosses a creek. His mother was a Lamalama woman, an Aboriginal 'traditional owner' of that country, but long ago dispossessed of any ownership rights. The boy was the first Lamalama child to be bom on their traditional country in thirty years.

The birth was one event, but there are two very different views of it. For the boy's

Lamalama extended family, the birth was an event of huge historical and spiritual significance. The 'old people' (mythic ancestors) had intervened to cause the birth on his country, and the boy will grow up strong and wise because the old people know him. He inherits a special story associated with that place, and major rights and responsibilities of control, authority and protection concerning the land and natural resources. The site is now a powerful focus in the landscape for Lamalama people.

From a western point of view, the birth was an accidental medical emergency. His mother, out on a 'remote' bush trip with her family, started having contractions two months early.

En route to the clinic in the nearest town, the ute had to stop at the side of the track and

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older women delivered the baby. The boy was later flown to Cairns hospital for monitoring. but was subsequently fine.

I was told this story in 1998, when the Cape York Land Council recommenced work with the Lamalama people and others in a process to regain rights to their traditional country.

The Land Council began negotiating with the Queensland state government for an outcome intended to create Aboriginal freehold land and a jointly managed national park over

300,000 hectares of land.

When the birth site was raised in negotiations about the proposed national park, government conservation agency staff dismissively said, 'just because some kid is born on the side of the track is no reason to change the park boundary'. The traditional owners were shocked and offended by this reaction, and the tenor of the negotiations substantially changed. The conservation agency staff failed to acknowledge and embrace cultural difference, and saw no reason why they should give up control of this land because of what, to them, was an incident which had nothing to do with land and even less to do with conservation.

f In Queensland. 140 national parks are covered by unresolved claims under native irr

legislation. Thirteen national parks on Cape York have been claimed under Aboriginal i j-fll

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rights legislation. In New South Wales, there are nearly 1,000 unresolved Aboriginal land claims over bushland areas, and scores of native title claims which include national parks.

In Queensland, structures for joint management of national parks with Aboriginal people have comprehensively failed: there are no joint-managed national parks. In New South

Wales, joint management arrangements are in place for two national parks (out of more than 500), after ten years of negotiations.

These simple statistics reveal a landscape of policy failure. It was observation of this failure which stimulated my research for this thesis. The research revealed a landscape full of the potential for success. The point of failure, the barrier (and the bridge) to success, is culture.

My research is generically about indigenous peoples and conservation, and specifically about Aboriginal people and protected areas in Australia. While there exists a body of literature (from a number of fields) specifically addressing that theme, there are also a number of other streams of enquiry that are directly relevant to the position I will argue in the following chapters. Much of the literature focusing on indigenous peoples and conservation, while by definition dealing with issues of 'nature' and 'race', treats these concepts as largely unproblematic. I argue that the constructions and understandings of these concepts are central to the relationships between Aboriginal people and state conservation agencies.

The discipline of cultural geography is a highly appropriate context from which to explore a complex, interdisciplinary issue, because of its inclusiveness and flexibility. From

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Jackson's (1989, p 23) definition of cultural geography: 'the way cultures are produced and reproduced through actual social practices that take place in historically contingent and geographically specific contexts', cultural geography's focus - people in places - provides a framework for my investigation. The people are Aboriginal people and the staff and executive of conservation agencies, and some others around the edges. The type of places are national parks: various places defined by a particular tenure and management intent.

The particular places are on Cape York, Queensland, and western Sydney and other places in NSW.

I will argue that differences and correspondences between government conservation department and Aboriginal cultures are at the core of contested approaches to conservation landscapes. These cultural relationships are expressed and contested in places, and in the negotiations about meanings and control of those places. A key challenge is that epistemic communities, whether they be organisational, academic or 'cultural', are not necessarily good at examining their own epistemological biases, because 'the epistemology under examination is itself the reference point for making epistemological judgements. It has become our world' (Schoenberger 2001, p 367).

This thesis is structured in four parts. Part I (chapters one, two and three) describes and analyses the theoretical basis. In chapter one I bring together discussion from three areas indigenous peoples' involvement in biodiversity conservation; the social construction of nature: and the social construction of race. Social constructions of both race and nature including conservation as practised by state government agencies, are embedded in law

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policy and organisational behaviour - institutions of the Western state. The nature of these institutions, and how they change, is examined in chapter two. Chapter three explains my methodological approach, including my core theoretical tools and my positionality relative to the disciplines and the research issues.

Part II (chapters four, five and six) links the theoretical analysis to the operational context for relationships between Aboriginal people and state conservation agencies. In chapter four, I bring together the arguments in chapters one and two, to examine how conservation agencies conceive and operationalise constructions of nature and race. Chapter five develops a preliminary ethnography of two state conservation agencies to reveal the operating environment for the policy processes. Chapter six maps the general landscape of

Aboriginal domains: demographic, physical and cultural, as they relate to conservation.

Part III (chapters seven and eight) is an empirical analysis focussing on particular places and people - how the theoretical concepts are expressed in negotiations about actual places.

Chapter seven examines relationships in Cape York, in far north Queensland, starting from a particular place and working out through the relationships and outcomes. Chapter eight examines processes and relationships in New South Wales, first analysing the policy context and then focusing on particular issues and places.

Part IV (chapters nine and ten) brings together the theoretical and empirical analyses to develop solutions: the frameworks for redefining relationships. Chapter nine reviews the theoretical structure of my analysis for addressing the policy failures, focusing on the key

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cross-cultural issues. Chapter ten then examines how that framework can enable institutional change processes, for a redefinition of relationships between Aboriginal people and conservation departments.

While there are narrative elements, this thesis is less about 'telling a story', and more about mapping out a landscape. Mapping is a political and cultural process. It is also an ambiguous process. The landscapes I examine are cultural constructions as much as they are geographical places. While the stimulus and grounded focus of my thesis is geographical places and their environmental problems, my research outcomes are about relationships between people. I argue that to respond to the environmental challenges we have to redefine the relationships. Redefining the relationships will also better enable responses to the social justice challenges.

I identify the recognition spaces where new meetings can occur, and new relationships can be created. The recognition spaces are both theoretical conditions and geographic places. In these recognition spaces, particular intellectual and practical tools are necessary to respond to the concerns of both Aboriginal people and conservation agencies. I argue that the metaphor of complementarity enables the creation or recognition of appropriate tools.

Complementarity can generate new understandings between different but equivalent vvorldviews. with jointly mediated and balanced exchange developing new approaches. In these new relationships and new understandings lies the basis for effectively responding to the inevitable uncertainties of a changing social and physical landscape.

6 PARTI

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1 NATURE AND RACE AS SOCIAL CONSTRUCTIONS: 'BIODIVERSITY IS A WHITEFELLA WORD'

None of them is real, they are whitefella things, ideas about Anangu ideas. (senior Anangu man, quoted in Baker et al 1993, p 85)

[Forest peoples] may speak for their version of a forest, but they do not speak for the forest we want to conserve. (Redford and Sanderson, 2000, p 1364)

We are constructed in various ways by others. Our Aboriginality provides much fuel for a burgeoning PhD industry.(Dodson 1996, p 35)

INTRODUCTION

This chapter threads a path through a complex literature. There is a growing literature on indigenous peoples and conservation, and large and growing bodies of literature on the social construction of nature and the social construction of race. My intent is to link these three streams of inquiry.

The participation by indigenous peoples in conservation activities (as understood in

Western nations) is controversial, with polarised positions often taken in debate. At least three aspects of this debate are important. Firstly, many of the authors appear to consider that indigenous involvement in conservation issues is essentially unproblematic in theoretical terms, needing mechanical solutions and 'capacity building', hence avoiding engaging with the problems of social construction in conservation. Secondly, the debates demonstrate a global struggle over what is to be

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the defining myth for conservation. This myth will be based around particular constructions of nature, to validate and structure those values into policy and implementation. Thirdly, how indigenous peoples are constructed is a critical issue, both genetically in their position within various nations, and specifically in their position in relation to conservation issues.

This chapter will review first the literature on indigenous peoples and conservation, then consider in detail the issue of the construction of nature, including Western and

Aboriginal views of nature. Next, the construction of race, and modalities of

Aboriginality, are considered. An analysis of the challenges and correspondences revealed by this discussion then positions my study relative to the various areas of inquiry.

INDIGENOUS PEOPLES AND CONSERVATION

The literature I discuss here is organised by the subject of inquiry, rather than the disciplinary fields of the authors. While geographers are evident amongst this literature, much writing is from conservation biologists and others in the conservation field generally, as well as anthropologists, lawyers, economists, sociologists and others. A number of these writers are also indigenous people.

Three edited books have been central in establishing that there are issues to debate concerning indigenous peoples and conservation. West and Brechin (I991) was one oi the earliest attempts to problematise the concepts, and contains research which is

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very useful now to give historical depth to ongoing negotiations in particular places

(for example Weaver 1991, on Kakadu and Gurig National Parks). Kempf (1993) is a general and journalistic introduction to the issues, with numerous international examples, and setting an international institutional context for indigenous peoples' issues in conservation. While certainly critical, it establishes a generally positive tone about joint-management possibilities. Its production was stimulated by the workshop on 'People and Protected Areas' at the IVth World Congress on National Parks and

Protected Areas (see McNeely 1993). Stevens (1997a), also catalysed by the P/th

World Congress, collects a series of papers reviewing indigenous peoples and conservation internationally. Stevens (1997b) establishes the context and hegemony of the 'Yellowstone model' as the basis for the papers which follow. The Australian study in this book (DeLacy and Lawson 1997), is limited by discussion which includes several apparently positive policy changes, which, at the time of their writing, were not yet implemented. Thus, mooted Queensland legislation and recommendations for change in Western Australia are regarded positively, but in fact have had poor outcomes. Their concluding statements are rhetorical rather than analytical.

In Aotearoa/New Zealand, extensive public debate was generated by a 1991 Maori claim with the Waitangi Tribunal (known as 'WAI 262' after its registration number).

As yet undetermined, the scope of the claim includes ownership and use of indigenous flora and fauna, their genetic resources, related knowledge and intellectual property, and their management and conservation. The outcome of the claim is

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clearly likely to have 'significant implications for biodiversity management in

Aotearoa/New Zealand' (Williams 2000, p 22). Much subsequent academic and public debate was triggered by the public release of a discussion paper on Maori customary use of wildlife in 1994. Cooper (1995) provides an overview of the reaction and the issues. Analysis of 380 written submissions indicated a high degree of opposition to Maori customary use, primarily by environment NGOs. Wilson

(1994, 1995a, 1995b) provides an example of a scientist's position on these issues.

Wilson (1995a) is the submission from the Lincoln University Ecology Group to the discussion paper, and represents ten university ecologists. Their argument is essentially that significant species declines in the past make it unlikely that wildlife can sustain harvest. Differentiating Maori and European species impacts, they show

37 species and 1 sub-species extinct since Maori settlement, and an additional 10 species and 8 sub-species extinct since European settlement. The three papers argue strongly that cultural values change, but the scientific facts stay the same, suggesting loss or incompleteness of Maori traditional knowledge and changed (wider) community values, so that eating 'wildlife' now is unacceptable, even if traditionally authentic.

Wilson (1994, 1995b) uses Maori language to assert the author's right to speak about the issue and right to have a say about wildlife: T want to begin this presentation by briefly outlining my own whakapapa [genealogy]' and 'the indigenous wildlife of

Aotearoa/N'evv Zealand are my taonga [treasures]'. While she feels she can and should use Maori culture to establish authority, she then argues. 'Western knowledge

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is subject to critical appraisal and review, but many iwi [Maori communities] and some Pakeha [New Zealanders of European descent] seem unwilling to require the same standard of appraisal of traditional knowledge' (1995a p5).

Wilson's papers are useful because they reflect a number of the ideological and epistemological challenges inherent in the issue, and described in Cooper (1995) and

Moller (1994). Wilson uses Maori culture to assert her cultural and genealogical connection to the land, claiming equal status to Maori (Wilson is fourth generation

Pakeha, see also discussion by Dominy 1995). She then uses Western scientific epistemology as a standard, and finds that Maori epistemology does not measure up.

Her position was one widely taken in the responses to the discussion paper, and she concludes: 'there is too much at stake to allow iwi control of resources without assurance they have the knowledge base to manage them effectively' (1995a p5).

Challenging this, Maori consulted in the process,

expressed their grave concerns about forest decline, possums, waterway pollution, forestry impacts, local communities' lack of participation in management and decision-making, the employment of outsiders ahead of locals for conservation projects, the decline of tuna/eels and inan ga/whitebaii. mahinga kai/iood gathering places, and wahi tapu/sacred sites. (Cooper 1995. p8)

While Wilson and many of the NGO respondents confine themselves to the category labelled 'environmentalist' and 'ecologist', Maori respondents looked at the issue in its context: Western failures in extractive resource management, community

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employment, cultural heritage management. Both of these make sense within their cultural paradigms. As Kirikiri and Nugent (1995, p58) argue, for Pakeha New

Zealanders, nature occurs in the national parks and protected areas: 'wild places beyond the developed land', so ignoring all the impacts outside the protected lands and wildlife is legitimate, because they are looking after them in the proper places.

Nature is separated from human activity. For Maori, humans are a part of nature, with familial, spiritual and reciprocal responsibilities to land and resources (Roberts et al 1995). The links between land, spirit and community well-being make it obvious to consider all these things when thinking about customary harvest and biodiversity conservation (Roberts et al 1995, Kirikiri and Nugent 1995).

In Australia, Birckhead, De Lacy and Smith (1992) established a broad perspective of issues, including several papers by Australian indigenous writers, as well as Maori,

Fijian and American researchers. Prior to this, but not published until 1993, a workshop in 1988 at the Centre for Resource and Environmental Studies in Canberra produced a series of papers examining 'Traditional Ecological Knowledge' from

Australian and international perspectives (Williams and Baines 1993). The 1988 workshop was an outcome of the (then) International Union for the Conservation of

Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN) Working Group on Traditional Ecological

Knowledge. A number of authors were common to both Birckhead, De Lacy and

Smith (1992) and Williams and Baines (1993), and international links and research has been a feature of the writing on indigenous peoples and conservation. Of the authors in Birckhead. De Lacy and Smith (1992), those in government positions (tor

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example Symonds 1992, Bridgewater 1992, Waters 1992) tend to write positively about outcomes for Aboriginal people in conservation management, while Aboriginal writers (for example Mullet 1992, Wallace et al 1992) and others (Nesbitt 1992,

Craig 1992) are much more critical. Head (1992) considers the implications of parallel constructions of conservation landscapes and Aboriginal people as timeless, primeval and authentic.

Three other conferences and workshops generated writing on these issues in Australia during the 1990s. Pigram and Sundell (1997) included chapters by Anderson (1997) and Friesema (1997) discussing highly relevant United States experiences between indigenous people and conservation agencies. Sultan et al (1996) is the proceedings of the IX Ecopolitics Conference, specifically focusing on indigenous peoples' management of environmental resources, and with a majority of papers by indigenous authors. Grigg et al (1995) examined the issue of consumptive use of wildlife, including indigenous issues. Aboriginal hunting of wildlife inside and outside conservation reserves constitutes one of the main controversies around indigenous involvement in conservation (Bennett 1995, and see also Larsen 1999; Ponte, Marsh and Jackson 1994).

Internationally, the journal Conservation Biology has hosted debates around some of these issues, with vigorous and polarised positions. Exchanges between Robinson

(1993a and 1993b) and Holdgate and Munro (1993); Redford and Stearman (1993a and 1993b) and Alcorn (1993): and Schwartzman et al (2000) and Redford and

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Sanderson (2000) are indicative. Much of this debate is stimulated by conservation activities in Central and South America, where indigenous peoples inhabit more than

80% of protected areas (Alcorn 1994), and often continue hunting activities. The literature also debates the merits of Caring for the Earth: A Strategy for Sustainable

Living (IUCN/UNEP/WWF 1991), the global conservation blueprint authorised by three of the world's most powerful conservation organisations. Robinson (1993) attacks Caring for the Earth as 'unattainable Utopia' and '[leading] irrevocably to the loss of biological diversity' (p21). Holdgate and Munro (1993) reply by pointing out the political realities which led to a change in focus from strictly protected conservation regimes to engagement with local communities. Redford and Stearman

(1993b) specifically identify indigenous attitudes to conservation as lining up with

Gifford Pinchot's 'conservation through use' as opposed to their own alignment with

John Muir's preservation'. These debates highlight international argument about what is to be the defining myth for conservation. The next section examines some aspects of these struggles.

THE CONSTRUCTION OF NATURE

WESTERN CONSTRUCTIONS

Caring for the Earth was the successor to the World Conservation Strategy

(IUCN/LNEP/WWF 1980). and marked an explicit move from protected areas as bastions for wildlife' (Robinson 1993, p21) to a recognition that local people need to have a major say in management of local biodiversity. The American invention of

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national parks had underwritten the myth of the World Conservation Strategy, but the new document had recognised the limits of the export of the American model globally. The new myth linked conservation and sustainable development, as well as rights of local (and indigenous) peoples. The old myth excluded people from parks, except as scientists or visitors. The new myth suggested that if people were actively engaged with and valued biodiversity for its usefulness for their own welfare, better conservation might result. The global struggle continues, in both international policy fora and academic publication, and I will now examine some of this ongoing debate.

Eden (2001) reviews recent work in geography, highlighting the central influences of

William Cronon and Bruno Latour. For my interests, Eden's paper contains two key points: first, that the environment is perceived and classified differently by different people and then variously used in association with policies and actions 'which can then materially influence what is being perceived' (Eden 2001, p 82). The second, answering criticisms of conservation scientists such as Michael Soule, is that

'environmental problems do exist but...they are also cultural and can thus only be successfully addressed through interdisciplinary endeavour between the natural and social sciences' (Eden 2001, p 83).

Cronon (1995c) collected a challenging set of papers from the results of an extended multidisciplinary seminar. The same broad research project also produced Soule and

Lease (1995), subtitled 'Responses to postmodern deconstruction. and specifically intended as a reply to Cronon (1995c). Both these collections are very significant for

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their content and their subsequent impact, with a number of conservation scientists supporting Soule's criticisms, and many hostile responses to the chapters in Cronon's book.

Soule argues that the conservation movement mobilises essentially around the premise that 'living nature is under siege' by humans (1995, pl45). This dualistic and oppositional portrayal of nature and human society is fundamental to Western worldviews (Glacken 1967, Simmons 1989). In the last ten to fifteen years, scholars from a range of fields have challenged this view, analysing the idea of nature as socially constructed. A social constructionist view of 'reality' argues that 'truths' like

Soule's 'living nature', are:

the cultural stuff out of which broad moral and material systems are made. They are

'maps of meaning' that whether Tight' or 'wrong', are picked up by people, groups and institutions. They are acted upon, reproduced and hardened into seeming 'fact'

(Anderson and Gale 1992. p 3)

Conceiving of nature as socially constructed means recognising that the way we describe and understand the world is intimately bound up with our own values and assumptions. Perceptions of nature 'out there' are necessarily mediated through human senses and intellects, and the cultures in which people live. This construction challenges the nature/culture dualism, and also alludes to arguments that what has been assumed was "natural' is in fact enormously influenced by anthropogenic forces

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over long periods. So nature is socially constructed as an epistemological project (as knowledge), and as an ontological project (as reality). Furthermore, our knowledge of the ontological project is understood within the epistemological project (Cronon

1995c, Proctor and Pincetl 1996). Proctor (1998b), reviewing the Cronon - Soule debate, and discussing the centrality of wilderness to the argument, identifies an important point: that there is confusion between arguments about what wilderness is, in 'reality' (has this particular area been strongly influenced by human action in the past?); and ideas of wilderness (is wilderness an American concept that has little relevance in some other cultures?).

Cronon (1995a) argues that one of the streams of enquiry that has promoted a rethinking of the meaning of nature in the modem world is the 'new ecology' (see for example Zimmerer 1994, Worster 1995). This work argues that nature is more accurately characterised as dynamic, unstable and uncertain, than stable and balanced. This paradigm shift is important not only for its ecological significance, but because it reveals both the immense importance of a paradigmatic theory for decision-making, and the influences of Western culture on the development of such paradigms. The new paradigms in ecology continue to develop, and many ecologists and conservationist biologists are aware of the implications. There has, however, been strong opposition to the concept of nature as socially constructed from many scientists and conservationists.

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Soule while acknowledging that 'Euro-American civilization, the dominant culture in recent history, has invented many living natures, each formation mirroring, to some extent, the science of the day and the heterogeneity of religious beliefs and cultures'

(1995, pi38) asserts that they are essentially misunderstandings. The reason people hold these views, he argues, is that they are uneducated: pre-Darwinian, pre-

Hellenistic, pre-Mendelian, pre-Malthusian - in fact, pre-Modern. The main thrust of his argument is that to accept nature as socially constructed (both as an idea, and in terms of long-term human modification of the environment) is dangerous for conservation interests. It could justify further disturbance and alternate views of what is legitimately natural.

Soule's argument has been taken up by other ecologists, with Attwell and Cotterill

(2000) applying it to African conservation. Their paper, in the major journal

Biodiversity and Conservation', is significant in demonstrating the resistance of many scientists to engaging seriously with these issues, as well as their own uncritical assumptions about science. Like Soule, they set up a straw man to demolish it, describing postmodernism only in its 'extreme form', and as 'clouded in political dogma' (p 561) and full of 'cumbersome acronyms' (p 562). The following excerpts, while out of context, are nevertheless revealing about their theoretical positioning as well as their confusion:

I should note Mui j subsequent issue ol Hin\malti>n (w>l '). no X. August JlXXIi was Incused around Un­ social C'oiiU'vt and I Jhical Implications ot Ideology'. hul still J • >idcd seriously ciiga^ini! uilh the Issues raised by social construedM -! |s i spectnes.

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These traditional systems can adapt neither to westernization, nor to modern demographic pressures (p 563);

Some authorities even question the capacity of western science adequately to appreciate the subtleties of indigenous knowledge (p 564);

We recognise the injustices that many peoples experienced under colonisation, but we maintain that these concerns fall more properly within the domain of politics and history, and have limited relevance to conservation science (p 568);

Phrases arise which even those directly involved in the field struggle to understand.

Thus we have...spectacularly, 'Regional Conference on Gender Issues in Community- based Natural Resource Management in Southern Africa' (p 569-570):

Indigenous trees of immense age are chopped down solely to access caterpillars or honey beyond reach; fires set to flush out a handful of rodents may rage for days on end over hundreds of square kilometres. Indeed, we would suggest that much of the claimed nexus relating environmental management and African holistic perception is anecdotal (p 570);

Science itself is not open to deconstructionsist approaches. There are absolutes...in biology and ecology. It is the task of the ecologist to isolate these absolutes (p 572. italics in original).

They dismiss gender issues, cultural dynamism, local knowledge, the connections between conservation science and conservation policy, and the epistemological context of scientific knowledge. Their analysis, and presumably sense of being threatened, can I think be traced to Latour's understanding of science's need to

'purify', and this includes the issue of relativism: science is to them definitionally absolute. Both Proctor and Pincetl (1996) and Whatmore (1997) discuss Latour's Redefining Relationships - 1

arguments on this issue. Latour (1993) distinguishes between an epistomological process of 'purification', creating a polarised separation between nature and culture; and a process of 'hybridization', creating nature-culture hybrids, biophysical-human networks. Proctor and Pincetl suggest that this reveals why there has been so little correspondence between social constructionist views and those of natural scientists:

'each attempted to stake their contrary epistomological claims on the same reality'

(1996, p685). I will use the arguments of Proctor and Pincetl (1996), Whatmore

(1997) and Latour (1993) again in chapter nine, as well as Rose (1992) as a theoretical focus for the outcomes of my work.

Proctor and Pincetl discuss aspects of biodiversity conservation practice through this concept of purified space, arguing that conservation is 'enmeshed in dualistic nature- culture ideologies that serve to legitimate the different practices that occur on these landscapes' (Proctor and Pincetl 1996, p 686). Western cultural constructions are fundamentally important, because they often provide the (usually unrecognised) foundation and justification for decision-making: they 'standardize, package and label...to justify equally standardized, off-the-shelf solutions' (Leach and Mearns,

1996, p 8). Similar discussions have revolved around 'values and attitudes' studies, and investigations of the impact of normative beliefs on wildlife management. Aslin and Norton (1995) and Aslin, Martin and Fenton (1999) argue that:

'[t]he broader socio-cultural context can ne\er be seen as an 'externality' to w11dIIt'e use. It is the 'centralitv'.. An issue cannot come into being vuthout the broader social

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setting in which clashes of interests and values are almost inevitable. And it is in this broader social setting that issues are played out and actions taken (Aslin and Norton

1995, p 72)

They review international research on values and attitudes which suggests a separation between 'materialist' and 'postmaterialist' goals, with the latter generally increasing in Western nations, including Australia, and reflected in the 'new environmental paradigm'. While they make comments on possible Aboriginal positions relative to these goals, their data are inconclusive. Zinn et al (1998) argue for the importance of the 'situational specificity' of people's normative beliefs, that is, how they may value the same wildlife differently in various situations, and also how they may value each species of wildlife very differently. While this literature flags changes in aspects of the Western constructions of nature, they are effectively along an old ideological divide: use value (extrinsic) versus intrinsic value. The work on normative beliefs also starts to uncover the unresolved tensions around partialities towards some species over others (the 'charismatic vertebrate' syndrome).

In ecology and conservation biology, there has been parallel, and related, discussion about issues characterised as 'prevailing normative concepts' or 'cultures'. Callicott,

Crowder and Mumford (1998) differentiate between two current schools of conservation thought: 'compositionalism' and 'functionalism'. They then present compositionalism as deriving from evolutionary ecology and biological hierarchies, and entity-oriented, essentially placing humans as a case apart from nature. Redefining Relationships - 1

Functionalism derives from ecosystem ecology and is process-oriented, and considers humans as embedded in nature. They argue that these are points at either end of a continuum, and that they can be usefully complementary.

Callicott is a philosopher, and his ideas have been attacked (Willers 1998), and supported (Hunter 1998) by ecologists. Holling (1998), who is an ecologist, has presented a similar model. He distinguishes the differing cultures in biology through the attributes 'analytical' and 'integrative', and similarly argues for mobilisation of the complementary elements of each. Callicott, Crowder and Mumford use the expression to 'perceive the world through the lens of either functionalism or compositionalism (1998, p 3). Holling refers to 'ways of viewing the world' (1998, pi). They both refer to values. Roebuck and Phifer (1999, p 445) explore this issue of values and perspectives in relation to conservation biology, critiqueing trends towards

'positivism' in conservation biology:

Positivism, empiricism, idealism, realism, hermeneutics - all have different takes on what constitutes theory, knowledge, truth, the contents of the universe, and what values are or should be. Choosing one perspective shapes possible questions, appropriate methods, and acceptable answers and comes freighted with metaphysical assumptions about the world and interactions between people and nature...We cannot authentically embrace any particular position without acknowledging our prejudices and adopting a particular perspective relative to others... Our judgements take place in the context of academic tradition and geographical and historical Redefining Relationships -1

settings. Science is shaped by public opinion, public policy, legal traditions, land and intellectual property rights, and funding availability.

Their discussion places conservation biology at the centre of the debate about social constructions of nature. Defining conservation biology as explicitly combining ecological and ethical (ie value-based) theories, they argue that, as 'conservationists and scientists we cannot separate our values from our research, nor should we try...

We do not do valueless, neutral science and then turn over facts to public policy makers who then make the moral decisions' (p 446). So what are the foundations for the ethical theories and the ecological theories in conservation biology ? In recent analyses, two particular themes stand out, underlying both ethical and ecological theories. The significance of these themes is that they provide enabling assumptions -

'cultural scripts for action' - underwriting the development of policy and its implementation into practical outcomes (Hoben 1995).

Grove (1995) identifies the global analogues of 'islands' and 'gardens' as the enabling assumptions for the newly discovered edens in the new world colonies, revealing the colonial legacies in modem environmentalism. Both of these metaphors are strong in contemporary conservation biology. Island biogeography became the fundamental defining theory for the biological aspects of national parks design and management. 'Gardens' conceptually persist in the value-laden notions of pristine gardens of eden, in the recreation focus of national parks, and in the intensive management necessary for many reserves (eg Lawton 1997, p 5: 'management in

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small reserves...more resembles gardening than anything else'). These are primarily spatial metaphors, although with the temporal implication of freezing places at a particular point in history.

The second main thematic foundation is functional, and is illustrated by neo-

Malthusian assumptions about the relationship between humans and environmental change. These assumptions say that resources are running out, people are destroying the environment, and the populations of these people are growing unchecked (in non-

Western nations). They assume that, at some point in the past, there was a pristine nature, and that human cultures were in harmony with it (see Katz 1998, Hoben

1995). Those responsible for these problems are usually populations in 'developing' nations, and usually there is a conflation of population increase with resource consumption. This scenario has been a fundamental belief of the environment movement since at least the 1970s, is strongly present today and is explicit in conservation biology dialogues (for example Soule and Terborgh 1999, Attwell and

Cotterill 2000).

There are a number of problems with these enabling assumptions. While conservation agencies and conservation biologists have for some time been discussing the limits of island biogeography (Lomolino 2000), it remains the core theoretical basis for reserve systems (Noss and Cooperrider 1994). This is in part because of the dominance of tenure in land management: managing inside cadastral or other boundaries is in general easier than managing across boundaries. Reserves are generallv conceived as

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isolated remnants, mostly tenure-defined, in a matrix of altered landscape: natural islands in a sea of agricultural or other uses. Proctor and Pincetl (1996, p 703) describe this as the 'fatal flaw of [inscribing] a purificationist logic on landscapes without acknowledging the larger, unmistakably hybrid, context in which those landscapes are situated'.

Proctor and Pincetl (1996) suggest that institutions such as private property are well outside the boundaries of pragmatic environmental politics. Katz identifies the rise of organisations like US-based transnational, The Nature Conservancy, a private protected area organisation, as 'capitalists with a mission', privatising and globalising nature conservation (1998, p 58). Australia, both officially through government agencies and 'unofficially' through environment NGOs is strongly influenced by trends in the United States. Accordingly, in Australia these missionary capitalists are represented by organisations as diverse as Earth Sanctuaries Limited, the Australian

Bush Heritage Fund and Birds Australia. These organisations and processes strongly tend to write humans out of purified landscapes, and enable conservation to avoid challenging political orthodoxies such as the primacy of private property (see chapter two). As the Bush Heritage Fund (Hodge 2001) says: 'We protect species and habitats in the simplest possible way. We buy them'.

The fundamental themes discussed earlier support the nested set of protected areas. wilderness and species which I discuss further in chapters four and five. Protected areas are the centrepiece solution of conservation biology, wilderness is the defining

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myth for protected areas, and species the critical components. The inseparable conjunction of wilderness and protected areas in much Western (and certainly

Australian) conservation advocacy and practice demonstrates a profound paradox, stemming from the persistence of the tensions in the ambiguous foundations of modem conservation. Modem protected areas are increasingly planned and designed using complex mathematical algorithms on computer programs, and their administration and management is the province of conservation scientists. Wilderness can be characterised as 'a peculiarly Euro-American, male construct of nature that derives its persuasive force primarily from their hegemonic voice in environmental discourse' (Proctor 1998b, p 354). Guha (1989), well before the current debates, critiqued the concept of wilderness from a 'Third World' perspective, identifying the neo-colonialist proposals for globalising wilderness protection and management.

Much of the advocacy discourse on wilderness is unrepentantly Romantic, but its centrality in conservation means it has had to be embraced by scientists.

Proctor notes that there is a recent trend for using the term 'wildness' rather than

'wilderness': "a state of being rather than a form of nature' (1998b, p 358). This is one of the proposed new defining myths for conservation, being promoted by a particular faction in the struggle. While there are a number of complexities here, to me the most revealing symptom of the persistent, absolutely embedded, interpenetration of constructions and 'facts' is the then unproblematic creation of the participle 'rewilding', meaning the scientific argument for restoring big wilderness based on the regulatory roles of large predators' (Soule and Noss 1998, p 5. also

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Soule and Terborgh 1999). While arguing a scientific basis, they then say 'we restore the subjective, emotional essence of "the wild" or wilderness...Without these components [top carnivores], nature seems somehow incomplete, truncated, overly tame. Human opportunities to attain humility are reduced' (Soule and Noss 1998, p

7). This defining myth in many ways images the 'correct' landscapes for conservation to be not pre-Industrial revolution, but in fact pre-human, and has influential supporters in both Australia (Mosely 1998) and Aotearoa/New Zealand (McGlone

1999, as well as the influence of Flannery (1994).

Confronting the cultural specificity of these definitions is Rose's quotations from an

Aboriginal man looking at spectacularly eroded country in the Northern Territory:

He looked at it long and heavily before he said: It's the wild. Just the wild'.

Daly went on to speak of quiet country - the country in which all the care of generations of people is evident to those who know how to see it. Quiet country stands in contrast to the wild: we were looking at a wilderness, man-made and cattle-made.

This 'wild' was a place where the life of the country was falling down into the gullies and washing away with the rains. (1996. p 19)

ABORIGINAL NATURES

Discussion concerning indigenous understandings of 'nature' raises further challenges to what 'nature' and 'culture' might be. Examining the proposition that nature is socially constructed, from the perspective of anthropological studies of hunter-gatherer people, Ingold challenges some of the proposal's assumptions:

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1 propose that we take these hunter-gatherer understandings seriously, and this means that far from regarding them as diverse cultural constructions of reality, alternative to the Western one, we need to think again about our own ways of comprehending human action, perception and cognition, and indeed about our very understanding ot the environment and of our relations and responsibilities towards it. Above all. we cannot rest content with the facile identification of the environment - or at least its non-human component - with 'nature'. For the world can only be 'nature' for a being that does not belong there, yet only through belonging can the world be constituted, in relation to a being, as its environment. (1996. p 1 17)

Whatmore and Thome (1998, p 451) explore aspects of this discussion in relation to animals, reasserting Ingold's earlier idea that 'animals are best considered as strange persons, rather than familiar or exotic things', indicating the possibilities of non- dualistic relationship between nature (animals) and humans. This starts to connect with other non-Western, including Aboriginal understandings: 'to share specific life places people and species in relationships of mutuality such that what happens to one member of the category has ramifications for other members of the category' (Rose

1992, p 85).

In Aboriginal worldviews. there is also a correspondence here with a nexus of relations with other aspects of the environment. Aboriginal people journey on the land travelled, and made, by their ancestors in the 'Dreaming'. Their travels replicate the original, creative movements of the ancestors, and simultaneously inscribe their own identities into the land, so the landscape becomes a history of significant social

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events (Ingold 1996). This isn't just a humanised landscape: 'the presence in the world of a range of beings which European cultures define as supernatural conveys a strong sense of vivid presence - of country bursting with life' (Rose 1996, p 24).

The nature of my argument to some extent constrains me to presenting 'Aboriginal natures' as Aboriginal cultural constructions. My argument, however, will be akin to

Ingold's: that the Western ontology and epistemology contain the causes of environmental problems, and that what Western institutions want to achieve by

'conservation', can in fact not be achieved within this ontology and epistemology. I am not an Aboriginal person, so in some senses this section is 'ideas about

[Aboriginal] ideas'. To balance this, I use Aboriginal voices where possible. The point of this section is not primarily to delineate what Aboriginal constructions of nature might be, but to argue that they are mostly likely to differ, perhaps very significantly, from non-Aboriginal constructions, particularly those of conservation agencies.

Historically, studying Aboriginal ideas about nature has generally been the province of ethnography: interesting descriptions of exotic others counterpointed to the hegemonic. Western, true, understanding of the world. This persists, but has changed relatively recently, under pressure from several directions. Aboriginal voices have asserted the contemporary validity of their worldviews, backed by changing legal recognitions. Conservationists have raised awareness of the failure of European land management practices, and often contrasted these with romantic constructions of

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Aboriginal relationships with the land. There is also an assumption, initially from

New Age proponents but perhaps now much more general, that Aboriginal people have a special spiritual attachment to land that non-Aboriginal people have lost, and would like to regain. Rowse (1993) summarises the literature to that date, and I discuss this further later in this chapter.

One of the difficulties in attempting to discover what Aboriginal 'natures' might be is the traditional-modem, pre-European-post-European dichotomies. Aboriginal people in Australia live in a wide spectrum of contexts, from suit-wearing leaders in the national capital to spear throwing hunters in communities remote from urban centres

(and sometimes single individuals encompass these poles). The perspective I want to take here is that these people, and non-Aboriginal Australians, live in 'complex modem social landscapes' (Boyd et al 1996, pi24) where there are multiple, and interacting, socially-constructed meanings. Aboriginal people have locally-defined, place- and people-specific worldviews and constructions of nature, articulated in various ways with broader regional and then national or pan-Aboriginal constructions. This is in large part because Aboriginality and Aboriginal worldviews are not solely self-constructed and self-contained: they cannot avoid interaction with non-Aboriginal society. Native title and other rights to land, aspects of Aboriginal identity, freedom to pursue Aboriginal cultural practices, are all determined by the non-Aboriginal structures of the state, which also determine what processes and proofs are necessary. Povinelli (1993, p242) argues 'political legislation supports a

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particular Aboriginal social form: it endorses traditional owners as a certain type of religious and descent formation'.

These issues are important because they demonstrate that other worldviews and constructions of nature are contested and negotiated. This connects to issues discussed in chapters five and six concerning the action spaces between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal society. The other significant point here is that Aboriginal people, wherever they are, live in landscapes altered to greater or lesser degrees by white settlement. Aboriginal people, and some of those working with them, have written about Aboriginal worldviews. In some senses these are not easily compared with non-Aboriginal constructions of nature, as 'nature' is not an obviously defined concept in Aboriginal societies. This clearly points to some fundamental difference, as nature is a defining, oppositional, concept in Western traditions.

Bruce Rose (1995) researched attitudes and perceptions to various land management issues of Aboriginal people from central Australia, and quotes extensively from

Aboriginal people interviewed. A key insight in this work is differing perceptions of

'native' and 'feral' species:

For many Aboriginal people the activities undertaken by conservation agencies make little sense. For example, rangers killing feral animals is confusing because rangers are seen as having a role to protect and look after the animals. Aboriginal people tend to see feral animals as belonging to the country, even though they are recent arrivals.

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Killing some animals to look after others involved value judgements which are not necessarily pan of the Aboriginal worldview. (p 91)

Langton argues:

Aboriginal beliefs about the place of humans in the natural world construct a different concept of personal identity from that which is conventionally understood in

Western thought. The Aboriginal person - as a socialised cultural being - is conceived of. not merely as a body enclosing a singular conscious being, but rather, as spatialised by virtue of totemic affiliations. Persons with inherited spiritual essence shared with non-human beings share the world of those beings, including their natural habitats, as a most personal responsibility ...The Aboriginal cosmology poses a different set of relational values between human and non-human from the inherent (and often implicit) hierarchy of values attributed to biota, landscape features and other subjects of Western natural science (1998, pp 27-28).

Langton's conception links people (the body), place (land, sea and sky), animals and plants, and ancestor beings. It is a genealogical relationship structured through inheritance and transmitted knowledge. It is also actively and continually negotiated within Aboriginal society, and in relation to non-Aboriginal society. Povinelli affirms this:

...the Aboriginal body is like the physical landscape in that both are the result of m\thic action; like the bush they move through. Aborigines' bodies are made and marked bv the travels of Dreamiime beinss. The Aboriginal agent, is however, a

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critical component to the mythic process insofar as he or she provides the act of interpretation necessary to understand the associations of sites in the landscape with sites on the body (1993, p 140).

Deborah Rose talks of Aboriginal people at Yarralin in the Northern Territory:

They are the inheritors of a theory and practice of participating in living systems.

They understand these systems scientifically, through observations and hypotheses developed and tested through time. They also understand them metaphysically.

Dreaming Law tells the story, often obliquely, frequently in bits that people have to put together for themselves. Dreaming and ecology intersect constantly, providing a rich understanding of universal and local life (1992. p 218).

Rather than centred and hierarchical, she describes this Aboriginal worldview as acentred: having multiple centres, each structurally equivalent and linked to every other one. It is intimately based on knowledge:

There is an immediately discernible pragmatism here: if human beings are to forage with greatest success and minimal outlay of energy, they must know what is happening in the world around them. Beyond pragmatics, however, there is the question of the political economy of knowledge. In order to be able to act responsibly, humans and others must be constantly alert to the state of the systems of which they are a part. Awareness is achieved by learning a huge body of facts concerning types and behaviours of living things, ways of interpreting behaviour.

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basic sets of messages, geography, Dreaming Law and places, and by continually observing and assessing what is happening. (Rose 1992, p 225)

Langton, Povinelli and Rose are talking about contemporary Aboriginal people living in contemporary Australia. Aboriginal people act on and are acted upon by local, national and international political and economic forces. Michael Dodson (1996), speaking of the political context, describes the colonial heritage of the diversity of social and environmental contexts which have been forced upon Aboriginal people.

Arguing for understanding by governments and environmental decision makers, he says:

We do not regard land in the language of domination. We do not always place primacy on managing the land and environment, or on exploiting natural resources.

We do not view land and environment as external, purely physical things over which we seek to have mastery. We do not necessarily place ready distinctions between nature' and 'culture', whereby nature must be 'domesticated' by human activities.

(1996. pp 25-26)

All these writers point up the contradictions in non-Aboriginal constructions of nature and Aboriginality. As Povinelli summarises:

While in a Western political-economic tradition, the idea of a sentient landscape is preposterous, the starting point for the commoditization of the northern landscape and tor the Northern Territory land rights act is the spiritual relationship between

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Aborigines and the 'living landscape'... Difference becomes a selling point, even as this difference is subsumed into a commodity system. (1993. pp 217-218)

The case studies in this thesis draw from opposing ends of a commonly assumed spectrum, of 'settled' Australia and 'frontier' Australia. Rowley (1971) distinguishes these as 'settled' and 'colonial', while Powell (1988) categorises it as 'early' and

'late' settlement, using the moving pastoral frontier as a rough definition, and 1860 as the approximate distinguishing date - see figure 1.1. It is important to note that the emphasis is on settlement, and not just first contact. Cape York is frontier, late settlement: Silver Plains pastoral lease was first taken up in 1903 by Charles Silver.

Western Sydney is early settlement, with the first land grants taken up in 1791.

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 1.1 'Colonial' and 'settled' Australia (from Powell 1988)

This categorisation of early and late, settled and frontier, reflects the traditional - non- traditional categorisation of Aboriginal people and culture. Temporal and spatial understandings are fused in this perception: 'authentic Aboriginality resides only on the frontier or in the past' (Byrne 1996, p 94). The next section considers this issue, and further aspects are examined in chapters four and six.

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THE CONSTRUCTION OF RACE

INDIGENEITY AND ABORIGINALITY

Complementing these analyses of particular social constructions of nature, is work analysing social constructions of race. While race as a scientifically (and even socially) defensible categorisation has been discredited for some time, its tenacious grip on Australian politics and civic life continues to be evident (Langton 1999). In the rise of Western environmental consciousness discussed earlier, because the 'old nature' had included the indigene as a member, either as 'noble savage'2 and/or as

'fauna', its redemption needed to bring him/her back. Caiter describes how this is done:

Regrettably somewhat corrupted by western society, the few remaining indigenous cultures become the centre of attention again. In an inversion of evolutionary thought, just the formerly most despised feature of the ultra-primitive, not-to-be- saved Aboriginal culture now reaches the proportion of a role-model: its perceived closeness to Nature, its defined distance to anything remotely familiar, European. civilised. The evolutionary scale...is maintained and simply turned on its head; western culture, the former pinnacle of civilisation, is at the bottom of the scale while indigenous cultures emerge in their 'new', 'primitive', and 'natural' glory. (Caiter

2000. p 1)

: Peters-Little (2(X)1) examines (he persistence of the concept of'noble savages' in the 2 V' Century, and its division into nobles' and 'sa vanes'

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As environmental consciousness developed in various directions, it supported both the non-romantic, scientific, discipline of conservation biology, and the thoroughly

Romantic notion of indigenous people as the 'original conservationists'. Emergence of interest in indigenous peoples paralleled their increasing political power and social visibility, while at the same time packaging a generalised notion of what their

'culture' might be, for international export (Povinelli 1998, Batty 1998). While one subset of the Romantically inclined part of the conservation movement was idealising

Aboriginal conservation role models, another subset was using the other pole of

Western constructions - the debased native - to actively oppose Aboriginal involvement in conservation. These conjunctions lead to the situation of increasing legal and policy arrangements for Aboriginal involvement in conservation, and increasing contestations of this role by a spectrum of interests.

Goldie (1989) and Torgovnick (1990) analyse the relationship between Western imaginations and the 'primitive'. Goldie analyses representations of 'the indigene' across Canada. Aotearoa/New Zealand and Australia, three nations with colonial histories. He finds differences insignificant, because the process is a British colonial one of 'indigenization' of the white settlers, for which the presence (even if imagined) of 'the indigene' is essential. Torgovnick analyses western visual art and literature, psychoanalysis and ethnography in similar terms. She also finds the

'primitive' to be an essential component of the Western imagination and self: oppositional but intrinsic. Both Goldie and Torgovnick use double binaries: primitives/indigenes are the opposite pole for Western self and culture, and

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conceived this way they are both/either ideal and debased: 'fear and temptation' for

Goldie, 'noble savages or cannibals' for Torgovnick. While historically based, they both take their analyses to the present, asserting the continuity of the historical themes.

None of this work proceeds without acknowledging Said's Orientalism (1991) in its identification and analysis of the West's preoccupation with the 'Other'. Said proposed that a culture and a national identity was always produced in relation to its

'others'. Said subsequently revised aspects of his central statement (Said 1993), and writers have also pointed to the fact that Australia (and Canada and Aotearoa/New

Zealand) are the colonies which the colonisers never left (Curthoys 2000). While

Said's work was arguably the most influential, it was preceded by other work in anthropology and feminism (see discussion in Fincher and Jacobs 1998).

The conjunction between the other as articulated by Said and the other as primitive/indigene leads to contemporary discussion about the relationship between indigenous and immigrant in Australia. Curthoys (2000) teases this issue apart, identifying the growing acceptance of an ethnically diverse immigration policy in

Australia since the official ending of the White Australia policy in 1966.

Simultaneously, policies towards Aboriginal people moved towards assimilation, embracing a biological aspect (through intermarriage) and a social aspect of getting

Aboriginal people to behave like white Australians. As Curthoys reminds us, the stolen generations - the removal of children - is now 'the best known dimension of

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this attempt to turn Aboriginal people into non-Aboriginal people' (2000, p 25). She argues that in settler societies decolonisation is a slow process, and some colonising processes continue. This active colonisation means that all immigrants, early or recent, 'share the situation of living on someone else's land' (2000, p 32).

The acceptance of multiculturalism in Australia, and the simultaneous process of

Aboriginal self-determination (through the Commonwealth Governments of Whitlam

(Labor), Fraser (Coalition), then Hawke and Keating (both Labor)), following (and overlapping with) the earlier assimilation policies meant that there was a general perception that the multicultural included the indigenous: different but equal (Fletcher

1999, Curthoys 2000). The reaction to the Mabo decision in 1992, the Native Title

Act 1993, and the Wik decision in 1996; and the approximately parallel coming to prominence of Pauline Hanson and the One Nation Party, comprehensively challenged that perception. Aboriginal people forcefully asserted they were not just

•equal', backed by the High Court - Havemann (1999b) calls this 'differentiated citizenship', underlining issues of sovereignty. One Nation argued the 'plight' of

'ordinary Australians', and the ruling National and Liberal parties referred to

Aboriginal demands as a 'betrayal of Australians' (Bachelard 1997, p 126). Non-

Kuropean immigrants and Aboriginal people were 'racially' differentiated from ordinary Australians. ' "race" had disrupted "ethnicity" more profoundly than at any time since the nineteenth century' (Curthoys 2000). Redefining Relationships - 1

Povinelli (1998) argues that multiculturalism as official rhetoric acts to absorb differences without affecting power relationships. State apparatuses 'need merely be adjusted to accommodate others' (p 2), and the state reserves to itself the right to decide which cultural differences are legitimate. Her discussion includes the state response to native title and land rights, that is, the practical implications of these issues:

Every time an Aboriginal group performs its local traditions in order to substantiate a native title or land claim it is drawn into playing out the conditions and limits of multicultural law in late modern democracies. First, multicultural law demands that a discriminatable cultural difference be presented to it in a pre-packaged form. In this case, indigenous performances of cultural difference must conform generally to the imaginary of Aboriginal traditions and more specifically to the legal fiction of

'traditional Aboriginal owner'. [Second, there is] a demand for the law to be cautious and suspicious of the indigenous traditions presented to it.. (Povinelli 1998, p 3)

This contextual discussion identifies various levels of constructions of Aboriginality.

Povinelli (1998) includes the High Court, the parliament and the bureaucracy as implicated apparatuses of the state. Pearson (2000) adds academia, as does Swain:

Academic ingenuity and consistency in denying history as an element in the persistence of Aboriginal ontology is so marked that I cannot but suspect that the

'timeless Aborigine' is itself a deeply cherished component of White

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mythology...because European worldviews needed to retain faith in the enduring, the primordial and the primitive within humanity. (Swain, 1993 p 278)

One of the important elements of my analyses here is to avoid an essentiahsed perspective. Aboriginal people are also active agents in constructing Aboriginality.

Smith, Burke and Ward (2000) point out that 'ethnicity' is found only in complex cultures where several different communities interact within a single society.

'Aboriginal' ethnic identity emerges because distinct Aboriginal groups were incorporated into a complex society through the colonising process. Independent indigenous societies became ethnic minorities within a dominant modem culture. The collapsing of (indigenous) boundaries through the colonial process is now reflected in a further series of collapsing boundaries through the globalisation process. Parallel to this, however, indigenous cultures assert their own identity, both locally and in place, drawing on their historical, genealogical connections, and globally, as 'fourth world' cultures (Smith. Burke and Ward 2000). Aboriginal constructions of Aboriginality contend with non-Aboriginal constructions.

ABORIGINALITY AND NATION

Numerous recent writers have discussed the relationship between Aboriginal people and the concept of the nation (for example Byrne 1996, Lattas 1997, Langton 1999,

Fletcher 1999. Webber 2000). This is significant because of both the relationship between national parks and the nation, and the influence on enduring constructions of

Aboriszinalitv.

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In analysing the relationship between Aboriginal people and constructions of

Aboriginality and the nation, both formal institutions including the constitution, the

High Court, and the Federal Parliament; and informal institutions including national

identity and the 'national story', are relevant. Two examples illustrate the centrality

of Aboriginality to the nation. The new (1998) Parliament House in Canberra

symbolically uses a Central Desert Aboriginal design, in the middle of the main

entrance, to stand for the land mass of Australia3 (Lattas 1997). The High Court 1992

Mabo decision, with its rejection of the terra nullius hypothesis, challenged a core

founding myth of the country, effectively redefining constitutional relationships by

shifting their foundations in common law (Webber 2000).

At the time of federation, no state constitution included mention of Aboriginal

people. After federation, there was mention in two sections of the Commonwealth

Constitution: one prohibited the counting of Aboriginal people in censuses, the other

excluded the Commonwealth from legislating in respect to Aboriginal people

(Fletcher 1999). Aboriginal status in Australia had since changed twice through

constitutional amendment: in 1962 when Commonwealth franchise was extended to

all Aboriginal people, and in the 1967 referendum when Aboriginal people were

included in the census, and the Commonwealth gained the 'race powers', permitting

it to enact legislation for the members of any race (Fletcher 1999, Langton 1999,

Webber 2000). The importance of the race power is evident by its use by the Howard

' l.anylon (1W8. p 4) notes the irony thai this is a replica of "the Michael Nelson painting of his own Dreaming, over which thousands <>1 tourists trample daily'.

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Coalition Government to pass the 1998 amendments to the Native Title Act. Many of the reforms in the area of Aboriginal social justice in the last thirty years have been through Commonwealth policy initiatives in legislation and expenditure patterns, and complementary judicial decisions by the High Court (Fletcher 1999).

The construction of national identity, both as directed by government and produced through popular discourse, uses constructions of Aboriginality perhaps more obviously and prominently in the last ten years or so than ever before. The

Bicentennial celebrations in 1988, while being consciously ideologically constructed as a time of reconciliation by the government (Lattas 1997), were also used by indigenous people themselves to present their identity. The new Parliament House, as mentioned before, centrally uses Aboriginal symbols. It is also partly buried in the earth, a highly self-conscious action that has been critiqued as 'building a temple to the illusion that we live in harmony with the land' (Weirick quoted in Lattas 1997 p

225).

More recently, national identity was focused around constructions of Aboriginality at the closing of the Atlanta Olympic Games in 1996 (Batty 1998). This was powerfully carried through to the Sydney Olympic Games in 2000. The Bicentennial, the construction of the new Parliament House and the two Olympics were all very high profile national and international events. Particular images of Aboriginality were constructed and conveyed to millions of people in Australia and millions more internationally. Aboriginal people were not passive objects in the process, and

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particularly in the Bicentennial and the Sydney Olympics probably succeeded in creating more complex and nuanced images of Aboriginality than were proposed by the non-Aboriginal organisers (see Meekison 2000).

Byrne (1996) is one of a number of writers who have analysed the significance to

Australian nationhood of the practice of archaeology. Cowlishaw (1998, 1999) and others have analysed anthropology and other disciplines in similar terms. Byrne's analysis is particularly interesting to me as he works for NSW National Parks and

Wildlife Service, although not in a section which has had much involvement with joint management issues. Conservation agencies are usually the state bureaucracies with responsibility for managing 'cultural heritage', as well as 'natural heritage'.

Byrne identifies dual and opposing historical trends in the south east of Australia.

Aboriginal people were engaging in transactional relationships with white settlers and creating a new cultural geography; and settlers were simultaneously marginalising

Aboriginal people and denying the authenticity of their emergent culture, and promoting archaeological remains as a benchmark of (now past) authentic

Aboriginality (Byrne 1996). Byrne examines this process to unearth its use in the production of a 'deep nation': recent settler society consciously grafting itself on to ancient and authentic Aboriginality. Archaeology became the management of national heritage. Relics, artefacts and sites became nationally important. symbolising essential authentic Aboriginal culture, partly to justify the denial of the threatening, actual, living Aboriginal culture.

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Cowlishaw (1999, p 273) confirms an element of Byrne's analysis when she says 'we all need the "full bloods" to occupy a symbolic cornerstone of the nation'. The early history of racism in Australia is littered with biological references: full bloods, half- castes, cross-breeds, mongrels, and the like, with all the implications of genetic purity and pollution. The concept of 'breeding them out' is well illustrated by a letter to a western Sydney newspaper in 1910: T fail to see how the Locks themselves can be classified as blacks. There are two of them who are dark certainly, but that is only natural, the mother being a half-caste' (quoted in Kohen 1993, p 142). This biological basis to classification as Aboriginal is strongly present in contemporary discussions, with references to full bloods and half-castes, or 'part-Aboriginal' being common in public discussion (for a recent example, see The Weekend Australian, Litson 2001).

Classification of Aboriginal people as a genetically distinct 'race', with various genetically-linked characteristics (such as the inability to handle alcohol: see

Langton. 1993). underlines purificationist processes similar to those found in conservation practice. Race is also currently quite dominant in native title processes:

Yorta Yorta demonstrated the emphasis placed on biological descent in proving connection to country (Webber 2000).

While some Aboriginal people may see themselves in a genealogical relationship with some animals (or plants or other things), non-Aboriginal people have sometimes defined Aboriginal people in animal terms. Anderson (2000, p 302) says "Animality has been a crucial reference point for constructing sociospatial difference and hierarch\ in Western cultures. Specifically, animality has informed rhetorics of race,

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class and gender'. Anderson identifies the interpenetrating characteristics of constructions of Aboriginality during the 18th and 19th centuries, with 'derogatory notions of Aborigines as unevolved beasts [overtaking] (without erasing) benign portraits' (p 312). She briefly reviews some reactions to the development of the

Aboriginal Housing Company in Redfem in the early 1970s, highlighting the recourse to animalistic metaphors ('a human zoo', 'vermin', 'a plague') to perjoratively identify the Aboriginal people involved. This depiction conflates constructions of Aboriginality as 'close to nature' and 'savage', with constructions of degeneracy and loss of culture.

MODALITIES OF ABORIGINALITY

The foregoing discussion outlines some broad themes in issues of Aboriginality and I now want to identify some particular, enduring or recent constructions more specifically. This discussion will inevitably focus around dichotomies and binary oppositions, as Western epistemologies have a long history of structuring realities in this way. These pairs are usually unequal: a positive one will be linked with a negative, and will define it (Barcham 2000). I have already referred to the identification of the primitive/indigene as 'other' to the colonising powers. What I want to look at now is binaries where both sides are Aboriginal.

My earlier discussion briefly outlined the common construction which separates and opposes supposedly 'traditional' Aboriginal people and all the rest of the Aboriginal communities. This construction is simultaneously cultural, spatial and temporal. The traditional people represent the culture of a past, essentialised Aboriginality and are

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anchored to that past, and they are to be looked for in 'remote', frontier locations.

Other Aboriginal people are defined by this construction, and judged against it. So

Aboriginal people of the settled south, or the urban centres of the north, are modem, cultureless, and live close to 'us'. Three edited books have drawn together papers on this theme in the last ten years: Beckett (1988), Keen (1988) and Cowlishaw and

Morris (1997).

Linked to this is another aspect which says that older Aboriginal people are more traditional and closer to their culture - when they speak it is from the strength of their culture and their history. They are depicted wearing the clothes of the pastoral industry, and strongly linked to local places. When younger Aboriginal people speak about the same things, they are radical, opportunistic and politicised, disrupting progress, wanting land, money and special rights. Their clothes include headbands and Aboriginal flags, and link to global pan-indigenous identities (Rowse 2000).

Kohen (1993) has identified continuing family connections for Aboriginal people of the Sydney area from the eighteenth century to the present. Oral traditions in these families, and subsequently official records and genealogies, preserved knowledge of family histories and connections. The practical experience of growing up Aboriginal is the other significant factor relating urban Aboriginal people to country. Sydney, even today, has remnant bushland, creek reserves, abandoned farming land, and other areas of natural' landscape. Aboriginal people observed and foraged, and still are observant foragers in these landscapes, building up and passing on detailed Redefining Relationships -1

knowledge of species and ecology, as well as their uses. Read (2000) describes this for a contemporary Gai-mariagal man, Dennis Foley, in the northern suburbs of

Sydney. Journalist Debra Jopson (2000), describes the rural Framlingham childhood of Tjapwuurong man Geoff Clark, current chairperson of ATSIC. She talks of his being grown up by his grandmother, a traditional Aboriginal practice, and getting enough to eat by hunting and catching eels. This detailed, local, knowledge can be more extensive than that of scientists studying these areas, if only because of longer

Aboriginal presence (see chapter eight). This is the intimate, practical, material relationship to land discussed earlier.

The spiritual connections of urban and rural Aboriginal people are less clear. Swain

(1993) analyses the process of active change in Aboriginal cosmologies in response to major external stimuli such as white settlement, and discusses the implications for ongoing spiritual connection to country. Read (2000) and Goodall (1996) discuss the

'revival' of Aboriginal culture and identity and culture since the 1970s. Read's discussion of Dennis Foley includes a description of Foley conducting a ceremony to introduce Read to Foley's traditional country, now part of suburban Sydney. Foley

'produces a notebook, and recites some Gai-mariagal phrases' (p 210), but there is no doubting the sincerity of the event. Blond-haired, fair-skinned Geoff Clark says

(quoted in Jopson 2000, p 38)'What is it that carries your identity ? It's in the heart and mind, isn't it. And it's in your practice. It's your ideology, your spirituality'.

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Langton (1981) summarised literature over forty years which variously creates or critiques these urban-remote, or urban-rural-tribal constructions. She argued that

'[w]e are exploring our own Aboriginality and are finding that the white social scientists cannot accept our own view of ourselves' (p 16). Rowse (2000) considered aspects of this, and suggested that contemporary pan-indigenous cultural expression is an important strand of 'urban' cultural adaptation.

The Aboriginal activist and writer Kevin Gilbert, talking about totemic affiliation. argued.

No Aboriginal person is without a place in the Dreaming track. That track goes for all time. Everv Aboriginal person has still got their skin and has still got their meat - you know what I'm talking about. That Spirit fella is with you all the time. When you go back to your own country, you take that Spirit with you. It's always with you. always has been.' (Gilbert. 1996 p 64)

Wadi Wadi (Illawarra) elder Barbara Nicholson supports this, saying 'each individual is given his/her own particular set of totemic symbols according to their birth place and kinship placement' (2000. p 1). There are obvious complexities here in that these urban and rural spiritual associations may reflect pan-Aboriginal, post-colonial

Aboriginal understandings of concepts of connection to land and nature, but these in themselves are part of the continued viability of Aboriginal cultural traditions (Swain

1993. Smith and Ward 2000). And while these statements are arguably rhetorical generalisations, thev arc indicative of the cultural commitment Geoff Clark talks Redefining Relationships - 1

about: belief in totemic affiliation is the significant point marking the cultural difference with non-Aboriginal people.

This difference, which applies to both NGO and government agency conservationists, is the lack of an acknowledged genealogical relationship with non-human species or things. This extends into even a more generalised connection or interaction with other species and things, including places. Read (2000) interviews several non-Aboriginal people who have worked extensively in what he calls 'deep Aboriginal country': these people admit to 'talking' to country when they travel there without their

Aboriginal friends. Their Aboriginal friends do it as a matter of course, and I have certainly experienced this as well. Farming people similarly interviewed by Read do not do this, and I have never experienced it with conservation agency staff.

Head (1990) and Sackett (1991) present analyses of constructions of Aboriginality by conservationists. Head focuses primarily on the issue of long term analyses of

Australian landscapes, while Sackett identifies three forms of evidence used by conservationists to depict Aboriginal people as the 'original conservationists'. These are: assessments of the impact of Aboriginal societies on the landscape (Head's long term analysis), reports of Aboriginal people acting as conservationists, and interpretations of Aboriginal cosmology. Both argue that conservationists have created an image of Aboriginal people as 'noble environmentalists', and then used deviation from this image as evidence of corruption:

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As they saw it, the people they had backed as original environmentalists turned out to be mere shadows of their ancestors. For the conservationists, it was not a case of the model being wrong: rather the Aborigines themselves were a disappointment.

(Sackett 199I. p 242)

Commenting on this general stance, the anthropologist Brunton refers to 'traditional'

Aboriginal people as 'the totemic species of the greens' (quoted in Merlan 1991).

This debate has been long running (for example Newsome 1980, Bennett 1983,

Anderson 1989, Palmer 1991, Rowse 1993) and has included Aboriginal writers (for example Burnum Burnuni 1987, Mansell 1990, Langton 1996, 1998).

CHALLENGES AND CORRESPONDENCES

As Rose summarises:

A question which keeps arising among non-Aboriginal people is: were Aboriginal people conservationists ? This question has aroused a great deal of debate, and much passion has been invested in it...I know of no way to resolve this debate, since people remain attached to their world views in spite of conflicting evidence, and there is evidence which conflicts with both views (1996. pp 3-4).

Head. Sackett and many of the other writers, while arguing for a dynamic and particularised view of Aboriginal culture, have tended to homogenise conservationists. Conservation ideology is. in fact, quite varied on this issue. The

Australian Conservation Foundation and The Wilderness Society, for example, have Redefining Relationships -1

explicit and supportive policies on Aboriginal involvement in national park management and conservation, generally without imposing conditions on what might constitute 'authentic' Aboriginal cultural practice. At the other pole, the NSW

National Parks Association and the Colong Foundation, while sometimes paying lip service to what they perceive as the politically correct rhetoric, have been vehemently opposed.

One purpose of this thesis is to construct a partial ethnography of a state conservation agency to examine organisational cultural heterogeneity (in chapters four and eight).

The point for my argument in this chapter is that the Aboriginal understandings of the world tend to place people and landscapes together, materially, bodily and spiritually; the western construction, including that of conservation biologists, separates people and natural landscapes. Head (2000, p 215) suggests a useful metaphor: 'perhaps ironically, the backyard - the place held in such affection by many Australians - has more in common with Aboriginal constructions of the world than has the national park'. Some conservationists, particularly in NGOs, also claim a version of the spiritual connection (usually generalised and vague), but make clear that they maintain the bodily, physical separation. Field workers in conservation agencies, including scientists, are often immersed in the physical, material connection with nature, and may or may not claim a spiritual connection. But they construct themselves as a special case, by virtue of their role as managers or custodians. People are divided into themselves (managers, scientists, staff), and problems (neighbours, visitors, politicians).

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The often hostile response from conservation scientists to analyses of social constructions of nature is because these distinctions are broken down. The irony is that conservation scientists consciously construct particular versions of nature themselves, aware of the necessity of powerful defining myths for conservation.

These processes of contestation and negotiation reflect processes of change in disciplines and organisations, which comes about 'through the contest over what has value and whose social and material resources will be valorized' (Schoenberger 2001, p 373, italics in original). Reviewing these debates, Eden (2001) argues:

Research into how culture and nature mutually interact does not simply erase nature from the picture, but allows us to work with more than the binary and begin to value the mixture on less restrictive terms. We need to link conceptual research on what nature' and 'the environment' mean to practical research on how to manage them, rather than fight about what is more important, because work shows that we cannot easily or usefully distinguish concepts from practices when it comes to our relationship with the natural environment (p 83).

CONCLUSION

There is a grow ing literature on indigenous peoples and conservation, much of which,

I argue, does not engage with the underlying challenges but focuses on 'practical' or

'political' issues. This literature, and research on social constructions of nature and race, reveals a general structuring of argument around two poles, variously described as humanism and scientism. anthropocentrism and biocentrism. Romanticism and positivism (although these various couplings are not equivalent). In much of the Redefining Relationships - 1

literature which incorporates indigenous issues, there is an assumption that the indigenous equals one side of this polarisation: that is, indigenous peoples see

'nature' as a resource. The tone of many publications is a reflection of the epistemological and disciplinary divides: intellectual hostility and policing of boundaries, rather than intellectual engagement and interdisciplinary exploration, is often the outcome.

A more useful approach is to accept the indigenous as another domain: nature is not an object or a resource, it is a subject and a relative. It is Latour's distinction between

'pure' and 'hybrid' which I think is most useful in clarifying what is going on in these debates, and in the situations of 'policy macro-problems' which I examine in the next chapter and later in the thesis. I am, however, not comfortable with the term

'hybridity' when discussing constructions of race. Its obvious connection with notions of genetics and 'breeding' is clearly problematic, even though it might allude to human - non-human genealogical connections as I discuss them. The concept is nevertheless important, and I will structure it into my theoretical discussion concerning 'complementarity' in the following chapters. One of the contributions of my research is to connect the debates examined in this chapter with research on understandings of institutional and organisational change examined in the next chapter. It is the institutional expression of these various cultural negotiations which is at the core of the theoretical and policy dilemmas.

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2 INSTITUTIONAL CHANGE

Persons and organizations view information from their personal and peer-shared myths and boundaries. (Michael 1995, p 473)

The relationship between culture and property rights becomes most exaggerated under conditions of change. (Ensminger 1996, p 180)

Social learning entails wrenching changes in belief... Human institutions are the channels of change. (Lee 1995, p 235)

INTRODUCTION

Institutions are products of culture (Anderson 1999). The institutions I engage with in this thesis are those centred around the 'conservation movement' and Aboriginal people. While examining biodiversity conservation as a concept and a practice, my primary interest is in how that concept is operationalised in state government conservation agencies, and what that means for Aboriginal people. The 'institutions' centred around Aboriginal people include indigenous concepts of land and property, nature and culture, and the institutions between Aboriginal and mainstream Australia, including legislation and various government, quasi-government and 'community' bodies. As institutions are cultural domains, and as I am dealing with institutions from distinctly different cultures, the relationship between those cultural domains is a core aspect of my research. It is this aspect, as well as the processes of change in institutions, which I examine in this chapter.

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To understand processes of change it is necessary to examine some theoretical frameworks for institutional dynamics. The literature in this area is potentially enormous: my focus in this chapter will be quite tightly defined. I will ground my research in the analysis of institutional change described in this chapter.

Henningham (1999, p 3) gives a broad definition of 'institution' from the Shorter Oxford dictionary: 'an established law, custom, usage, practice, organisation, or other element in the political or social life of a people'. Henningham's chapter headings cover thirteen

'institutions' of Australian society, but leave out anything relating to nature or environment.

This lacuna reflects the assumption that nature is natural, not social, and the environment is just the context within which all the other socio-political institutions are employed. As chapter one indicated, particular constructions of nature and race will permeate social institutions: 'cultural norms are located in the practices of their institutionalisation'

(Anderson 1999. p 9).

1 will argue that those constructions, reflecting different cultural understandings, are at the core of the failure of conservation agencies to effectively engage with Aboriginal communities over their interests in conservation. This type of policy failure is characterised by the nature and scale of the problem to which the policy responds. Dovers et al (1996, p

1146) construct a hierarchy of policy problems ranging from micro-problems, through meso-problcms to macro-problems. Macro-problems are defined as 'multi-faceted. complex, fraught with uncertainties, spatially and temporally diffuse, highly connected to other issues' Dovers et al make clear the distinction between the political nature of the

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policy process and the limited role of science: 'although informed by "hard" information,

[decisions] will rest on "judgement" in the face of uncertainty, and thus depend on values, morals, ideology, guesses, convenience, expedience and preferences' (p 1150) - that is, policy will derive from the culture of the policy makers.

The issue of policy making in situations of 'macro-problems' is even more likely to engage culture (myths and epistemologies), because the existing cultural domination is challenged by its own policy failure. Holling et al (2000), Davis and Keating (2000) and others discuss these problems. A defining characteristic is disagreement about the attributes of the problem. Where values are in dispute, and each party's understanding of the problem is determined by their values, the protagonists' constructions are unlikely to be the same. One of the core issues in successfully responding to such problems is that deep, transformative learning must occur.

This chapter establishes some of the necessary framework to explore cross-cultural relationships and institutional change in response to these sorts of problems. I will first look at the cross-cultural challenges that arise when dominant institutional structures have to negotiate with other cultural understandings. I then review change in two broad institutional

'themes': property (land and knowledge); and organisations (conservation agencies). Rather than review the vast literature on organisational change in corporate spheres, I focus on a particular theoretical area examining organisational change which needs to respond both to the dynamics of ecosystem change and to the complexities of working collaboratively with other organisations.

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CROSS - CULTURAL CHALLENGES

In this thesis I use the central metaphor of 'complementarity' to illuminate a range of

relationships. This concept is discussed in detail in chapters three, nine and ten. Supporting

this verbal metaphor is a visual one, represented as two intersecting circles (see figure 2.1).

This is the 'recognition space' metaphor, first used by Pearson (published in 1997a), and

developed further by Mantziaris and Martin (2000). Please see print copy for images

Figure 2.1 The recognition space (from Mantziaris and Martin 2000, p 17)

The recognition space metaphor is important in this thesis. I quote directly from Mantziaris and Martin to give a clear picture of their understanding of the recognition space. Note that their use. and Pearson's (1997a). is specifically in relation to native title. I will use it to explain, at its widest, the relationships between cultures operating in the same geographic

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('national') space. In this sense, the left hand circle would become 'Aboriginal culture(s)', the right hand circle 'mainstream Australian culture(s)', and the intersection, new,

'complementary understandings'.

Mantziaris and Martin (2000, pp 10) argue that the recognition space metaphor explains:

(i) the manner in which indigenous relations to the physical environment and the relations of native title group members inter se are recognised through their translation into 'native title rights and interests' enforceable within the Australian legal system;

(ii) the manner in which the content of a particular native title is defined through the combined operation of the Australian legal system and the particular indigenous system of traditional law and custom.

They also identify the context of native title in Australia, which supports my argument that the recognition space can be applied to the larger cross-cultural experience:

However, this legal phenomenom is situated within a social and political context which attributes different meanings to native title. From the perspective of the indigenous group. native title may mean much more than the recognition of a legal right. A judicial determination that native title exists marks a significant moment in a political and historical process that has both confirmed and produced the identities of the indigenous group and individuals who comprise it. It might be viewed as the authentication of the prior ownership of land and waters, as partial redress of historic wrongs, and as a public confirmation of a distinct cultural identity hitherto denied legitimacy. Certain native title claims mav be

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motivated more by these historical and political factors than by the expectation ot economic benefit deriving from the claim.

At the very least, the finding that native title does or does not exist will occur against the backdrop of competing indigenous and non-indigenous accounts of the history of colonial and post-colonial relations. It will also occur within the context of complex, and often competitive, relations among and within indigenous groups themselves. Certain indigenous groups may seek recognition of their own discrete native title as a response to conflict within the indigenous polity, (p 11)

There is another critical distinction made in their argument. It is the legal rights and interests which may, in some circumstances, be extinguished and thus subject to compensation. The actual indigenous relationship to the physical environment and between the members of the group are social facts. These relationships cannot be extinguished by the operation of the law. This corresponds with 'the commonly expressed view of indigenous people that, whether or not Australian law recognises their rights and interests in land and waters, they still maintain connections to "country" in accordance with their distinctive laws and customs' (Mantziaris and Martin 2000 p 17). Native title, and for that matter, land rights in certain respects, are a recognition by one cultural institution of the validity of another cultural institution. The recognition can only occur through respect and acknowledgement of the indigenous set of cultural understandings by the non-indigenous culture (and, in fact, vice versa).

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The moral and judicial recognition of the priorrights o f Aboriginal people in Australia was a profound challenge for most non-Aboriginal people and institutions, and strongly contested. This continues a process of resistance to Aboriginal demands for recognition of rights which began with settlement. Anderson (1999, p 8) says, "[p]owerful institutions...can work to ensure that what are partial, culturally-bound interpretations of reality are accepted as "natural" and "correct" by the public at large'. Chapters four and six examine these issues in more detail.

It will be my argument that the recognition space has been largely denied by conservation agencies, except in particular, tightly defined, circumstances. It has been this denial of recognition (and respect) underscoring the policy approach which has failed to adequately engage with Aboriginal interests in conservation issues and conservation landscapes. The judicial recognition of native title, and judicial decisions in land rights cases are forcing conservation agencies to confront these inadequacies. These recognitions are given added cogency because they disconcertingly align with new understandings of the limitations of current conservation models (discussed in chapters four and five). Acknowledgement of the recognition space, and all that that entails, is a central part of the solution, and the concept of 'complementarity' a key conceptual tool. As Salmond (1997, p 172) says, 'this otherness required careful consideration. Its dismissal (whether from ignorance or contempt) has always been a potent act of politics, and a perilous strategy.' These issues are examined further in chapters three, nine and ten.

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The discussion of organisational change later in this chapter examines a number of points in organisational cycles which come under stress in particular circumstances, precipitating change. These stresses can be even more acute in situations of epistemological (cultural) difference, and the types of collaboration necessary to respond to these complex, highly connected problems even more challenging.

In the next two sections I examine two broad and changing institutional 'themes': property, and organisations, specifically conservation agencies.

CHANGING INSTITUTIONAL THEMES: PROPERTY LAND AND CONSERVATION

In my research, the issue of property rights regimes has relevance to questions of 'whose rights?' and 'whose property?', because I am examining contested control and influence over particular land and its ecosystems. Property rights are also relevant because of their centrality in conservation and environmental problems:

The know ledge of how property-nghts regimes, as particularly important types of institutions, function in relation to humans and their use of the natural environment is critical to the design and implementation of effective environmental management and conservation

(Hanna. Folke and Maler 1996. p 3).

In the Australian context, the primarv 'threatening process' for biodiversity is habitat loss, that is. land clearing for urban, agricultural and pastoral expansion (Sivertsen 1995). Right* to clear rural land have recently been regulated in NSW and Queensland, resulting in

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significant opposition from farmer groups. This opposition is based on assumptions about property rights, and the right to be free of government interference. Property rights regimes are fundamentally founded in culture (Ensminger 1996). Ensminger's comment quoted at the beginning of this chapter has been strongly demonstrated by the recognition of native title in Australia. The attempt to recognise rights founded in a different culture and epistemology, within Australian legal systems, has been a profound challenge, and strongly contested. As both of these areas (property rights and the environment, and Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal property rights) focus on land and things on land (biota, ecosystems), the issues easily satisfy the Dovers et al (1996) criteria for 'macro-problems'. Tenure (property rights) is also a central (and use planning policy instrument in Australia (see Holmes 2000).

Australian notions of property rights to land, and especially private property rights, derive from Lockean theories about the relationship of land with labour and liberty (Bromley

1997). It was these theories which allowed Australia to be declared terra nullius, for while there were inhabitants, they were perceived as not mixing their labour with the land, thereby not 'owning' it.

Bromley (1991, 1997), McCoy (1996) and others have worked to untangle some of the issues inherent in unproblematic adoption of Lockean ideas. They separate property from things, demonstrating that property is about social agreements about things. In Bromley's terms, these agreements are

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triadic relationships in which an owner and the rest of society have an implicit contract ("yes. that is yours") as long as ownership serves a socially useful purpose. When a particular manner of ownership of specific assets or circumstances ceases to serve the larger society. then the nature and scope of that ownership will change. (Bromley 1997, p 1)

This change is institutional, changing rule structures, which signal that 'existing domains of choice have been changed' (Bromley 1997, p 1).

Bromley, McCoy and others have also explored the spectrum of types of property-rights regimes, and their implications for environment and conservation issues. Associated with this is examination of the relationship between rights and responsibilities in property regimes. Bromley (1991) distinguishes between property rights, the entitlements defining rights and duties, and property rules, under which those rights and duties are exercised.

Hanna. Folke and Maler (1996 p 5) identify four types of property rights regimes: private property, common property, state property and open access (nonproperty). Separating these categories, while useful, obscures the fact that each may strongly influence the others at any time or place, and 'ownership' and 'control' may diverge or converge in any instance

(Geisler 2000). The relevance for my interest is in the tensions between Aboriginal ownership of land, which may fit the 'private' or 'common' categories, and conservation agency ownership, which may fit the "state" or 'common' categories. As I will discuss later, it is actually categories between all these that I think are the most promising, and which are emerging in various forms.

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Arguments have been made for the benefits of each type of property-rights regime for biodiversity conservation, with the possible exception of open-access regimes. Private property, with a strong history in Western nations, is still often upheld as an effective regime in contemporary conservation debates. Privately-owned protected area systems are very significant in North America, with The Nature Conservancy being the leading example (see Noss and Cooperrider 1994). Australia has followed this lead, with the Bush

Heritage Fund and Birds Australia among organisations who purchase property to establish effectively state-independent conservation reserve systems (Hodge 2001). In 2001, the

NSW government, recognising the hostility that parts of the community have to state property regimes, established the Nature Conservation Trust. This is intended to provide a community-based alternative to state regimes, for private landholders wanting to protect the conservation values of their property.

Common property regimes are not common in Australia in relation to conservation, except perhaps in a de facto sense on some Aboriginal lands (see below). Several authors

(Bromley 1997, Reeve 2000, Hanna et al 1996) have stressed the importance of clearly distinguishing between common property regimes and open access regimes, partly in response to the need to correct the misunderstanding generated by Hardin (1968) on 'the tragedy of the commons'. What Hardin termed common property resources are really resources managed under open access regimes, not common property regimes. In open access regimes, rights are unspecified and unlimited, and accordingly regulation is unspecified and impossible. In common property regimes, rights and regulation are specified and limited by a defined group, such as a village.

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State property regimes have been the generally accepted standard for protected area systems in Australia. Each state and territory, and the Commonwealth, have state controlled protected area systems. Relatively recent recognition of the limits of state regimes has led to the creation of a spectrum of instruments to facilitate conservation on various forms of

'common', private and Crown land, including Aboriginal-owned land.

While most of my focus will be on land as property, there are also relevant issues concerning 'wildlife'. Geisler (2000) points out that in England, fish and game are the private property of landholders, whereas in the United States [and in Australia] they are

'public domain'. In Australia most native wildlife is 'protected' by various laws. However, in the High Court native title case Yanner v Eaton, the court held that the native title rights of an Aboriginal man, Murrandoo Yanner, overrode the protection of the state, and he was legally entitled to hunt a protected species. In New Zealand, in an as yet undecided case, ownership and use of indigenous flora and fauna and their genetic resources have been claimed by Maori under the Treaty of Waitangi (Williams 2000). In these latter two cases,

'ownership' is not private but common property, as both the Aboriginal and Maori claims were on the basis of their rights as members of defined communities which collectively hold these rights. While private ownership, 'public domain' (state) ownership, and common property regimes can work for conservation of wildlife, the tension between conservation agencies and indigenous people focuses on differences between state regimes and special rights under common property regimes to wildlife and other natural resources.

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Hanna et al (1996 p 4) summarised that 'policy must focus on establishing property-rights regimes that are designed to fit the cultural, economic, geographical and ecological context in which they are to function'.

Progressing from the emphasis on rights, to the responsibilities that go with property regimes, two recent authors make relevant points. Reeve (2000) summarises aspects of

Bromley's work, then applies these to issues in rural Australia. He emphasises that, while private property is a social agreement, many rights, particularly in agricultural land ownership, are 'presumptive entitlements': 'landowners presume the right to undertake particular actions until such time as changing social norms, or common or statute law require otherwise' (Reeve 2000, p 84). These presumptive entitlements are often to resources available under open access regimes (for example, groundwater). In circumstances of significant rural resource degradation, state governments have attempted to change these open access regimes to common property regimes, where groups of rural landholders collectively 'own' and manage the resource (exemplified by the Landcare and integrated catchment management programs). Reeve argues that the limited success of these programs is due to the 'resistance of private property rights in land to modification by the state' (p 89).

Williams (2000) has looked at related issues (in Aeotearoa/New Zealand) from a slightly different perspective. He argues.

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A core challenge is that our whole approach to conservation (ie biodiversity) on private lands tends to place the burden of cost for conservation on current landowners, while urban people and those with land devoid of most indigenous biodiversity values, carry little or no responsibility, (p 13)

He further explains the polarised positions on this in Aeotearoa/New Zealand, and by extension, Australia:

One spectrum of view in New Zealand argues that a person giving up a private value for public benefit is a moral action that does not warrant reward (ie compensation). The view is that if a landuse has to be foregone because of adverse affect it must be generating a public

"bad". Hence the polluter should pay (ie the landowner bear the cost).

The other spectrum of views considers that as rights holder, to a property, there can only be a change to use if there is an explicit contract to deliver something else to the wider community/society. This view considers regulation that constrains ability to use is effectively a transfer of ownership. Retaining or restoring indigenous biodiversity (habitat) is thus a public good that should be purchased -"the beneficiary pays" principle, (p 17)

There are two relevant aspects of these arguments for issues concerning Aboriginal people and conservation agencies. One is that the perception by the state that private property rights tend not to embrace environmental responsibilities, has underlain conservation agency opposition to Aboriginal land claims. Aboriginal land owners are expected to be as private property rights focused as rural or urban landholders mav be. The other is that the

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recognition of the limits to changing resources on private property (especially

'biodiversity'), from open access to common property regimes, has led to increasing regulation as a means to protect these resources. Regulations such as the NSW Threatened

Species Conservation Act 1995 may quite disproportionately affect Aboriginal landholders, as discussed in chapter eight.

Both these concepts have constituted core positions for state conservation agencies. A state- owned protected area system is the centrepiece for NSW and Queensland. Both agencies are actively expanding the area of conservation reserves, and both have introduced regulation on private land via threatened species and vegetation clearing legislation. These positions clearly reflect the hegemony of 'command and control' approaches to conservation which I discuss in more detail later in this chapter.

LAND AND ABORIGINAL RIGHTS

I now want to shift perspective from property regimes concerning conservation, to

Aboriginal property regimes. I am not going to consider 'classical' Aboriginal regimes (that is, pre-contact), but contemporary issues under Australian law. Neate (1999, p 8) identifies three types of laws which:

(i) allow indigenous Australians to claim certain parcels or categories of land under

Federal. State and Territory statutory land rights schemes

(ii) recognise the continuing existence of native title rights and interests over areas of

Australia where native title has not been extinguished

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(iii) provide for the recognition and protection of areas of land which are of particular significance to indigenous Australians, including sacred sites.

There is a fourth category, of laws which facilitate purchase of land for Aboriginal people, for example under the Indigenous Land Corporation legislation. I do not look in detail at this category here.

It is important to examine these categories of laws because they are all different in terms of the property rights and responsibilities associated with each. While 'private property' is reasonably uniform across Australia, the categories of ownership listed above are quite diverse. Even types which look superficially like private property (eg purchase of freehold on the open market) may be restrictive or beneficial in ways which do not apply to non-

Aboriginal owners

Under Neate's first category, are two sets of land rights legislation. In NSW, land claims are granted as freehold (or leases in perpetuity in the Western Division). However, they are subject to any pre-existing native title rights, and disposal of land is subject to particular processes. Neither of these constraints apply to other freehold in NSW (Way 1999). In

Queensland the situation is more complex, with several forms of Aboriginal landholding. A system of deeds of grant in trust' ('DOGITS') replaced many Aboriginal reserves in the

1980s While DOGITS are essentially inalienable, they can be cancelled by an Act of

Parliament, and the community councils which manage them can give perpetual leases to other Aboriginal organisations: 'this scheme was enacted to pursue a Queensland

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government policy of promoting individualised free enterprise in Indigenous communities.

It may be at some considerable cost to traditional (and communal) responsibilities for land'

(Way 1999, p 15 citing Brennan 1992). The Queensland Aboriginal Land Act 1991 allowed for a new form of inalienable freehold, held for the 'benefit of Aboriginal people and their ancestors and descendants' (Way 1999 p 15 citing Aboriginal Land Act 1991, s27(3)). This

Act also allows for claims over national park land, which, if granted, must be leased back to the government in perpetuity.

These examples indicate some of the complexities. In NSW land claims become freehold, with some limitations. This could risk land being sold to benefit a few, but allows for

'normal' economic processes in dealing with land for the benefit of the community. In

Queensland, granted and DOGIT land cannot be sold, but some can (or in the case of national parks, must) be leased in perpetuity, potentially removing it from the control of its

Aboriginal owners.

All three of Neate's categories also have relevance for the conservation estate. Land rights legislation in both Queensland and NSW allows for claiming of national parks: in

Queensland they must be leased back in perpetuity, and in NSW for a negotiated, renewable, term. Native title can be recognised over existing conservation reserves, allowing participation of Aboriginal people in management. Land recognised as of 'cultural significance' to Aboriginal people can include national parks, and may otherwise be managed by conservation agencies.

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I have briefly described this spectrum of tenure possibilities for 'Aboriginal land' here to indicate the complex range of potential relationships that there may be between Aboriginal people and conservation agencies (these issues are examined in more detail in chapters four, seven and eight). Aboriginal people may own land as freehold which may be of interest to conservation agencies. Conservation agencies may 'own' national parks where

Aboriginal people claim native title or land rights. Both parties may be interested in new acquisitions where both may have rights. Conservation agencies' 'command and control' rights over land and species may be challenged by native title rights.

Concepts of rights and responsibilities, other than land-based, also come under challenge.

Aboriginal people may consider they have cultural rights and responsibilities to land and species which are not the business of conservation agencies, and they may refuse to divulge details (see below). They may also have views of rights and responsibilities (such as protecting 'feral' species) which do not accord with Western concepts of conservation and ecosystem management. All of these issues challenge 'business as usual' for conservation agencies

KNOWLEDGE

In Western traditions much knowledge (information) is regarded as 'open-access', and this is certainly a cornerstone of scientific conventions about knowledge. In commercial spheres, some knowledge is distinctly -private property', and can be purchased in the same way as land. The concepts of intellectual property rights, patents, and copyright refer to these types of knowledge.

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In indigenous communities, knowledge is generally conceptualised differently. Rose (1996, p32) says, 'ownership and transmission of knowledge is a crucial key to understanding people and their country. The actual information which people possess, teach, exchange, and inherit constitutes intellectual property'. The 'property' nature of knowledge has been a concept largely ignored by conservation agencies and others, who have often seen the

'collection' of 'traditional ecological knowledge' as legitimate work with Aboriginal communities. This has sometimes had negative results for Aboriginal people. Williams

(1998, p 9) quotes Jenny Isaacs, who has written books on Aboriginal bush foods, 'the whole book was meant to establish a world of Aboriginal plant knowledge and use hitherto unknown by the public. It worked to some degree but the commercialization of products without significant Aboriginal involvement has left me fairly angry and ambivalent'. Soon after establishing an Aboriginal eco-tourism venture at Jervis Bay in NSW, a coastal resources tour had to be abandoned by the Aboriginal operators, because some of the people who had been on the tour would subsequently come back and intensively harvest the species they had just learned about (Barry Moore pers comm, March 1992).

Instances like these all over Australia have produced increasing reluctance by Aboriginal communities to discuss cultural matters and knowledge in an unrestricted way. This has also led to demands for recognition, respect and control about intellectual property.

Williams (1998, p 24) raises questions about Aboriginal environmental knowledge and intellectual property:

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Whether indigenous people may have proprietary interest in plants and animals in which they have traditional interests such as spiritual links but which are commercially harvested on land to which they do not have title; whether they may have a proprietary interest in species taken from their land which they have not traditionally harvested or used but which are commercially developed (and perhaps altered in the process): whether they have proprietary interest in knowledge gained from them w ith respect to species on their land but which is applied to species not on their land.

Janke (1997) provides a broad review of these and other issues concerning indigenous cultural and intellectual property rights, with extensive recommendations for legislative change. Posey (1996) reviews international mechanisms in the same arena. While Dodson

(1996, p 26) argues for a 'partnership between Western knowledge and "scientific" approaches to land and environmental management, and indigenous knowledges and approaches', he stresses that it must be an 'equal partnership' with acknowledgement of rights including intellectual property rights.

CORRESPONDENCES

This examination of the complexities and dynamism of the institution of property serves to both define some problems, and open up some promising new directions. The differences between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal understandings of rights and responsibilities in property, and the overlaps between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal property interests, create an environment for conflict. Moving towards conflict can be exacerbated when parties refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of cultural difference. When conservation agencies insist on conceptualising protected areas as separated from the rest of the world, at least two

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risks ensue: reserves could become 'warehouses', then 'cemeteries', for biota,first storing them then memorialising them; and Aboriginal owned land could be excluded from the conservation estate because of the nature of Aboriginal engagement with that land.

These differences can also point to new ideas : these are new areas between Western concepts of 'conservation estates' and Aboriginal concepts of 'country'. Conservation agencies developed the concept of 'Indigenous Protected Areas' (see chapters four and ten) to allow inclusion of existing Aboriginal land into mainstream conservation estate.

Aboriginal people have responded by strongly defining what an 'Indigenous Protected

Area' may be (Dhimurru Land Management Aboriginal Corporation 2001). and by promoting an 'Aboriginal conservation estate', funded by government but controlled by

Aboriginal communities (Johnston and Yarrow 1999). While these issues will be examined in detail in later chapters, here I want to make the point that there are possibilities for new types of tenure between current and potential Aboriginal estates and conservation estates, which may blur the distinctions. In Geisler's (2000) terms, ownership and control may be separated out, or ownership and control may take on new meanings, founded on different cultural understandings. The Dhimurru Indigenous Protected Area Plan of Management

(Dhimurru Land Management Aboriginal Corporation 2001) exemplifies one possibility, discussed in chapter ten.

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CHANGING INSTITUTIONAL THEMES: CONSERVATION AGENCIES THEORIES OF ORGANISATIONAL CHANGE AND THE ADAPTIVE CYCLE

Recent literature has examined various aspects of institutional functioning and change in institutions and organisations which manage natural resources. Grumbine (1994) and then a spectrum of other publications (eg Grumbine 1997, Christensen et al 1996) have examined

'ecosystem management' and the related necessary organisational changes. In this literature, four categories of change have been identified: professional emphasis, interdisciplinary collaboration, the role of decision making and organisational values and culture (Danter et al 2000). Danter et al (2000) review the application of these processes in one agency. Yaffee (1997) analyses the underlying reasons for recurring policy failures using examples from endangered species policy. He nominates five 'behavioural biases' which have undermined effective decision making: short-term outcompeting long-term rationality; competition supplanting cooperation; fragmentation of interests and values; fragmentation of responsibilities and values; and fragmentation of information and knowledge. McLain and Lee (1996) analyse the concept of 'adaptive management' for natural resources, identifying the critical nature of the collaborative structures which are needed. Imperial (1999), while suggesting the use of a particular institutional analysis framework for examining institutional design, also stresses issues of biases and institutional design. Adger (2000) examines the concept of 'resilience' for its usefulness in describing both ecosystems and social systems, with an emphasis on the economic basis for social resilience

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In Australia, Dovers, Norton and Handmer (1996) analyse the nature of policy problems in natural resource management, issues of uncertainty, and the relative influences on decision­ making of 'hard' information and values and ideology. Most of Dovers' work uses the focus of 'ecological sustainability', but is directly applicable to natural resource and protected area management. Dovers (2000) examines issues of public participation in natural resource management. He, like Williams (2000) and Reeve (2000) assesses the role of obligation versus incentive in private property regimes, and suggests various aspects of institutional design for effective natural resource management. He also identifies a key issue for participation: rising distrust in political, legal and government institutions. This is examined in general policy terms by Byrne and Davis (1998), who point out that in a positive sense, participation in government policy can 'significantly improve decision making' (p 3), but in a negative sense, participation is demanded because of growing scepticism about traditional political practices, and 'becomes a vehicle for policy veto' (p 3). Mobbs and Dovers (1999) examine basic failures in natural resource management in effectively engaging with the central issue of social institutions, and use the expression 'adaptive policy institutions and management' to encapsulate the identified needs. Dovers (2001) reviews institutional arrangements for natural resource management and other areas in Australia, and argues for particular institutional structures which fulfil the needs of adaptive institutions.

Most of the publications discussed so far focus on particular aspects of institutional change, such as problem definition and institutional design. Another particular set of literature, discussed below, attempts to construct inclusive theoretical frameworks grounded in case studies, in which to explore both the broad processes and the details of institutional change

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in natural resource management. This literature develops many of the concepts and analyses in the literature described above, and is actively extending the research direction and making institutional links.

In the course of developing a theoretical model, Gunderson, Holling and Light (1995a) review extensive literature from economics and sociology, as well as literature on ecological models. After the original synthesising publication (Gunderson et al 1995a), a large scale research project named 'Resilience of Ecosystems, Economies and Institutions' furthered the work. The report of that project (Holling, Folke, Gunderson and Maler 2000) developed the model further, and produced extensive publications. The researchers involved in the original theoretical work and the subsequent project have now expanded to a broad based consortium of researchers under the umbrella of the 'Resilience Alliance'

(Holling et al 2000). A large body of literature is now either published, in press or in preparation, but a relatively small amount has focused on institutions concerned with protected area systems. My research broadly accepts the model of institutional dynamics described below, and applies it to these sorts of organisations and institutions. The following sections examine and summarise the key issues from this set of literature.

Westley (1995) reviews literature on organisational change, finding broad consensus on a general pattern. This pattern begins (1) with the creation of a 'new order', which is then (2) consolidated into institutional structures which establish routines and authority focused on efficiency (rather than on learning). During the period of consolidation, the flexibility and adaptability o( the institution or organisation decreases, but change continues outside the

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system. If the organisation fails to respond to this change (and its increasingrigidity often makes this more likely), a crisis is eventually provoked (3). The organisation then either goes into decline, or is reorganised and revitalised (4). During this last phase there is often initially, 'highly individualistic, apparently chaotic, behaviour' (p 421). There are many new ideas, initiatives and myths, which must be integrated into a new vision and new organisational structure which can then respond to the situation which caused the crisis.

When this has been established, the cycle begins again. Westley identifies various patterns which indicate how different organisations balance this necessary continuity and change.

Gunderson et al (1995b) take the work of Westley and others and develop what they term the 'four-phase adaptive cycle'. This work was developed specifically around institutions responsible for managing natural resources, that is, institutions which need to be able to respond to the dynamics of ecosystems. Holling (1995) argues that regional resource and environmental policy and management in many Western nations has been characterised by crisis and 'decision gridlock'. While existing models for understanding policy processes, especially in relation to natural resource management, have been largely unsuccessful, numerous regional case studies suggest potential new approaches. Gunderson et al (1995a) developed the model of adaptive cycles, relating it to both ecosystem processes and institutional processes, arguing that there are strong similarities and links. Their intent is to develop a model for institutional management of natural resources that can respond appropriately to the dynamism and cycles of ecosystems, without undergoing scales of change that are destructive rather than creative

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In the model, at certain times behaviour is dominated by the '/--strategists', the pioneers and opportunists of the 'policy' box. These strategists set the conditions for control to shift to the '^-strategists' who consolidate position and power. What they term 'resilience' (the ability of the organisation to be responsive and adaptive), is then reduced, as a 'command and control' approach is intensified: an 'accident waiting to happen'. As the system moves towards the omega phase, slow variables lose their control over behaviour and fast variables take control, releasing and disassociating 'capital' (money, knowledge, energy in institutional terms). In the alpha phase, this capital is reconfigured in new associations, underwritten with powerful new organising myths (p 516). Another way to describe these phases is: 'exploitation [r] (a buildup using released resources), conservation [K]

(increasing complexity and size), creative destruction [Q] (eg fire, storms, pests), resulting in release of basic material, used in reorganization [3]' (Janson and Velner 1995, p 293, citing Holling 1986).

These arguments draw a clear parallel between organisational function and scientific understandings of ecosystem function, and in chapter one I extensively critiqued 'scientist* approaches. However, this model of institutional change is broadly effective for examining policy failure and associated response, and can be applied without reference to the positivist ecosystem analogues. It is notable that the discussion of the role of particular groups and individuals in institutional change does not have ecosystem analogues (see below).

Holling and Meffe (1996) discuss what they term 'the pathology of command and control' in natural resource management, including protected areas management. Command and

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control is the normal approach for conservation agencies: they command the state-owned protected area system, and use regulatory processes to control activities outside reserves. It is when these approaches are confronted by macro-problems not amenable to command and control that the system moves towards crisis.

In my research, these 'macro-problems' are broadly created either when Aboriginal rights under Australian legislation are recognised, and Aboriginal people are given rights to high conservation-value lands, including existing or proposed national parks; or by Aboriginal

people starting and continuing to assert those rights, either by legal or other avenues,

confronting conservation planners and managers with the spectre of other interests. Several

factors work in synergy to create the point of 'crisis'. There is the macro-problem itself

(some sort of deadlock or acute conflict); the individual(s) who promote or highlight the

problem (activists); and the internal and external institutional contexts of changing values

and attitudes, which can support and direct the necessary alternatives. Moving from 'crisis'

to 'alternatives' is possible because some people have been learning from (and creating) the

new, developing values. New voices don't speak into a vacuum, they speak into a context

which has already developed to some extent. The rigid organisational sectors have been

ignoring or resisting these new values, while the adaptive sectors have been learning from

them.

Gunderson et al (1995b. p 499) illustrate the four-phase cycle diagrammatically as in figure

2.2 below.

85 Please see print copy for images

Figure 2.2 The four phase adaptive model (from Gunderson et al 1995b)

They describe the elements and processes (note that the process operates in afigure of eight pattern):

Activities between the phases of innovation and conservation (phases 1-2, r to K) generally

focus on implementing some given policy...and increasing the efficiency of their

implementation...Cnsis in management occurs when policy fails. At least two critical factors

contribute to the failure: (1) an expectation of one or more target resources in the system is

not met and (2) in the myth that provides context for the expectation changes...The renewal

and reconfiguration phase involves the development of alternative plans, and choice anion"

the alternatives, (pp 497-500)

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They then identify four 'types' of people associated with this adaptive cycle, and their roles within it. The types may be ephemeral or constant, and are: bureaucrats, activists, catalysts, and decision-makers:

Each of these groups specializes in different sets of activities, strategies, goals and ways of defining and solving problems. Bureaucratic activity is mainly self-serving, involved with completing a mission...Activists invoke conflict and insurgence in order to alter...boundaries...The temporary omega groups [catalysts] are geared towards

"unlearning"...suspending boundaries, shedding old behaviours, and discovering new possibilities. We believe that the omega and alpha groups[decision-makers] develop new learning, transform strategies, and establish new goals, (p 504)

These different types each have significant roles to play, and it would not be correct to suggest , for instance, that bureaucrats should be dispensed with to make the system work better. As Westley (1995, p 412) notes, for example, 'visionaries are notoriously bad at the institutional tasks necessary for ongoing collaboration'.

There are three more aspects of the theory of the four-phase adaptive cycle that are critical for understanding actual processes: the significance of 'myth', the roles of individuals, and institutional structures.

Gunderson et al (1995b p 525) use 'myth' in the sense of 'the ways in which nature and human nature are conceived and understood', that is. belief systems or social constructions.

They, like Dovers et al (1996), identify that policy decisions are driven not only (or even much) by 'facts', but by values, ideologies and the belief systems in which they are

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founded. Leach and Meams (1996), using a different terminology, make the same argument: challenging 'received wisdom' on the African environment. They define received wisdom as 'an idea or a set of ideas held to be "correct" by social consensus' (p6).

Holling (1995 p 14-15), like Cronon (1995) as discussed in chapter one, suggests a number of 'belief systems' centred on the key issue of how nature and human nature are constructed. Holling lists 'Nature Cornucopian', 'Nature Anarchic', 'Nature Balanced' and

'Nature Resilient' as the recent and current constructions influencing decisions, with an emerging fifth of 'Nature Evolving'. This last is characterised by 'complex systems behaviour, discontinuous change, chaos and order, self-organization, nonlinear system behaviour, and adapting evolving systems' (p 15, italics in original). He notes that a central problem is that 'each is a partial truth' (p 16), and consequently it is possible, and common, for compelling lines of argument, backed by 'scientific evidence', to be mobilised for completely contradictory positions. This observation leads to the crucial position in the four-phase model, of reconfigured myths (constructions) to underwrite and drive new, alternative policy approaches. 'Scientific data' alone will not support and drive the necessary decision-making and organisational cultural commitment to any particular approach.

The reconfiguration of myths has to be initiated and earned out by individuals. In the analysis of types of people in each of the phases. Gunderson et al (1995b, p 505) make clear that particular individuals have key roles in creating, and then supporting, change:

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We have identified three types of individuals who perform key roles during the omega and alpha phases (the visionary, respected integrator, and loyal heretic). They perform roles that have overlapping features and are mutually supporting. The outside visionary is capable of transforming myths among a wide group of people, spanning a variety of communities - technical, institutional and political. The wise integrator is respected by players both inside and outside the system and is able to utilise traits of honesty while connecting knowledge to power... The loyal heretic or rebel bureaucrat is critically important in preparing bureaucracies and agencies for change by maintaining strong personal contacts both inside and outside the organization.

These various roles and functions can be embodied by one person at different times during the history of an issue, or in a region or organisation. Westley (1995, p 416) says 'activists in environmental lobby groups who propose changes go on to be the commissioners who implement those changes 20 years later'. This is obviously important in a number of ways: it allows individuals to trace out career paths, it maintains continuity of knowledge of particular issues, and facilitates the networks necessary in responding to complex issues.

Gunderson et al (1995b) also provide a model for institutional structure which explains important elements. A key issue is that the sorts of cyclic change described in the four- phase cycle can and do occur at different scales in organisations and institutions. They describe this as the interactions between the 'nested sets' of structures, with each level communicating certain amounts of information or energy to the next level:

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As long as the transfer... from one level to another is maintained, the interactions within the levels themselves can be transformed, or the variables changed without the whole system losing its integrity. As a consequence, the wide latitude that this structure allows for

"experimentation" within levels greatly increases the speed of evolution and resiliency of the system, (p 518)

They term these nested sets 'panarchies' (see Gunderson and Holling 2001), where each level or unit has its own four-phase dynamic but is connected to others. While formal rule- sets (legislation, policies) go through the four phases, some more transient phenomena may not. This is an important issue, as it explains how there can be a 'crisis' around a particular issue which does not necessarily incapacitate the organisation, at least not until its characteristics are communicated through the levels of the organisation. The issue may be effectively responded to by the four phase cycle at one level, with partial changes in other levels. They provide a model of 'institutional panarchy', figure 2.3:

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 2.3 A model for 'institutional panarchy' (from Gunderson et al 1995b,)

COLLABORATION

A key issue for responding to macro-problems is collaboration with other institutional players. As macro-problems are 'highly connected to other issues' (Dovers et al 1996. p

1146). there are likely to be other 'stakeholders' and agencies with related responsibilities.

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In the focus of my research, there obviously needs to be collaboration at least between conservation agencies and Aboriginal people.

Collaboration by state government agencies presents a number of problems. As Westley

(1995, p 409) points out, 'most individuals socialized in hierarchical organizations are not prepared for the kind of adaptive, interactive negotiation under relatively unstructured conditions...of the successful collaboration'. A second major problem is agencies' defense of their perceived 'turf. This is an issue strongly related to organisational culture, and in natural resource management agencies has particular relevance as they tend to have their own geographic fiefdoms: spatial turf as well as operational turf (Clarke and McCool

1997).

Westley (1995 p 410) identifies three types of collaborations:

Those that originated by the organizing and inspirational leadership of a visionary, those that originated by being mandated by government, and those that seemed to spring up spontaneously, such as citizens movements and interuniversity networks.

She defines these as. respectively, vision-led, planning-led, and learning-led (p410). and nominates four key tasks of collaborations: issue definition, resource mobilisation, action mobilisation and institutionalisation.

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Problem definition is a crucial task, and dependent on bringing all 'stakeholders* to the table simultaneously so that the issue can be defined with a sufficient degree of complexity.

These stakeholders will then attempt to set directions, and this is strongly influenced by the

'coincidence of values and the dispersal of power' (p 408), areas in which inequalities are likely to be high. Assuming stakeholders achieve some consensus on the problem and the direction, mobilisation of resources and commitment of energy (action) to the ongoing process is necessary. A successful outcome of these processes positions the institutional cycle between the alpha and V boxes: alternatives have been generated which now need to be legitimated or institutionalised.

Where values and epistemologies are not likely to be coincident, as in my research focus, recognition and respect for values is crucial. This is where the 'recognition space' discussed earlier is essential: it provides a space and a mechanism to explore for points of connection from which the future working relationships can be developed. This mechanism can work from a number of bases, including legislative (eg correspondences between national park and native title laws), management (eg different intents that nevertheless result in commonality of outcomes), and philosophical (eg a desire to protect declining species because of their contributions to, respectively, 'biodiversity' and culture). The new working relationships then result in the development of alternative approaches, which are resourced and institutionalised. A successful result is also highly likely to result in a redistribution of power, as this will be a key element in making the very early parts of the collaboration work, and also in the new, collaborative approach to managing the issue.

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Collaborative enterprises which embrace both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal groups also need to be alert to another aspect of the recognition space. An Aboriginal group coming to the 'stakeholder' table is already in an intercultural space: one convened and structured by a non-Aboriginal group. The Aboriginal group may (and is likely to) be an Aboriginal organisation, such as a land council. This is also already an intercultural entity, as it is a

Western construction (a legal organisation) designed to interface between Aboriginal people and mainstream Australian law (Summerfield 2000, Lea 2000, Sullivan 1997).

While Aboriginal organisations tend to have culturally distinct values and practices, reflecting Aboriginal social practices, the organisations are by no means necessarily the same thing as Aboriginal societies. As Mantziaris and Martin (2000, p 272) point out,

'participants are likely to focus on obligations and other relations defined through personal networks.. rather than on connections to broader aggregates such as the "community"'. The non-Aboriginal parts of the collaboration, typically the more powerful group, needs to be clear who any Aboriginal participants 'represent', and what their relationship to broader

Aboriginal communities of interests may be. *

CONCLUSIONS

To develop working solutions to environmental management conflicts such as described here, it is necessary to clearly understand the institutional frameworks, and institutional processes, which will structure problem definition, negotiated solution and implemented outcomes. Recognition that these institutions are intrinsically cultural is a primary step in commencing such a process, and the recognition space' thus acknowledged becomes a key site tor conservation agencies and contemporary Aboriginal people.

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While the nature of the problems means multiple facets and multiple connections to other problems and issues, it is 'better to have imperfect consensus, even conflict, if that maintains a situation of some diversity of approaches and hence flexibility in the system to explore radical options' (Westley 1995, p 417).

The work of the Resilience Alliance and its predecessors has examined processes of adaptive change in linked institutions and ecosystems. The model of the four-phase adaptive cycle provides a mechanism to understand, and guide, deep change in organisations. Contemporary Western natural resource agencies are exploring these adaptive processes and how to structure them into their organisations. For the subject of my research, the adaptive cycle allows explanation of acute policy problems in conservation agencies, and identifies entries for alternative approaches.

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3 METHODS

The word itself, 'research', is probably one of the dirtiest words in the indigenous world's vocabulary. (Smith, 1999 p 1)

You should know that, if required, you can get into the witness box with confidence that your words say exactly what you mean, that your meaning does not exceed the limits of the evidence, and that your meaning does not foreclose on the future which is, we should all remember, unknown. (Rose 2000 p 70) INTRODUCTION

The empirical part of this thesis is built around two extended, in-depth case studies. In

Bradshaw and Stratford's terms (2000), I found one of my case studies, and the other one found me. The one I found, NSW, focuses on a government conservation agency and its relationship to particular Aboriginal communities as well as Aboriginal issues more generally. I chose this study because, as a NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service employee, I had detailed knowledge of, and very good access to, particular sources. The other, Queensland, found me, and focuses on a particular Aboriginal 'community', an

Aboriginal organisation, and their relationships with the government conservation agency that 'owned' and had strong interests in their land. This study chose me when I was offered a job, early in my research, with Cape York Land Council to work on the particular case.

The core of my interest follows Herbert's observation that 'the link between macro-level social phenomena and micro-level dynamics represents one of the pivotal moments in social life' (2000, p 564). The relationship between macro-level worldview, culture and governmental structures, and the micro-level placed and personalised practical outcomes for Aboriginal people and staff in conservation agencies is my focus.

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In the literature on methods and cultures, 'inter' and 'cross' elements of the research make connections with the 'betweenness' discussed by a number of feminist geographers (Kim

England 1994, and others), and the 'thinking from between' of the historian Anne Salmond

(1997). Salmond (1997, p 172), writes of the meeting between Maori and European epistemologies.

For all that emergent science and whakapapa [Maori genealogy - nets of interactive links] were very different ways of knowing - one focussing on objectivity, the other on reciprocity

- they had something deep in common...Their patterns were not entirely incommensurable: learning could happen, some kind of understanding was not impossible. Such thinking allowed for mutual respect, and a variety of possible futures. Mana and honour, justice and tika. revenge and utu. crime and hara all had points of coincidence, out of which future working relationships could be constructed. They were not the same, though, and this otherness required careful consideration. Its dismissal (whether from ignorance or contempt) has always been a potent act of politics, and a perilous strategy.

This statement underlines issues of theoretical framework and representation, and encompasses the issue of my relationship with the researched, ethical research procedures, and the significance of the methods I choose to access and analyse 'data'. In addition, as

England (1994. p 86) argues:

We do not conduct fieldwork on the unmediated world of the researched, but on the world between ourselves and the researched. At the same time this 'betweenness' is shaped bv the

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researcher's biography, whichfilters th e "data" and our perceptions and interpretations of the fieldwork experience.

Acknowledging this observation, it is important that my own background is made explicit as it relates to the research project, and my position in relation to the various 'subjects' of the research is explored.

This chapter looks at the theoretical framework for the methods and the contexts of geography, research and indigenous people. I outline the conceptual metaphor referred to in the last chapter by which I address some of the problems and possible solutions. I then discuss ethical issues in the research process, and following from this, my 'research biography'. Finally, I look at my use of different research methods depending on the

'subject' and my relationships with them, as well as the strategies used to tease out fertile nuances and contradictions, and to filter out homogenising tendencies and simplistic conclusions.

GEOGRAPHY, RESEARCH AND INDIGENOUS PEOPLE

My study is positioned in the broad sub-field of cultural geography, and a fundamental aspect of my research is concerned with exploring contesting views of what constitutes-

'nature', and situating this in a historical context. This approach is based on a constructivist paradigm in which reality is 'socially constructed, complex and ever-changing' (Glesne and

Peshkin 1992). Buttimer identifies the 1980s and 1990s as the period in which the social construction of geographic discourse has been most actively explored: "in this post-

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foundational era there were only interpretations: socially constructed discourses whose cognitive claims might be charged with unacknowledged biases - imperialist, sexist, racist or other' (Buttimer 1998, pp 97-980). Anderson (1996, p 163) notes 'the interest in socially constructed geographies is strengthened by, but has never been dependent on, the insights of postmodernism into decentered worlds and multiply-framed representations'.

Different views of nature are products of the distinctive cultures of the two groups I study.

Researching these groups reflects recent concerns of cultural geographers: giving emphasis to the perceptions and world views of a marginalised group (Aboriginal people) within the dominant society (Dunn 1997); and 'studying up': analysing the political and policy frameworks of agencies of the state in relation to how they impact marginalised groups

(Howitt 1993, Katz 1994). The connection between cultural geography research and policy, which is fundamental to my aims, is a recent focus for several Australian researchers (Dunn

1997, Howitt 1998, Baker 2001)

While this research examines contesting perceptions and their political and practical outcomes, it is concerned with progressing beyond (or around) conflict, to see how different positions might be constructed as complementary, and capable of practical resolution. Ethical issues are significant because my research is partly with Aboriginal people, a highly disempowered group in Australian society, and because it is 'action research' towards on-ground outcomes (Howitt 1993. Proctor 1998. Smith 1999). These are discussed in detail later in this chapter

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Peters and Wolfe-Keddie (1995), introducing a special edition of The Canadian

Geographer focusing on geography and indigenous people, identify three major traditions in this work: relationships between people and environments; the geographic specificity of processes and outcomes; and the geographies of power and resistance. Howitt and Jackson

(1998), discussing indigenous issues in Australian Geographer, review geography's complicity in the colonisation of Australia and call for geographers to 'decolonise' the discipline. They list extensive work by contemporary Australian geographers in contributing to 'understanding of the complex and dynamic links between Australian landscapes and Australian identities in ways that have demonstrably contributed to indigenous Australians' opportunities to exercise their rights' (pi64). My own work fits all three of Peters and Wolfe-Keddie's categories, and is intended to contribute to the understandings and opportunities identified by Howitt and Jackson. Smith (1999) also brings Howitt and Jackson's (1998) concerns into the present: 'research is an important part of the colonization process because it is concerned with defining legitimate knowledge' (p

173).

As these writers suggest, research with, or about, indigenous people has a deeply problematic past which needs to be addressed in contemporary research. This encompasses issues of ethics, methods, reflexivity and worldview. Smith (1999, p 1) strongly challenges

Western assumptions, worldviews and methods in research about indigenous people:

it appalls us that the West can desire, extract and claim ownership of our [indigenous] ways of knowing, our imagery, the things we create and produce, and then simultaneously reject

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the people who created and developed those ideas and seek to deny them further opportunities to be creators of their own culture and own nations.

In response, Smith and other indigenous researchers have proposed alternative research models. Smith outlines a series of questions as a checklist for researchers:

In a cross-cultural context, the questions that need to be asked are ones such as:

Who defined the research problem'.'

For whom is the study worthy and relevant*' Who says so?

What knowledge will the community gain from this study?

What knowledge will the researcher gain from this study?

What are some likely positive outcomes from this study?

What are some possible negative outcomes?

How can the negative outcomes be eliminated'.'

To whom is the researcher accountable?

What processes are in place to support the research, the researched and the researcher?

(Smith 1999. p 173)

All of these questions are relevant for my research, and this thesis will set out my understanding of the answers.

In responding to Smith's concerns, my research seeks to challenge what is understood as legitimate knowledge". It is cross-cultural, but not only in the sense of a non-indigenous researcher working with indigenous people and issues. It seeks greater understanding of my

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'own' culture and sub-cultures for an understanding of how these affect (and [mis]interpret) the interests of indigenous people. Working with Aboriginal groups, my interest is to discover knowledge and processes that are empowering to these groups relative to the dominant structures of society, as represented by government conservation agencies.

Working with conservation agencies, my interest is in uncovering attitudes and values that inhibit effective relationships with Aboriginal people, and may also inhibit effective biodiversity conservation. The converse is obviously true also for both groups: finding aspects of Aboriginal attitudes which are negative for this process, and finding positive positions within the government departments. These are both potentially empowering processes, but the approaches and results may be quite different, reflecting the differences in power and control of the two groups.

Smith (1999, p 177 citing Graham Smith 1992) quotes four models by which more culturally appropriate research can be undertaken by non-indigenous researchers. The first two are 'mentoring' and 'adoption' models, neither of which directly reflect my research process. The third and fourth are a 'power-sharing model' where researchers seek community assistance to support the development of a research process; and an

'empowering outcomes model' which addresses the sorts of issues Maori (in this case) want to know about, and lead to positive outcomes. My research has elements of both of these last models: I negotiated the broad subject area with the NSW Aboriginal Land

Council, and the outcomes are focused on empowering Aboriginal people to engage with conservation issues on their own terms, but also to reveal to conservation agencies the benefits of supporting such a process.

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COMPLEMENTARITY AND THE RECOGNITION SPACE

In chapter two I introduced the metaphors of 'complementarity' and the 'recognition space'. These two metaphors are central to my theoretical approach in the thesis, and also to the methodological approach. The concept of 'complementarity' developed here has two different, but related aspects. Schwandt (1990, pp 272-273) suggests:

'complementarity... means that the inquirer complements the inquiry, that is. makes it complete or whole. To understand what is distinctly human in shared experience, the knower must participate in the known. Constructivist methodology sees this participation...as necessary to the acts of discovery and interpretation'.

The related approach derives from a different angle of inquiry. This approach contrasts complementarity to conflict, and my exposure to it comes via Maori-European cross- cultural analysis. This is not a naive attempt to reach a simplistic 'win-win' situation, but a complex process of discovering the relationships between two sets of cultural values negotiating in the same space. For my research interests, a resolution might accommodate both interests by a new scenario, which can embrace cultural difference as well as continuing environmental change. Methodologically, it also means that I use triangulation to discover the convergences in epistemologies and interests. Seemingly divergent values may converge in place, expressed as on-ground outcomes.

Paul Tapsell (1999. pers comm) explains this as 'for Maori, and probably most other cultures of the world, these "opposites" (such as male/female, sky/earth.

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science/religion,...western/aboriginal, guest/host) are seen as exciting points of connection from which new ideas, concepts, ways of looking at the world can be bom, not out of conflict (negative) but out of complementarity (positive)'. Salmond (1997, p 509) points out that a philosophy based on balanced exchange is problematic if one side assumes superiority: 'relational logic worked well with people who shared its assumptions'. Writing about the encounter between nineteenth century science and Maori culture, she says 'it is difficult to think about cross-cultural exchanges, their paradoxes and ironies, within an

Enlightenment model...If "cultures" are taken to be radically divided, questions of

"authenticity" arise and cross-cultural hybridity comes to seem an anomaly' (Salmond

1997, p 513). While both Tapsell and Salmond are discussing specifically Maori - non-

Maori relationships, my interest is in how this concept can be used as a metaphor to examine relationships between epistemologies, between researcher and researched, between theory and practice.

These notions link through Gillian Rose's relational model quoted earlier (Rose 1997): the inquirer/inquiry relationship is part of the same genealogical network as the contemporary

Aboriginal culture/government conservation agency culture. The metaphor of complementarity also has a relationship with the 'acentred' system described by Deborah

Rose (1992). Discussing worldviews and systems of understanding of Yarralin Aboriginal people in the Northern Territory, Rose argues that:

There is a cultural relativism in these concepts that is pervasive and elegant: all parts of the system have their own world view. That one's own view may be most important to one's own

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life, does not mean that the world is focussed on humans as a species or on one country or

Dreamings over and above others. An essential part of human culture is to know that other

Dreamings and other parts have their own views. Once one understands, one can learn the system from any point. The trick is to know what one is encountering. (Rose 1992, p 221)

Acknowledging the limits of one's own epistemology and the strengths of others can provide the basis for transformative learning. Concepts of complementarity can provide the framework for new defining myths of appropriate relationships with land and biota. New relationships between conservation agencies and Aboriginal people can be built using the recognition that better results for both might ensue.

I suggest that the metaphor of complementarity - a generative relationship between equivalents - interacts positively with both of these explorations. An ethical relationship between different agents sets the conditions for reciprocity: a jointly mediated sense of what is an appropriate and balanced exchange (between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people, between both and the non-human world). This reciprocal, ethical relationship then jointly generates new (understandings of) constructions of nature, ontologically and epistcmologically. Nature is conceived of in new ways and interacts with people in new ways

As described in the case studies, different intentions founded on quite different understandings may result in the same outcomes on the ground. What I understand Rose

(1992) to be saying is that neither Aboriginal people nor conservation professionals

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necessarily have to 'give up' their worldviews: they have to understand the other parties' worldviews. What they have to give up is the assumption of the hegemony of their worldview. This understanding establishes the conditions for respect, and ethical negotiation.

Using the 'recognition space' as the central metaphor to create a location for interaction in the research process (and 'real world' activities), the metaphor of complementarity creates a way of thinking that can encourage resolutions that respond to the concerns of Aboriginal people and conservation agencies. In the case studies (chapters seven and eight) the recognition space is a set of geographic sites and legal issues - new meeting places where complementary understandings can be worked out.

RESEARCH DESIGN

The opportunity to work with Cape York Land Council required me to restructure my research from its original conception, which was essentially NSW focused. This restructure was highly beneficial to the research design. The end result facilitates an understanding which is, to a major extent, from 'both sides of the fence', offering a series of contrasts and complements. In NSW, I look at situations from within the conservation agency, and focus on geographic areas where white settlement has been long and intensive; but also have good access to sources within Aboriginal organisations. In Queensland, I look at a situation from within an Aboriginal organisation, and focus on a geographic area regarded by non-

Aboriginal people as 'remote' and where settlement activities are much more recent. Both studies focus on places where ownership and understanding is contested by Aboriginal

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people and conservation agencies. While this suggests alternating 'insider' and 'outsider' perspectives, the realities are more complex. As Dowling (2000) argues, I was not ever either an insider or an outsider, but always bits of both, as were the other people involved in the research process.

During the research period, I was employed at various times by Aboriginal organisations

(primarily Cape York Land Council, but also others) and a government conservation agency (NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service). As a result, it is not possible to clearly separate what was 'research' from what was 'work': they happened simultaneously. In both situations I am undertaking 'action research', working directly for on-ground outcomes, from the research itself and consultancy and employment around the research issues. I am interested in resolving theoretical issues because these underpin practical outcomes, so I attempt to articulate a hierarchy from theory (to culture) to policy to practice.

In this thesis the two broad groups I discuss, conservation agencies and Aboriginal people, will at times appear as internally unified and externally opposed to each other. As Proctor

(1995) notes, the situation is obviously more complex than that, with, for instance, significant differences between rangers and senior executive in attitudes and values, and often significant differences 'within' various Aboriginal communities. Similarly, while I regularly use the term 'community', 1 am aware that this term masks a large spectrum of difference, and in some senses, is a non-indigenous imposition 'on Aboriginal people.

Peters-Little (1999) explores this issue very productively The justification for my use of these structures is that there obviously also is a level of unitv in these categories, and the

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polarization between these two sides brings some key moral issues into focus' (Proctor

1995, 274). Structuring the 'sides' as polarised helps me to uncover commonality and difference.

In choosing and developing the methodology, interpretation of data has been approached in two ways: through versions of triangulation, and through issues of complementarity, as discussed earlier. I have interpreted triangulation in three different ways. One is in terms of accuracy and validity, using different perspectives or methods to examine the same data, checking for corroboration (Rudestam and Newton 1992, Brewer and Hunter 1989, Miles and Huberman 1984). The other two are related, and use triangulation to enhance the richness of the data derived, and reveal internal inconsistencies intrinsic to the cultural values underlying the data.

Rocheleau (1995, p 465) argues for a 'multi-method' approach to stimulate and interpret complex answers to seemingly simple questions. The methodology was 'built on the careful triangulation of quantitative, qualitative and visual research methods', each of which contributed different layers of meaning and 'finely patterned relations' in the study.

Winchester (1996, pp 119-120) argues that while triangulation 'sits firmly within the empirical-realist tradition', there is justification for intensive qualitative studies set in a critical-realist framework. These approaches use different methods to derive greater detail and richness from the data, 'thickening' the description (Geertz 1973). The same approach can also be used to draw out contradictions and inconsistencies emanating from a single source but through diverse manifestations. Accordingly, text sources, oral sources, and

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observed actions by people from a single group can be compared to elicit the divergence between rhetoric (policy and other published statements) and 'reality' (implementation on the ground) (Jenkins 1996). This analysis is important to reveal how groups attempt to reconcile expectations or demands that differ from their own cultural values.

Roe (1998) suggests that triangulation is appropriate when an issue's complexity and uncertainty are high. He argues:

The point, however, is not that convergence in triangulation enables us to get closer to the

'truth'. Better to say. the use of multiple instruments, each with its own flaws, confirms the complexity we are analyzing. Instead of truth, what we get out of triangulation is confidence. i.e.. convergence across multiple instruments enables us to be more assured we have in that convergence a point of departure which we feel is worth pursuing further. (Roe 1998 p87)

Recalling the earlier discussion of 'wicked' or macro-problems in chapter two, my use of multiple methods and sources is one way to try and identify the contesting epistemologies and values, as well as the contesting facts in each situation. So triangulation will also be useful when the data do not converge, to reveal points of difference, and the structures controlling relationships (Roe 1998).

ETHICS AND NEGOTIATION

Ethics has been the subject of some recent attention in geography (Winchester 1996, Hay

1998. Proctor 1998, Smith 1999. Dowling 2000). and also in conservation biology iBridgewater I99S. Cullen 1998. Schnierer and Woods 1998). Proctor (1998). while

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examining the relationship of geography to environmental ethics, specifically raises the indivisibility of nature and culture, the anthropocentric and the 'physiocentric'. A number of Aboriginal organisations, including Aboriginal-controlled research organisations, have developed codes of ethics for research practice with the Aboriginal people they represent

(see for example, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies 2000)

A number of principles are generally common to these codes, including principles of: informed consent, confidentiality; benefits to the Aboriginal community; and ownership of cultural and intellectual property rights.

In addition to recognising these codified processes, my own research has been formally negotiated with two peak Aboriginal organisations (the NSW Aboriginal Land Council and

Cape York Land Council) and a government conservation agency (NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service). Issues of research in my relationship with Cape York Land Council were secondary to my main contract to assist negotiation of an agreement about Aboriginal land and a new national park. Nevertheless, I advised the senior staff of Cape York Land

Council of my doctoral research project and that I wished to use my experience as a case study, and my contract contained clauses to that effect. My contract with the NSW

Aboriginal Land Council is specifically research-focussed, and research issues have been actively negotiated since the joint development of a funding proposal. My research was funded under an ARC Strategic Partnerships with Industry Research and Training grant

(ARC-SPIRT), which was developed with the NSW Aboriginal Land Council , and submitted by the University of Wollongong with the Land Council as the 'industry

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partner'. In addition to other support, the Land Council allowed me extensive access to files, as well as interviews with senior staff and management.

While these principles and contract provisions could be interpreted as constraints to research practice, they also function as tools for refinement of research proposals and practice. Annie Clarke (1994, p 101) suggests that using a research approach based on these sort of ethical considerations creates a 'negotiated process... [where]... the boundaries of a project are open to reassessment and renegotiation by any of the parties involved'. She goes on to say that 'it acknowledges the subversion of power relations between the representatives of the dominant culture carrying out the research and the indigenous minority who are the subject of the research' (Clarke 1994, p 101). Such approaches clearly link to the categories of Smith (1999).

In my case, there are clear advantages to the negotiation and contract process. The process of establishing my formal relationship to the land councils means many people know who I am and have at least a general understanding of my research. I am generally perceived as being 'on side' with Aboriginal political aspirations, and the often difficult process of introductions and access has been facilitated. I have good access to land council files, and staff let me know when there are interesting opportunities for my research. The NSW

Aboriginal Land Council recognise that they do not have funds available for broad research of the kind 1 am doing, and are very supportive of the project. This laid the basis for a good relationship, as I am in turn, very appreciative of the access and support they prov ide.

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However, with both land councils, there were extensive changes of staff during the period of my research (1997 - 2001). This has meant that by the time I was ready to submit drafts to the land councils for their approval/feedback, there were no staff who had been part of either the original research development or my actual research (most of my active research was completed by December 2000). This presented a significant challenge, as there was the potential for either disinterest or hostility, due essentially to the simple lack of involvement of individuals. I responded to this by sending drafts of my work to the actual individuals who had been in senior positions in the land councils but were now working elsewhere, as they had a detailed understanding of the issues I researched as well as the context of the research process. With Cape York Land Council, I sent drafts to the people who were the

Principal Legal Officer and the Executive Director at the time of my research. With the

NSW Aboriginal Land Council, I sent drafts to the person who was the Manager of the

Land Rights Unit. I also sent copies to both Land Councils.

While these 'real world' issues changed how I had envisaged the process towards the final text of my thesis, another element complemented the production of the thesis. Both of my case study areas were essentially 'action research' sites. At Cape York Land Council I worked on the handback of significant areas of land, and in December 2000 the first stage of this was completed. I had a major role in the outcome of a transfer of title of 200,000 hectares of Cape York land from the Queensland government to a Trust of Aboriginal traditional owners. In NSW, while I was not directly involved in the outcomes of the various land claim processes I analyse, I had a direct role in changing National Parks and

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Wildlife Service policy and operations concerning land claims. I discuss both of these areas in detail in chapters seven and eight.

My research agreement with NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service is less detailed, but formalises a process of data and resource access, and validation and consent. As I am officially an employee on extended study leave from the National Parks and Wildlife

Service, my access to data and resources is arguably better than with the other organisations, as I am very familiar with the structures and individuals I need to target.

Noting Howitt's (1993) exhortation to 'study up' to unravel the mechanisms of power as they are applied to marginalised people. I was initially circumspect with National Parks and

Wildlife Service staff about what I believed the outcomes of my research would be.

However, because of the heterogeneity within the organisation, there are staff who are totally supportive of my research directions, as well as others who were probably threatened by it. While I gave drafts to particular staff, mostly to check factual accuracy but also to get their general feedback. I did not submit any drafts for 'approval' by the National

Parks and Wildlife Service

RESEARCH BIOGRAPHY

The issue of the influence of researchers' biographies on their research has been discussed primarily by feminist geographers Recent work by England (1994), Nast (1994), Katz

(1994) and Rose (1997) raises and debates various elements of this issue. England (1994, p

S5) summarises: the researcher cannot conveniently tuck away the personal behind the professional, because fieldwork is personal.' The process of analysing my research

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biography effectively revealed to me that the 'field work' for this thesis commenced at least as early as my work in inner-city Aboriginal communities in the mid 1980s, and that there were a number of key experiences which influenced my values and attitudes and directed my research interests.

Acknowledging that my life experience is both a filter through which I determine perceptions, and an influence on others involved in the research process with me, this section is intended to indicate something of how my biographical 'position' relates to and influences the 'subjects' and results of my research. I have structured this around four interacting components of my biography: my 'ethnicity', class and gender, which I was essentially born into; my academic training; my work experience; and my more general life experience. While this section goes into some detail about my personal background, it is a fundamental aspect of the research process, which is not separate from the 'rest' of my life, and not finished on completion of this thesis.

While I am male, Anglo-Celtic Australian, and by education and occupation standards, middle class, other aspects of my life make these categories less simple. Early experience of material poverty, and politicisation during the counter-culture of the 1970s, gave me a political empathy (and experience) with more marginalised elements of society and a thorough education by feminist peers in sexual politics. Being the third generation of my family born in India gave me a strong interest in (and experience of) non-Western cultures.

My initial academic training was in humanities, with a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) majoring in English and Australian literature and an honours thesis on landscape and

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spirituality in the novels of a Welsh writer, John Cowper Powys. This was also a period of intensive outdoor recreation (bush walking, cross-country skiing, canyoning, rock climbing), and learning about conservation issues. After overseas travel and work, generally in arts-related fields, I worked for three years as co-ordinator of a community centre in inner Sydney, focussing on Aboriginal youth issues. This work directly confronted me with the realities of life for urban Aboriginal people, as well as clear expression of contemporary 'urban' Aboriginal culture. Issues surrounding family connections, spirituality, interest in bushfoods, and language were all evident on a daily basis. Involvement in community initiatives to transform urban spaces, and close working relationships with architects working in the communities, further demonstrated issues of cultural differences. Appropriate approaches to both exploring and resolving those cultural particularities in built form were part of a further learning process.

This led me to complete a postgraduate Bachelor of Landscape Architecture, and simultaneously an Associate Diploma in horticulture. The landscape architecture degree included work on vegetation ecology, broadscale landscape planning, historical geography. coastal geomorphology and personal studies on Aboriginal issues and iconography in

Maori architecture. Horticulture training was highly practical, including identification and uses for around 1.000 plant species. Subsequent employment was with a community environment organisation. Greening Australia, where my work targeted social and environment issues Supporting restoration ecology projects in degraded urban and rural environments led to the development of a national program working with Aboriginal communities, and included Joint authorship of a book on aspects of this issue (Popp et al

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1995). During this time I worked extensively with other community environment organisations, including the Australian Conservation Foundation, Greenpeace, the NSW

Nature Conservation Council and local groups, as well as government agencies. Also during this time I participated in the 'Survival Day' 1988 march, a protest against the bicentenary celebrations, marked by the friendliness and high spirits of the marchers rather than anger and aggression.

In 1992 I was in Redfem for then Prime Minister Paul Keating's 'Redfern Park Speech', acknowledging white impact on Aboriginal people and referring to the Mabo decision as a historic turning point (Keating 1993). Also in 1992, I visited Kakadu National Park in the

Northern Territory with my partner. By then we had both been bush walking for nearly twenty years in different parts of Australia and the world, and were very at home in the bush. A three day bushwalk in the Kakadu environment was markedly different to anything we had previously experienced. I was generally familiar with the history of Kakadu, and had read various publications about the traditional owners, resistance to the mining projects and the significance of the rock art sites. Prior to leaving for our walk, we discussed the route with a ranger, who instructed us to avoid particular escarpment rock outliers which were closed to everyone but the traditional owners. While on the walk itself, although we encountered no people, and were in a 'natural' landscape, the sense of a humanised realm saturated with significations' (Stanner 1979, p 131) was very powerful. Our awareness of the presence of people in the landscape, and the tightness and profound influence of that presence, was overwhelming.

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That experience was a turning point for me in my attitudes to conservation and Aboriginal people. Kakadu was one of the most biologically-rich environments I had ever been in, was occupied by its Aboriginal owners, and outwardly at least, was very well managed as a national park. From then, I started questioning why Aboriginal people were so absent in the landscapes of other protected areas. Travel in the Indian Himalaya in 1995 confirmed my interest in indigenous/environment relationships. After trekking through large mountain national parks which embraced seasonal herb gathering, traditional grazing practices and ancient travel routes, I interviewed Indian national park managers and senior bureaucrats on these issues. Their understandings provided depth and contemporary reasons to stories 1 had grown up with from my family about how people used these mountain landscapes.

Following my work with Greening Australia I moved in 1996 to the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, wanting to complement my knowledge of degraded landscapes with experience in 'pristine' ones. I worked on applied ecological research and the creation of new national parks. While I had expressed a strong interest in seeking resolution of issues with Aboriginal people. I rapidly discovered that the section of National Parks and Wildlife

Service 1 worked in was strongly opposed to land claims, and had been instrumental in preventing many claims. This was another key point in my understanding, as I discovered the separation (both structural and cultural) within the National Parks and Wildlife Service of the natural' and the 'cultural'. In the 'natural' area in which I worked. Aboriginal interests were seen as either irrelevant or problematic.

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The practical effects of this biography include influences on my relationships with research subjects, personal political orientation, and the nature of the filters through which I interpret research data. Working .with Aboriginal people, my relationships are strengthened and facilitated by my previous experience with Aboriginal communities and individuals, my familiarity with the bush, having various practical skills, having children, and, possibly, my non-conservative appearance. Constraints include being non-Aboriginal, generally 'urban', and male. Maleness influences my ability to interview Aboriginal women, and structures my relationships with Aboriginal men. This is sometimes mitigated by women answering questions via men, and sometimes by being able to ask men about women's issues (this does not always work however, as evidenced by my total failure to gain information about issues of childbirth from Aboriginal men). In carrying out research with conservation agency staff, my National Parks and Wildlife Service scientific experience, extensive knowledge of environment groups, and years of experience in bush walking and cross­ country skiing enhanced my credibility and facilitated open communication. Constraints included my openly expressed political values and positions on indigenous issues, which may inhibit senior government staff from discussing strategic issues completely freely.

ACROSS DISCIPLINES

While centering my research in the sub-field of cultural geography, there are a related set of disciplines in a constellation around this position. Mathewson (1999. p 268), writes:

The intersections of culture, landscape and ecology offer not only geographers but also anthropologists, archaeologists, ethnobiologists and historians in particular seemingly limitless possibilities.

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In addition to these disciplines, my study of biodiversity conservation and how it is managed by the state adds the fields of conservation biology, and, to a lesser extent, law, to this group of research areas. The complexity created by the need to analyse theories and data from this fairly large group of disciplines reflects one of the central issues in the research. In simplified form, this is the contrast between the Cartesian divisions and subdivisions of Western science and rationality, and the integrated, 'holistic' worldviews of indigenous people, specifically as they relate to the relationship between nature and culture.

Bridging this gap requires that elements from many of the subdivided disciplines be brought together, as the very subdivision of disciplines, and the 'policing' of their boundaries, is obviously a social construction as well.

Similarly, the need to cross or integrate disciplines has been a dominant theme in discussions about the current 'environmental crisis' and its solutions. As my research centres around the conservation of biodiversity which is one of the major tools for 'solving' the env ironmental crisis, this integration is inescapable. Most environmental problems are created by social, economic and cultural choices: the solutions are often social, not environmental, so a focus from only within, say, conservation biology, will not necessarily be adequate (Patterson and Williams 1998, Mobbs and Dovers 1999).

Encompassing a variety of disciplinary approaches to focus on a particular issue in particular places enriches the data and interpretations My approach to the various disciplines has been in two ways. In some - anthropology, the sociology of science, law, history [ generally wish to use the theoretical structures and methodologies in the service

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of geography and my subject. In others - conservation biology, archaeology - I wish to challenge and critique aspects of 'received wisdom' by application to my empirical work.

METHODS

As stated earlier, the methodology used here is qualitative. The Dictionary of Human

Geography (Johnston, Gregory and Smith 1994) defines qualitative methods as:

[ranging] from passive observation and personal reflection, through routine participation to active intervention. The common theme is a preoccupation with systems of shared meaning: the common project, one of subjective understanding rather than statistical description: the primary goal, an ability to emphasize, communicate and (in some cases) to emancipate, rather than to generalize, predict and control. To this end, qualitative research is organized in a variety of ways, from semi-structured interview schedules to the open-ended attempt to absorb the entirety of a life-world.

As you would expect from such a broad field, there are multiple, and contesting, practices within this area of qualitative inquiry (Schwandt 1997). On the one hand, Glesne and

Peshkin (1992) essentially conflate qualitative inquiry with ethnography, using fieldwork and participant observation as the fundamental methods. On the other. Duncan and Ley

(1993), focussing on modes of representation in human geography, identify an interpretive practice based on hermeneutics, also the position taken by Jacobs (1999). Rudestam and

Newton (1992) distinguish qualitative research traditions of hermeneutics and ethnographic inquiry. The variation in these positions partly reflects the historic and dynamic development of paradigms, theory and methods.

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In the previous chapter I discussed the nature of policy 'macro-problems'. A key characteristic of macroproblems in conservation biology and management is that the problems are rooted, not in natural systems, but in social systems and values (Patterson and

Williams 1998). My research is situated in the broad domain of the 'social sciences' which, historically, used the methodology of the natural sciences to focus on subjects which shared ground with the humanities (Crittenden 1998). While my research is clearly 'between' natural science and social systems, my methods are qualitative, and in an interpretive paradigm (Jacobs 1999, Patterson and Williams 1998). Qualitative methods of inquiry have been variously defined (Winchester 2000), and usually by contrast to quantitative methods underpinned by a positivist or scientific paradigm. As a general distinction, 'qualitative implies that the data are in the form of words as opposed to numbers' (Rudestam and

Newton 1992. p 31). Glesne and Peshkin (1992, p 6) argue that qualitative methods are appropriate for 'coming to understand and interpret how the various participants in a social setting construct the world around them', and the researcher 'becomes the main research instrument as he or she observes, asks questions, and interacts with research participants'.

In this section, 1 look at my various sources of 'data' and the techniques used to access them, and the issue of representation of data and research findings.

SOURCES AND TECHNIQUES

I have divided sources of data into three different categories: text, oral sources

('understandings of the self. Jacobs 1999. p 18). and observed action ('performative

sources'. Jacobs 1999. p 17). hor the two focal subjects of my research, contemporary

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Aboriginal society and government conservation agencies, access to these various sources might have varied considerably. For instance, government agencies write voluminously and extensively about themselves, so there is much written data to study; whereas Aboriginal people often communicate primarily orally, so text may be scant but the possibilities for interviews, conversation and discussion extensive. In fact in my research, because I worked with Aboriginal organisations as well as people in Aboriginal communities, I had good access to institutional documents there as well; and in the conservation agencies I had many conversations with staff and management.

A central part of my methodological approach has been the use of ethnography. Herbert

(2000) suggests that this is a significantly underused, but highly relevant, methodology for geographers. He argues:

No other methodology enables a researcher to explore the complex connections that social groups establish with one another and with the places they inhabit, cultivate, promote. defend, dominate and love. If sociality and spatiality are intertwined, and if the exploration of this connection is the goal of geography, then more ethnography is necessary. (Herbert 2000, p564)

Although my research is definitively cross-cultural, my main use of ethnographic approaches is focused on the culture of state conservation agencies, with Aboriginal communities being, in some senses, a secondary aspect. This is so because I am interested in the relationship between Aboriginal people and conservation agencies, rather than

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elements of Aboriginal culture per se, and in the cultural resistances within conservation agencies. I do not attempt a comprehensive ethnography of conservation agencies, but focus on the aspects relevant to this relationship. Using a multi-method approach

(Winchester 2000), 1 broadly use ethnography as the governing methodology, linking to theoretical issues of ethics, power and representation.

Text Sources

In accessing text sources, I have targetted historical documents, legal and policy documents, internal and external institutional communications, academic research, and

'non-official' documents such as media reports. This in itself allows triangulation, as there are potentially significant variations in what people or organisations say officially and unofficially, and the historic trajectory of values and attitudes has significance for their current expression (Jacobs 1999). Much of the relevant documentation is in 'grey literature'

(that is. internal and other limited distribution documents), and my employee/consultant roles have facilitated accessing this literature.

At the National Parks and Wildlife Service, I systematically examined all files relating to individual land claim processes, as well as policy files concerned with overview and analysis of these issues. I examined Annual Reports and Corporate Plans over several years, as well as numerous sources of 'corporate' statements. I used National Parks and

Wildlife Service media files to check media reactions to these issues, as well as National

Parks and Wildlife Service responses At the NSW Aboriginal Land Council , I examined the corresponding land claim files, including detailed court reports and legal analysis of

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court outcomes. At Cape York Land Council, I examined 'case'files fo r specific issues I was working on, as well as other documentation including land rights newsletters. I did not have access to Queensland Parks and Wildlife internal documents and files, but did examine public documents, including Annual Reports and pages on their website. Both the

NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service and the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service went through review and restructure processes during my research, which produced extensive documentation relating to organisational culture and other issues.

In addition to written text as a source, analysis of the meanings and uses of maps was a major element. As state conservation agencies use maps and mapping systems very extensively, I analysed these maps and processes in both agencies. Similarly, as the use and interpretation of spatial imagery by Aboriginal people was significantly different, this difference was a useful source for analysis. Indigenous use of modern mapping technologies is a growing area, with both government-defined needs for mapping indigenous claims (Neate 1999, Bowen 2000), and indigenous interests in reclaiming their country, legally, socially and imaginatively (Tobias 2000, Mohamed and Ventura 2000). In

Queensland, participatory mapping exercises and extensive field-based mapping activity was carried out with Aboriginal groups, essentially using a 'counter-mapping' strategy.

Counter-maps are used to contest 'the homogenisation of space on political, zoning, or property maps, for altering the categories of land and forest management, and for expressing social relationships in space rather than depicting abstract space itself (Peluso

1995, p 387). The action of negotiating the validity of these counter-maps with the

Queensland Parks And Wildlife Service was a key element in observing constructions of

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space and cultural identity. In NSW, I initiated a process of mapping land claims and native title claims on the National Parks and Wildlife Service Geographic Information System, and distributing hard copies of these maps to both Aboriginal land councils and key

National Parks and Wildlife Service staff. This was another version of counter-mapping, in that the maps reconfigured and reallocated space which the National Parks and Wildlife

Service regarded as 'theirs' or potentially theirs. England (2001) describes related work in the National Parks and Wildlife Service, mapping Aboriginal uses of landscapes across different tenures and timeframes.

Oral Sources

Oral sources in the two focal subjects have been treated differently, as alluded to earlier.

Following England (1994. p 82). my relationships with the researched 'subjects' was usually one of supplication, 'seeking reciprocal relationships based on empathy and mutual respect, and often sharing...know ledge with [the researched]'. Gillian Rose (1997, pp 314-

315) writes 'it is implied that the identity to be situated does not exist in isolation but only through mutually constitutive social relations', and 'research is seen as constitutive (if not completely so), both of the researcher and of the other involved in the research process'.

My relationships with staff of government conservation agencies are based essentially on being part of a peer group with a (largely) shared culture, whereas my relationships with

Aboriginal people will always be marked by a difference in cultural background, and very often in class, education, income and gender. Because my research is also action focussed, there is another difference in my relationships with the two groups. Katz (1994, pp 70-71)

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writes, 'we - all participants in the work - can appropriate this knowledge in ways that strengthen us in our encounters with these structures of dominance, and allow us the possibility of connecting across class, race, gender, or other lines to confront their manifestations in everyday life'. As discussed earlier, I worked to discover empowering situations for Aboriginal people, while attempting to uncover the sources of resistance to that transfer of power within conservation agencies.

While my approach to the oral sources in the Queensland Aboriginal groups has been based essentially on participant observation, I have also used interviews extensively. My employed role in negotiating the land transfer and other arrangements required a particular set of questioning, and this, while providing data in itself, also provided an opportunity to understand cultural and epistemological issues. In Aboriginal organisations I also extensively interviewed senior staff and management, as well as having a participant observer role. Most interviews with Aboriginal people were unstructured and opportunistic

(Dunn 2000, Bradshaw and Stratford 2000), partly so as not to impose any cultural assumptions from my questioning, and partly to best use the limited time and opportunities available. Interviews in open group discussions revealed important cultural issues around gender responsibilities and rights to knowledge, while one-to-one interviews (often while driving or otherwise working alone with individuals) allowed particular people to raise sensitive or personal issues.

Oral sources in conservation agencies have been approached with a greater emphasis on semi-structured interviews (Dunn 2000). The shared culture of myself and the interviewees

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has facilitated rapid understanding of issues, while my critical stance has allowed observation of agency cultural issues and assumptions (Jenkins 1996). Conservation agency staff are used to structured discussion processes, and their relative ease in this situation helps reveal differences in 'corporate' and personal positions, and how these might relate to each other. The organisational chart (figure 3.1) of the NSW National Parks and Wildlife

Service indicates in what areas I interviewed staff and managers.

The inseparability of my employee status and my research status has allowed both sets of sources to be engaged repeatedly and alternately over a long period. The changing nature of the issues under discussion has meant that 1 could deepen my examination over time, as well as checking on analysis from research earlier in the process. To record data from interviews with Aboriginal people in community situations, I mostly wrote up notes after concluding interactions, whereas in interviews with conservation agency and Aboriginal organisation staff I often took notes during the meetings as well. Because I wanted to obtain the maximum benefit from the 'informality' of my discussions, and because some

Aboriginal people were not comfortable with it, I avoided using a tape recorder.

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 3.1 NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service Organisational Chart Red arrows indicate staff interviewed

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Participant Observation

Observational' sources have been approached by participant observation with both

Aboriginal groups and conservation agencies. This has incorporated general participation in everyday activities; attendance and involvement in formal meetings: informal group and individual conversations. With Aboriginal people in Queensland, 'everyday activities' included activities around my employed role at Cape York Land Council, as well as casual meals, physical work at outstations. and recreational activities with Aboriginal people. Both with Aboriginal people and conservation agency staff, participation in various 'work' activities, often especially ones involving physical work, was highly conducive to developing relaxed relationships from which valuable conversations flow.

In Queensland, hands-on mapping processes and bush-based' fieldwork were fundamental to an understanding of both the spatial elements of the issues and cultural constructions of identity. Periods spent walking, driving and flying over the various contested landscapes, with both Aboriginal people and conservation agency staff, revealed key differences and overlaps between and within the groups. They were also important in deriving deeper understandings of individual and group perspectives, as the move from meeting room or office into the bush transformed many individuals, in terms of communication, outlook, empathy and commitment. While this applied to both Aboriginal people and conservation agency staff, there were profound differences as well: for example, several times

Aboriginal people were moved to tears in particular situations, whereas this never happened with agency staff. The gendered aspects of Aboriginal landscapes were also evident, with

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occasions where one gender excluded itself from particular places, or limited my access because of my gender.

My relationship with staff of Queensland Parks And Wildlife Service was more ambiguous.

I was classified as working for the 'opposition', but I was also knowledgeable about conservation agency jargon and processes. As the negotiation developed, I was also discovered to be apparently less threatening (and more understanding of the realities of conservation practice) than the Cape York Land Council lawyers, so key agency staff would often seek discussions with me rather than other staff. The nature of Queensland

Parks And Wildlife Service offices and budget constraints meant that I was never in the bush with conservation agency staff, although I was several times in small Aboriginal communities with them.

In NSW I had little direct contact with people in Aboriginal communities, but spent time regularly at the NSW Aboriginal Land Council with both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal staff. I knew some of these people prior to commencing research, which facilitated empathetic relationships, but there were many staff changes during my research. This progressively distanced me from senior management and influenced the research direction, leading to an emphasis on particular contested issues and their institutional progress and legal resolutions, rather than close contacts with the Aboriginal people from the communities involved.

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Conversely, at the National Parks and Wildlife Service 1 am strongly embedded in the organisation, being employed for three years and on leave for three years during the research process. I know many people, and have essentially open access to files and other forms of documentation, as well as being in a strong position to observe cultural interactions within the National Parks and Wildlife Service. I have always been open about my views on Aboriginal interests in conservation, positioning me in a particular subset of

National Parks and Wildlife Service staff, but debate around these issues is often open and vigorous, so this has not been a constraint except perhaps at executive level. My previous background in a conservation NGO means that I also know many people in these NGOs and often encounter them in my work, allowing observation of their particular cultures and values.

My use of participant observation in neither case study amounts to a comprehensive ethnography, but allows me to focus on the processes and meanings that are critical to the shared cultural systems of the groups (Herbert 2000). How socially constructed meanings are structured into society via legal and policy documents (Stratford 1993, Jacobs 1999), and how these meanings are challenged and negotiated in the complex and contextual nature of daily processes (Herbert 2000) by Aboriginal people and conservation agency staff, helps me to engage with the points of connection in divergent epistemologies.

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CONCLUSIONS

As will be obvious by now, this research involved a large measure of what Baker (1999) calls Teaming on the job', and the research evolved extensively during its course. This was both opportunistic, taking advantage of opportunities as they arose which I was not aware of when commencing; and reactive, reconfiguring approaches when proposed lines of investigation were unsuccessful. It was also critically reflexive (England 1994, Dowling

2000). Because there are clear practical consequences for individual people and communities, as well as for conservation agencies (and for places) in the outcomes of my research and work, it is necessary that I be as responsible as possible in the process, including being alert to my own shortcomings, assumptions and power relative to others in the research.

The research has been a transforming experience, as it should. I have come into communities as yet another non-Aboriginal person asking questions about Aboriginal lives, and been educated and re-educated by the Aboriginal people I have worked with, who have been tolerant and welcoming to a very large degree. I have been reminded of the real outcomes (and dangers) of my research direction and activities, and my responsibilities in being given knowledge about particular places and people. I have analysed vegetation maps and aerial photographs using my Western academic training, and then been shown and told about the personalised, historic, spiritual and social landscapes within these places. Moving from Aboriginal locations to conservation agency ones, I have also been reminded not to make simplistic assumptions about corporate or personal intentions and actions, and to look for productive, rather than unproductive, differences and convergences.

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These iterative and reflexive processes were facilitated by a qualitative research methodology centred on ethnography. My multiple positions in the case study situations enabled access to a wide range of data sources. The application of multiple methods to these sources allows triangulation both in terms of 'validity' and also to deepen and enrich the interpretations.

134 PART II

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4 RACE, NATURE AND CHANGE : CONSERVATION AGENCIES

The National Parks Idea is too politically influential to limit itself to an endorsement of scientific ways of knowing place. (Robin 2000, p 15)

The RSPCA launched proceedings against the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service yesterday, charging it with aggravated cruelty. (Sydney Morning Herald lfh November 2000, p 1)

Genealogical research by an anthropologist had shown that Badger did not meet the legal definition of an Aboriginal owner. His brother William Bates, however, was present at the ceremony to proudly accept the title to the land [Mutawintji National Park], (Feary 2001, p 278)

INTRODUCTION

The broad fields of inquiry reviewed in chapters one and two. indigenous involvement in national parks, constructions of nature and race, and processes of institutional change, are given their practical and policy expression in state conservation agencies' interaction with indigenous issues. This chapter examines some aspects of that institutional expression, bringing together other work and my own research. Chapters five and six will then provide a more detailed analysis of the 'operating environment' for conservation agencies and

Aboriginal people, respectively.

Conservation agencies in New South Wales and Queensland have generally engaged with

Aboriginal interests in three ways. Probably by far the greatest interaction is through the paradigm of 'cultural heritage', which has been the primary way conservation agencies

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have interpreted Aboriginal interests. More recently, conservation agencies have been forced to respond to Aboriginal interests through the land claim and native title processes, and this has been adversarial. A third process, linked to the first, has been the incorporation of Aboriginal knowledge about particular environments (variously described as 'Traditional

Ecological Knowledge' or 'Indigenous Knowledge Systems') into 'scientific' data collection. It is only this third, which is structured as an 'add-on' to scientific knowledge rather than an alternate understanding, which is seen as related to biodiversity conservation in agency terms.

This chapter first presents and analyses some of the complexities in conservation agencies' constructions of nature, examining institutional processes and then contradictions around approaches to 'native' and 'feral' species. How these are expressed at Kosciuszko National

Park is used as an example of the difficulties around these issues. Agency constructions of race are then discussed, examining legal constructions, the cultural heritage paradigm, and land rights and native title. Finally, some of the challenges and correspondences between conservation interests and Aboriginal interests, expressed by these various analyses, and operationalised in institutional change, are examined.

AGENCY CONSTRUCTIONS OF NATURE

INSTITUTIONALISING CONSERVATION

The cultures of conservation agencies obviously articulate to the broader public psyche, so many of the constructions of nature and race held in popular culture apply for some of the people who work, and make decisions, in conservation agencies. Mv understanding of the

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organisational culture of conservation agencies involves three interacting elements: the organisation itself, with its official and unofficial cultures; the members of the organisation and their negotiations over culture with each other and the organisation; and the external social and political environment, and its interaction with the organisation. Each aspect has linkages to various popular and ideological constructions of nature and 'race' (including

Aboriginality).

My primary focus on conservation in this thesis is the bureaucracy: state government agencies. However, in maintaining this focus, I cannot avoid discussing the policies and activities of conservation groups in the non-government organisation sector (NGOs).

Conservation NGOs are often powerful lobby organisations with good access to the ministerial decision-making process. They are also by no means homogenous, with a wide spectrum of worldviews of nature, race, and indigenous participation in conservation.

Chapter two indicated the role of 'activists' in the process of institutional and policy change, and individuals in conservation NGOs play this role, and negotiate for primacy in their level of influence.

The two conservation agencies considered in this thesis, the NSW National Parks and

Wildlife Service (NPWS) and the Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service

(QPWS), reveal their particular constructions of nature in various ways. The corporate agency culture tends to present an inclusive and ambiguous vision of nature as both a refuge for wildlife (national parks) and as a playground and classroom for people (mostly structured recreational facilities in national parks). Informally, there are diverse and

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contested constructions reflecting the plurality of agency sub-cultures. This is part of the process of articulation from the local to the global. A park-based ranger's view of nature might be built from connecting the various spatial nodes in their physical work environment into local then regional understandings of remnant natural places, integrating the place-experiences into an intellectual structure usually deriving from biological sciences: connecting the abstract to the local. An executive manager's view of nature needs to articulate to larger scales, building from the statewide reserve system and distribution of threatened species to the national reserve system, international wading bird treaties and

IUCN protected area categories: connecting the abstract to the global.

Bob Pressey (1995), a NPWS senior research scientist, writes of different constructions of nature held by different sections of the conservation movement, including differences within conservation agencies He uses the terms 'crown jewels' and 'leftovers' to distinguish a dual level of difference. The history of conservation has meant that most national parks are located on crown land: residual land leftover from other uses such as agriculture and forestry. This land, which primary producers consider as 'leftovers', often becomes the 'crown jewels' of conservationists because it tends to be rugged, remote, wild and beautiful. However, in terms of biodiversity value, it is now areas which may be relatively unattractive, flat, close to human disturbance or already affected by it, which may be the key conservation areas. In bioregions where extensive impact has already occurred and no national parks exist, these small disturbed remnants may be vital: they are what remains of the crown jewels Kor some conservationists though (including in state conservation agencies,, this is not good enough: if it is not beautiful, wild, extensive and a

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'favourite place', it does not take priority. While conservation value for conservation biologists may be representativeness, for other conservationists it may be beauty and naturalness, and the two are not necessarily related. Pressey has also engaged with the concerns identified by Proctor and Pincetl (1996), and although writing as a scientist with

NPWS, confirms that their identified separation is persistent in conservation agencies. In a recent paper (Pressey 1999b), he details the level of opposition his research (and implicitly, his construction of nature), has received from many people working in the conservation arena, including NPWS. Pressey is an internationally recognised expert in the area of systematic conservation planning, but his own organisation does not comprehensively use his methodologies (for example, see NPWS 2001).

Commenting on the reserves managed by QPWS, the Local Government Association of

Queensland (2000, p 20) defines their role as 'establishing the State's natural and cultural identity'. This is not something that has been made explicit by either QPWS or NPWS. but has important historical congruences. Robin (2000, p 2) discusses how what is national is strongly cultural, arguing that the '"national" in national parks gives enormous significance to the reserves so named. Each nation takes the national to heart, reading it through its own grid of key values'. She notes (quoting Stephen Dovers, pers comm. 8 June 2000) that

NPWS is the state's 'most trusted' government department. Robin, like Langton (1998) and

Rose (1996), identifies the clear connections between the particular wilderness-based edenic constructions of national parks and nationally defining denials of Aboriginal presence. As discussed further in chapter five, the wilderness-eden-nationalist-national park

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concept developed in the United States, was comprehensively imported into Australia, and many aspects remain remarkably persistent.

In 1998, the NSW Environment Minister commissioned a review process for NSW NPWS:

'Visions'. Its outcomes included a review of legislation and a restructure of the organisation. These processes may lead to a change in the worldview of NPWS. The new

Corporate Plan (NPWS 2000a), talks about a 'change of direction', focusing on conservation across the whole landscape and management of the reserve system within a regional context. How these corporate directions translate into action on the ground, and how the organisation leads a change in worldview in its staff, are major challenges

Many staff of government conservation agencies are also members of conservation NGOs, which allows the possibility of 'switching hats' to progress their particular agenda, or assist the NGO agenda. Providing extensive data to groups, and automatically converting NGO proposals to government New Area Proposals' are activities which certainly occur in NSW

NPWS This is. of course, not to say that there is not a legitimate relationship between state and NGO groups, and much useful collaboration. But there are also often distinctly different ideologies, and these can drive relationships which are less than transparent, and less than legitimate.

I he emergence of the discipline of conservation biology, and its hegemony in government conservation agencies, has opened a gap between many N'GO conservationists and some

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state agency staff. Science is seen as ignoring core principles from the history of the conservation movement on the one hand, while fuzzy Romantic ideologies are seen as undermining the rational pursuit of biodiversity conservation on the other. This is a concrete manifestation of the dichotomy between the Romantic and scientific versions of conservation ideology, discussed in chapters one and five.

The Colong Foundation, a conservation NGO focusing on wilderness protection, has argued:

The political ploy of escaping from controversial decisions by establishing prolonged inquiries, studies and research based on complex data sets rather than accepting well considered park proposals having strong public support is very relevant to the scientific reserve debate,... [and] the money spent on more studies would be better spent on park management. (1998. p 10)

Pressey (1995, p 51), conversely, argues that if systematic, data-based approaches are not used, then it is likely that 'conservation resources are about to be misplaced'. It is notable that Pressey (1995, 1999b) identifies that versions of the romantic ideology of conservation strongly persist within government conservation agencies as well as in conservation NGOs.

While comprehensive reserve planning methodologies are an attempt to proceed past some of the emotional debates around conservation, conservation practice for particular 'species' continues to demonstrate significant tensions.

1 "Visions' was referred to as Delusions' bv main slaliduriiu: the process; one ol its outcomes, titled Nurturins; the landscape'. »^ commonly referred to as Neulcnni: the landscape'.

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OTHER SPECIES: NATIVE, NATURALISED AND NEGLECTED

Management of individual species is a normal part of state agency conservation practice.

While mission statements and corporate documents usually refer to 'biodiversity', much energy and resources in conservation agencies are targetted to species management, focusing often on 'endangered' species, but also on ones which have implications for other land users. Stratford et al (2000), Clark et al (2000a & b) have presented an interdisciplinary analysis of the difficulties of developing effective policy responses to one native animal, the koala. I briefly examine kangaroos, dingoes and aquatic macroinvertebrates to demonstrate some of these challenges, and the social and legal constructions which underlie them.

In NSW and Queensland, kangaroos and dingoes occupy complementary opposite categories in different land tenures, both of which must be recognised and managed by conservation agencies. In protected areas, and generally in the public imagination. kangaroos (of several species) are. in fact and in symbol, much loved 'native wildlife'. In rangeland areas, these same species are agricultural 'pests'. Dingoes similarly occupy a dual position as 'wildlife', and as predatory 'wild dogs' controlled by rural legislation.

The scientific consensus is that many kangaroo species' populations are 'unnaturally' high due to the presence of artificial stock watering sources throughout their range (Landsberg et al 1997). Kangaroos are accordingly subject to a commercial harvest regime as part of measures to control their agricultural impact (Eveleigh 1995. Lunney 1998). Th.s is highly controvers.al. u„h pastorales, conservationists and annual welfare organisations holding

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different positions. Annual population data collected by NPWS scientists is attacked as either over- or under-estimates, depending on the position of the stakeholder (Eveleigh

1995, Lunney 1995). This is a long-standing controversy, with little change in protagonists' views, and much literature published (see, for example, the thirteen papers in Grigg et al

1995). 'Intrinsic' and 'extrinsic' values are contested, 'scientific' data marshalled for each position's arguments, and no resolution obvious. The NPWS and QPWS have opposing roles in different places: they licence kangaroo shooting on private and leasehold land, and

'protect' kangaroos in national parks.

Dingoes have an even more complex place in Australian culture: introduced by Aboriginal people 4,000-6,000 years ago and probably contributing to the extinction of the Thylacine on the mainland, but now 'naturalised' as wildlife; subject to interbreeding with feral domestic dogs and a predator of sheep; a sporadic attacker of humans but increasingly popular as a pet. NPWS and QPWS acknowledge the difficulty of managing dingoes for conservation and human safety, as well as meeting control obligations under the NSW

Rural Land Protection Act 1998 and the Queensland Rural Lands Protection Act 1985 .

The science end of the spectrum carries out genetic research to find and conserve populations of 'pure' dingoes, while even these are subject to management control when they are perceived as a threat to humans. In early 2001. these challenges received extensive coverage in the media when dingoes attacked several people on Fraser Island, including a fatal attack on a young boy

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These examples raise the issue of what are the characteristics of species which are classified as natural or wild. While very different approaches to this may be adopted by the public, scientists and Aboriginal people, within conservation biology ambiguities persist.

As discussed in chapter one. Proctor and Pincetl (1996) identify a schism between the

'purified' nature of conservation science and the 'hybrid' context in which protected areas are situated. This is problematic in that 'hybridity' in fact penetrates to the heart of protected areas, and management of the pure/hybrid boundary is next to impossible unless the pure is fenced in ".

When species stray beyond the tenures that define them as natural, other constructs define their management (kangaroos become pests to utilise as a resource, which urban environmentalists unthinkingly feed to their pets). Movement in the other direction is similarly problematic: farm dogs interbreeding with wild dingoes reduces their naturalness; dingoes attacking children demonstrate a version of wild nature that transgresses acceptable boundaries.

Similar value judgements can be found in scientific' approaches to survey and assessment of the range of species present in an area. During the Urban Bushland Biodiversity Suney in western Sydney (NPWS 1997). researchers identified that of the approximately 1,000 species of aquatic macroinvertebrates, several were acutely threatened at the regional level.

Cronon c l'i ''sh> gr.es an AriK.-Mv.aii example: Ycllousionc National I'ark currently lav.es a dilemma about native' mountain goats Ihcv 'ike occurs.I m ilic region ni V ellou stone, an,I population-. Iroin ilic west will e\eutuall> rccohmise the park in a 'natural evolutional pr.*.css However, another population ,.i ilie saiiK- 'spates', hut defended Irom vwld j.,,aK translocated lo the east ol the park I < hunter, is approaching li.nnilie northeast and souih Current park guidelines Oas.ilv \h,s second popula i as unnatural and recommend slhwiiiij them

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None of these species are subject to specific conservation measures. By contrast, the known regional diversity of vascular plants is around 1,300, and many of these are addressed on an individual basis in conservation management. As a result of the Urban Bushland

Biodiversity Survey, a number of species and communities of terrestrial animals and plants were added to the schedules of the Threatened Species Act 1996, however no species or communities of aquatic macroinvertebrates were added. It is clear in this instance that the assessment and management of 'biodiversity' is subject to hierarchies of values and concern, both scientific and popular.

KOSCIUSZKO: AUSTRALIA'S FIRST INHABITED NATIONAL PARK ?

I now want to look at how some of these, and other, policy issues are operationalised in a particular park: Kosciuszko National Park, NSW. As a national park which is not generally associated with Aboriginal interests, it provides an example of 'conservation-as-usual', against which to compare some of the issues which are seen as contentious in Aboriginal interests, and also demonstrates some of the complexities of conservationists' constructions of nature. While the inclusion of skiing interests is unique in NSW, Kosciuszko is nevertheless one of the icons of wilderness and naturalness in NSW, containing six proclaimed wilderness areas, and extensive areas of 'wild' and 'remote' mountain landscapes. Kosciuszko National Park has an area of approximately 690,000 hectares, including (in Western terms) dry river-valley, tableland, montane, subalpine and alpine ecosystems. It contains the largest single alpine area in Australia, as well as Australia's highest point (Mount Kosciuszko at 2228 m). It has considerable evidence of occupation by

Aboriginal people, as well as numerous European historic structures (NPWS 1988). I have

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had a long personal association with Kosciuszko, working for NPWS as a 'seasonal ranger' there in the 1970s, and visiting very many times since, cross-country skiing and bushwalking. For this chapter, I interviewed several rangers and managers at Kosciuszko, and examined files on ski accommodation, animal road mortalities and feral horses.

Chapter five discusses how Yellowstone National Park, asserted to be the first national park in the world, was also the first inhabited national park in the world, being home to

American Indians prior to and after its declaration for some time. In Australia, it is possible that Kosciuszko, gazetted as a national park in 1967, was Australia's first legally inhabited national park , preceding Kakadu in the Northern Territory (gazetted in 1979 with around

100 Aboriginal people living in the park - see Hill and Press 1994). Kosciuszko National

Park started life as a State Park in 1944, managed by a Trust. In 1967 it was regazetted as

'Kosciusko National Park', managed by NPWS. In 1977, Kosciusko became one of twelve

Australian reserves to be declared as a Biosphere Reserve under UNESCO's 'Man and the

Biosphere Program'. It was renamed 'Kosciuszko' (with the 'z') in 1997.

In 1967, Kosciuszko was intensively occupied seasonally, with permanent ski tourism settlements being established at Charlotte Pass, Perisher Valley, Guthega and Thredbo between the 1930s and 1960s. Today there are thousands of beds' permanently within the national park. Over 3 million people per annum visit the park, and it generates direct annual revenue of over $10 million. It contains all of New South Wales' ski resorts. There are a range of fully commercial facilities (shops, galleries, restaurants, bars, hotels, public

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transport stations), and it is possible to buy and sell real estate within the national park. A recent major Inquiry produced a report (Office of the Commissioners of Inquiry for

Environment and Planning, 1998) which recommended increasing the amount of skiing accommodation in Kosciuszko, and asserting that 'socio-economic significance must be factored in as an environmental value' (p 46). This Inquiry rejected submissions by conservation NGOs that urban-like developments were inappropriate in this national park, using the park's landuse history and its classification as a Biosphere Reserve to justify their decisions. It should also be noted that the original proposal to increase the amount of accommodation (which the Inquiry was investigating), was submitted by NPWS.

Two other issues are indicative of issues which appear to be acceptable in Kosciuszko, but not accepted in rhetoric opposing Aboriginal participation. One is the incidence of wildlife fatalities on roads (versus opposition to Aboriginal hunting), and the other is the managed presence of feral species within the park (see also previous section).

The approximately 2 million people who visit in the four month winter period,

(unintentionally) harvest over 100 large to medium native animals annually, as well as numerous but uncounted smaller species, through road collision fatalities. NPWS has made various attempts to reduce the level of mortalities, but statistics to date show no significant results. While it is regarded as an issue of concern to rangers and other park staff, NPWS has not considered it of sufficient importance to dedicate significant funds to studying or

' It is likely that Roval National Park, in l

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responding to the situation4. The animals regularly killed include Eastern Grey Kangaroo,

Swamp Wallaby. Red-necked Wallaby, Wombat, Brushtail Possum and Echidna, as well as smaller species including birds and reptiles. These mortalities, while occurring over a 25 kilometre linear section of road, nevertheless represent a quite spatially targetted impact.

No specific research has been carried out to ascertain whether populations of these species have been declining as a result of the distribution and abundance of the road mortalities.

Annual statistics to date do not reveal any trends in population impacts.

These are all animals which could be expected as target species of Aboriginal hunters in south eastern Australian environments. Wood (1992) identified all of these named species

(except Wombat) in an archaeological excavation of a prehistoric Aboriginal rock shelter on Barrenjoey Peninsula in northern Sydney. Wood's analysis indicated that the first three species (all macropods) were the primary species hunted by the Aboriginal community represented by the excavation, contributing more than 80% of the weight of land mammal meat eaten. All of the species identified either still occur in the Sydney region or occurred there at the time of Huropean occupation.

Qualitatively, it could be argued that these two sets of data allow comparison. While both are statistically limited and they occur in widely separated areas (but not so different that the species differ), they indicate that while a small set of species were regularly harvested, their populations had not significantly declined. I do not want to suggest that this is an

\lso ulnle the K. j.U I nil .it K >sctus./k has an mloruial polio. o| Laving carcases on the road as a message I > drivers, the dead

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argument for allowing Aboriginal (or other) hunting in national parks. Rather, I am interested in the fact that the road mortalities in Kosciuszko receive very little attention from conservation interests (either agency or NGO), while the potential of Aboriginal hunting in other parks is the subject of significant and vociferous attention (for example.

Plumb 1999, Mosley 1998, Ponte et al 1994). Aboriginal hunting is also likely to involve conscious and strategic choice of species and individual animals, so hunters can avoid species perceived as threatened, rare, or otherwise special (see, for example. Baker 1988,

Altman 1987). The road mortalities are an essentially random result of animal behaviour and vehicle speed, and a rare species is no more likely to be avoided than a common one.

The second issue concerns non-native and 'pest' species in Kosciuszko. Three species provide examples of the challenges facing conservation managers: dingoes, horses and trout. While NPWS regards dingoes as 'an integral part of natural systems' (NPWS 1988 p

118), they also recognise that the species is defined as a 'wild dog' under the Rural Land

Protection Act 1998, and regarded as a 'noxious animal'. Accordingly, 'the Service intends to provide protection for the native dog (dingo) within Service lands wherever this can be achieved while still affording protection to neighbours from predation on stock'. That is, the NPWS will kill dingoes near boundaries with affected neighbours (p 118).

The presence of feral horses (also called wild horses or brumbies) is a legacy of

Kosciuszko's earlier land use history as grazing country. This history has generated particular values, especially in the local community, but also in Australia generally. Banjo

Patterson's narrative poem, 'The Man From Snowy River' has long been an emblem of

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Australian values, reinforced for contemporary generations by being adapted into a film and then a television series. Author Elaine Mitchell's series about the 'Silver Brumby' has also long been a classic of Australian children's literature. These literary works all celebrate both the wild horses of the Snowy Mountains and the people who value and work with them.

NPWS has been concerned about possible ecological damage by feral horses for some time

(for example, NPWS 1988. p 119). However, a consultant's study in 1995 provoked the local member of parliament to announce that he feared a 'brumby cull', calling it 'an attack on children's dreams' (Cooma Express, 2nd December 1995, p 5). NPWS are aware of the sensitivity of this issue, and had intended to convene a community steering group to develop appropriate management responses

This approach was given significant impetus in October 2000, when a cull of feral horses in

Guy Favvkes River National Park provoked a major public debate, prompted, in part, by the iconic use of Australian stockhorscs in the opening ceremony for the 2000 Olympic Games the previous month Within days of the media debate, the Minister for the Environment announced a ban on shooting horses from helicopters in national parks, rejecting expert advice and lobbying by conservation NGOs in support of culling. The Minister 'admitted he had bowed to pressure from outraged callers on talkback radio' (Sydney Morning Herald

17'" November 2000. pi). The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals i RSPCA) also began legal proceedings against the NPWS on 16'h October. On 25'" October

2(KK). Koscnis/ko National Park management announced they would convene a steering

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group to guide community involvement in developing a wild horse management plan for the alpine area. Whatever management approach is eventually taken for the Kosciuszko brumbies, it is highly likely that 'pure' environmental considerations will be affected by the need to include community values.

The 19885 Plan of Management (NPWS 1988) describes some of the freshwater native species which occur in the waters of Kosciuszko. The Plan then notes 'however, brown, rainbow and brook trout, atlantic salmon and redfin have been introduced to the waters' (p xvi). Despite the fact that fishing for these species is a major recreational activity in the park, the Plan does not mention these fish or the practice of fishing again.

These situations are a demonstration of the paradox of the 'purificationist' response described by Proctor and Pincetl (1996). While on the one hand, NPWS is trying to ensure that land within national parks is a haven for native species, they recognise that they cannot prevent these species moving across boundaries and accordingly are prepared to kill native animals (dingoes) within the park, adjacent to boundaries with threatened neighbours.

Similarly, the penetration into the park by alien species is condoned because of the public value placed on these species, even though this value conflicts with biodiversity conservation objectives. An extractive resource value (trout fishing) is given higher priority than protection of freshwater native species. An emotional and heritage value (maintaining the presence of wild horses) has been given higher priority than protection of alpine habitats.

* 'lliere have been several amendments, but this Plan is still current

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These positions can also be contrasted with Aboriginal perspectives on 'feral' species, such as recorded by Bruce Rose (1995) and discussed in chapter one. In Kakadu National Park, some Aboriginal owners 'are anxious to see feral buffalo return', and domesticated herds are kept within the park now (Commonwealth of Australia 1999, p86). At Uluru-Kata

Tjuta National Park, the Plan of Management states ' Anangu perceptions of introduced animals are sometimes at variance with scientific views: management programs should take this into account' (Commonwealth of Australia 2000 p88). Aboriginal people in these national parks are negotiating for their values of 'feral' animals to be recognised and respected, in ways which are not dissimilar to those people with differing values in

Koscius/ko. The historic significance of feral horses to some people in Kosciuszko is similar to the historic values to Aboriginal people of buffalo in Kakadu. The resource significance of trout in Kosciuszko is similar to the resource value of rabbits in Uluru-Kata

Tjuta

My interest in these conflicts is in how they illuminate the contradictions and complexities. for agencies, inherent in apparently simple concepts such as 'nature conservation', and how they demonstrate the continual negotiation over priorities to be given to differing community values in national parks In Koscius/ko. skiers, trout fishers and 'children's dreams' have successfully prioritised their values over conservationists, both NGO and agency In some Aboriginal-owned national parks. Aboriginal people continue to contest scientific- v.cws of appropriate conservation management, and assert the priorities of their own values

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AGENCY CONSTRUCTIONS OF RACE

Constructions of Aboriginality by the various aspects of the state directly affect a suite of

Aboriginal interests. Land rights, native title, joint management regimes, the legitimacy of cultural practices, are all determined through the lens of these constructions, allowing or disallowing authenticity. Analysing interactions between contemporary Aboriginal people and Australian bureaucracies, Cowlishaw argues:

[Aboriginal] culture was not seen as embedded in everyday habits and language, nor in moral priorities which conflicted with the plans of government officials. Rather, culture was understood as the icing on the cake, the external, the superficial, the voluntary acts and practices of traditional people. (1999, p 16)

Langton and Cowlishaw further emphasise the importance of bureaucratic constructions:

The popularly held view of Aboriginal society in the remote areas of Australia as a fossilised remnant of the Palaeolithic is a powerful idea in the history of policy and administration of Aboriginal affairs, and currently holds sway in government circles.

(Langton. 1998. p 22)

...the past remains present in a complex social milieu where social relations and identities have been constructed around racial categories and differentiations. This is evident within bureaucratic processes and persons, as well as in the social world which the bureaucracy manages. (Cowlishaw. 1998. p 147)

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As discussed in chapter one, the management of indigenous cultural heritage is essentially carried out by state conservation agencies (bureaucracies), with input from consultant archaeologists, and their definition of cultural heritage has had a major role in defining how conservation agencies' construct 'race', and consequently 'culture' (Byrne 1996, Byrne et al 2001, English and Brown 2000).

LEGAL CONSTRUCTIONS

The legislation underscoring many encounters between conservation agencies and

Aboriginal people - the Aboriginal ownership sections of the NSW National Parks and

Wildlife Act 1974, the NSW Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1983, and the Commonwealth

Native Title Act 1993 - all have different constructions of 'Aboriginality'. Those

Aboriginal people determined to be native title holders, are different to those entitled to make land claims, who are in turn different to those entitled to participate in joint management of national parks in NSW. This spectrum of legislative definitions and rights reflects the historical process of change in understanding of Aboriginal people's rights to land, particularly between 1983 (Aboriginal Land Rights Act) and 1993 (Native Title Act).

While there have clearly been advances here, the law is not currently adequately reflecting the differing connections with place represented by Aboriginal communities, families and individuals

Under the Aboriginal Umd Rights Act 1983, in NSW an Aboriginal person is one who is a member of the Aboriginal race', identifies as such and is accepted by their community as such: that is. they sell-identify This would appear to be a very benign and positive

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situation, handing control to Aboriginal people themselves, and it is in fact criticised by conservative elements for so doing. However, in other legislation, the parliament determines types of Aboriginality, to which particular rights apply, much more precisely.

Potential native title holders under the Native Title Act have to prove 'connection'.

'Connection Reports' with extensive genealogies, usually from an ancestor listed by an early researcher are produced by anthropologists. Potential 'Aboriginal owners' of protected areas available for joint management, are defined in the National Parks and

Wildlife Act and the Aboriginal Land Rights Act. These Aboriginal owners must be directly descended from the original Aboriginal inhabitants of the cultural area in which the land is situated, and have a cultural association with the land deriving from the traditions and customs of the original Aboriginal inhabitants. This is essentially the same requirement as under the Native Title Act, except that there is not an emphasis on a continuity of association. People displaced from their land may still become 'Aboriginal owners'.

On a positive reading, each of these complements the other, so that Aboriginal people fitting a range of different legal constructions have varying opportunities to access land. A slightly more critical reading, however, suggests that these differences create numerous sites for conflict. Conflict between and within Aboriginal groups is often cited as demonstrating their inability to manage themselves or various other failings, but these conflicts are often directly caused by the multiplicity of versions of Aboriginality sanctioned and promoted by different legislation. Many grants of land or interest have engendered intense conflict, as one legally sanctioned group is given ascendancy over all

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others. While it can be assumed that the intent of the various legislative developments has generally been beneficial, the consequence of the separate historic processes and their outcomes has been to generate complexity and div ision.

The various versions of Aboriginality authorised by legislation are interpreted and filtered through the organisational cultures of conservation agencies. These constructions of

Aboriginality directly affect a suite of Aboriginal interests. Land rights, native title, joint management regimes, the legitimacy of cultural practices, can all be determined through the lens of these constructions, allowing or disallowing 'authenticity'. It is organisational culture, and consequent policy, however, which can address the current inadequacies in the law: conservation agencies are in a position to work with all groups, respecting differing connections with the area.

CULTURAL HERITAGE

Further illumination of agency constructions of indigeneity and nature comes from examining concepts of cultural heritage'. There has long been an accepted and strong division between 'cultural' heritage and natural' heritage, with state conservation agencies usually having responsibility for managing both, but separately. This distinction is more strongly marked in settled Australia: the landscapes of the north and centre, like Uluru. are more capable of being regarded as natural and cultural.

Byrne et al (2D01). however, also argue that a core issue in constructions of cultural heritage is the naturalising- of Aboriginal heritage, where cultural heritage, because it is

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defined as existing in the material landscape, is managed as part of the natural world. Early protective legislation made no reference to contemporary Aboriginal people. The management of the cultural heritage to be protected was, and is, in the hands of a non-

Aboriginal bureaucracy, and the state legally owns it.

Accordingly, the legitimacy accorded to contemporary Aboriginal people by NPWS has varied over time. The Howard Creamer led research project, the 'Sites of Significance

Survey' (1973-1983) for NSW NPWS broke new ground in oral history and Aboriginal community values, including much post-contact focus. Recording of sites was from the living knowledge of Aboriginal communities, rather than archaeological survey (Creamer

1986). The title of one of Creamer's papers is indicative, 'Aboriginality in New South

Wales: beyond the image of cultureless outcasts' (Creamer 1988). It is significant that

Creamer was an anthropologist rather than an archaeologist: that is, an investigator of living cultures rather than past ones.

Subsequently (1980-2000), work in Aboriginal heritage in NPWS was largely captured by the Environmental Impact Assessment process, with a focus on archaeological survey and working with representatives of Local Aboriginal Land Councils, who came into the field with the archaeologists, rather than the professionals going into the Aboriginal communities. The archaeological and relic focus was dominant, reinforcing notions of a past authentic Aboriginality which modern Aboriginal people learned about by helping the archaeologists (Byrne et al 2001). King (1998) identifies the significance of the archaeological dominance of environmental impact assessment in the United States, and the

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exclusion of broader concepts of cultural value. In Australia. English (1996), Boyd et al

(1996), Memmot and Long (1998), and English and Brown (2000), amongst others, have examined the limitations of existing approaches to 'cultural heritage management'.

More recently still (1996), a formal 'grievance procedure' was commenced by Aboriginal staff at NPWS over the lack of engagement with Aboriginal community heritage values.

This resulted in a significant increase in resources for this process, and a new, Aboriginal- led structure for achieving it. Byrne et al (2001) identify this as the beginning of the third phase of Aboriginal heritage management in NPWS. Each of these phases has been based around different perceived or negotiated modalities of Aboriginality, with the

'organisational legitimacy' being a contested process.

LAND RIGHTS and NATIVE TITLE

The recognition of Aboriginal rights in relation to land and culture, reflected in land rights legislation in different states, and in native title legislation federally and at state level, has affected conservation agencies in several ways. Land rights legislation in Queensland allows for land claims over some designated national parks, so the conservation agency has been involved in negotiations with potential Aboriginal owners about these parks. Some elements of this are examined in chapter seven. In New South Wales, land rights legislation allows land claims only over 'vacant Crown land', so no gazetted national parks are involved However, this vacant Crown land is often of interest to NPWS for potential new national parks, so a situation of competition has evolved, with the conservation agency often opposing Aboriginal land claims Chapter eight examines this process in detail.

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The recognition of native title has created a new overlay. Aboriginal people may assert native title rights both over land in national parks, as well as over plants, animals and other features of the landscape. They may assert spiritual rights over particular aspects of places.

Depending on the circumstances, these rights may have to negotiate with those under land claim legislation. As discussed earlier, the definitions in different legislation are different.

Native title is an evolving legal and social sphere, so it is not possible to be conclusive about effects or outcomes, but conservation agencies cannot avoid engaging in these processes.

Outside of the Northern Territory, both land rights and native title have delivered relatively small gains to Aboriginal people so far. While both purport to recognise pre-existing

Aboriginal rights and contemporary disadvantage, the reality has been an extremely conservative approach from governments. Discussing native title, but in some respects equally applicable to land rights, Marr (2001) argues:

Fundamentally, white Australia still treats native title as an anomaly to be contained.

Politics, law and business continue to grind away at these rights, little by little. Far more has changed in our imaginations than on the ground. (2001, p 19)

Notwithstanding the general truth of that statement, both these sets of rights have very particular relevance to conservation agencies, and both are beginning to influence conservation theory and practice. Chapters nine and ten examine these influences further.

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CHALLENGES AND CORRESPONDENCES

NATURE AND CULTURE: INSTITUTIONAL CHANGE

In the last few years both the NPWS and QPWS have been through restructuring processes.

In Queensland it is still in progress, and while the New South Wales agency process is formally completed, many changes are still being carried out. These restructures were prompted by both external factors in the agencies' operating environments, and internal understandings of the limitations of previous structures. Both of these restructuring processes have formally recognised a need to change agency relationships with Aboriginal people.

While these are positive moves, my analysis indicates a failure to comprehensively address the issues underlying these 'changes'. In New South Wales, while innovative on-ground projects have been funded, there is still a significant policy gap in issues relating to

Aboriginal interests In Queensland, while the Discussion Paper recognises the need to change processes, actual agency practices reflect the strength of the existing and historic agency culture. These issues will be examined in detail in chapters seven and eight.

As discussed earlier, significant changes appear to be occurring in the management and understanding of Aboriginal cultural heritage in New South Wales. Byrne et al (2001) describe the history and intentions of these changes, and Fnglish and Brown (2000) and

Fnglish (2001) are examples of innovative projects challenging earlier stereotypes. The

Aboriginal staff grievance process resulted in an Aboriginal led structure for cultural heritage management. In Queensland similar changes have not occurred. A review of the

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legislation for cultural heritage management, and introduction of new legislation, was comprehensively condemned by Aboriginal people in the state. The current agency restructure indicates on-park cultural heritage is intended to have greater involvement of

Aboriginal people.

These various changes demonstrate different elements of the four phase adaptive model discussed in chapter two. Most of my analysis here will focus on NPWS, as I have the most detailed data from this agency. The role of committed individuals, both within and outside agencies, is evident in the processes leading to formal restructuring procedures, with academics and NGO activists with biodiversity conservation interests highlighting deficiencies and pushing for change. Intellectual exploration and innovative projects in cultural heritage reflect adaptive change at a particular scale in NPWS. Limitations in organisational change overall are indicative of the limited success, so far, in communicating the smaller scale change to the other sections and scales of the agency. The changes within the cultural heritage section are also indicative of organisational learning processes, as they have been generated by a research unit focusing on 'continual constructive critique' (Byrne et al 2001, p 25) and engaged with intellectual debate outside the agency. It is not coincidental that particular individuals from this unit were also key in facilitating the reconciliation process.

Le^al 'losses' in court proceedings around Aboriginal land claims have crystallised "macro- problems' for the natural heritage part of NPWS. I have a personal role in attempting to venerate change at a particular organisational scale and then connecting it to the larger

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cycles of change, mobilised by the restructure processes and new corporate language around Aboriginal interests. A key challenge will be engaging with Gunderson, Holling and

Light's (1995b) 'alpha' groups, who are those controlling high level decision making.

Chapters eight and ten will examine these processes.

While government decision making is a crucial element in adaptive change, personal worldviews and organising myths of agency staff will be critical for that change to establish a foothold and develop through the organisations. Linked to this is establishing effective mechanisms to facilitate the new processes - institutionalising the adaptive, alternative, changes. The next sections discuss some aspects of these issues.

BODY AND SPIRIT

The spiritual and bodily connections to land discussed in chapter one are expressed differently by agency personnel and others. Tehan (1997) identifies the danger of overemphasising the spiritual, to the exclusion of economic and material relationships to country. Other writers (Dominy 1995. Strang 1997, Read 2000) have studied the bodily connection to land of non-Aboriginal people. The people who most commonly assert this connection ('it's in your blood', it gets under your skin') are farmers and pastoralists.

Strang argues that this comes from the considerable physical intimacy pastoralists have as a consequence of working in the landscape, and also the emphasis on inter-generational transfer of land (see also Read 2000). For pastoralists this physical intimacy and connection is uneasily articulated with an emotional and spiritual connection, even though this might

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be powerfully felt. Strang contrasts this with the 'holistic' framework of Aboriginal people, which integrates the physical, material, emotional and spiritual.

Comparing these concerns with the relationships of people in the conservation field, an interesting dichotomy emerges. Conservation activists in NGOs typically focus on

'spiritual' connections with nature - for example, rainforests as cathedrals, wilderness as solace for the human spirit - with a quite strongly marked lack of physical connection

(Cresswell and Thomas 1997). As bushwalkers they move through landscapes 'lightly', taking only photographs, leaving only footprints (Australian Alps National Parks 1993).

Their concern is with maintaining 'untouched' landscapes. Field-based staff in conservation agencies, in contrast, have a physical relationship much closer to that of pastoralists. Theirs are landscapes of work, surprisingly similar to those of pastoralists except for the emphasis on stock animals. The Queensland Rangers Association (2000, p 181) lists 'effective firebreaks, stock proof fences, large quantities of herbicide, major plant and equipment' as the essential needs for natural and cultural resource management. This list applies equally in pastoral property management.

In Strang's analysis of different readings of country by pastoralists and Aboriginal people she identifies modes of travel as important:

Unlike the Aboriginal population, the pastoralists never walk anywhere, so their interactions with the landscape are heavily influenced by the unnatural speed at which they experience it. (p 209)

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This distinction also applies between people who use national parks for recreation and those who work in them. Field-based conservation agency staff perceive landscapes of work, which, while they are often intimately familiar with them, they move through usually rapidly and usually in a vehicle. Bushwalking conservationists perceive recreational landscapes, often considered to be imbued with spirituality, which they walk through but do not otherwise physically interact with.

The act of ingesting food from the country travelled in also forms a particular connection to places and other species. Bushwalkers usually do not do this (although non-Aboriginal hunters and fisher people do, but they are mostly not allowed in national parks). Most conservation agency staff that I have observed do not do this either. Drinking water from sources in national parks used to be one of the joys of bushwalking, but there is now such a high risk of infection (often Giardia) that most people are discouraged from doing so

(Australian Alps National Parks 1993). Ironically, it is bushwalkers themselves who have introduced the infectious organisms, often from trekking holidays in other countries

(Recher 1998). Similarly, having a campfire - burning the material found locally to cook or heat water - is now discouraged, with walkers carrying fuel stoves and fuel to minimise environmental impacts (Australian Alps National Parks 1993).

Travelling in the bush with urban and rural Aboriginal people, their primary interest is often in the material uses of plants, animals and other things, as well as cultural and historical issues such as finding signs of earlier Aboriginal presence, or reading the landscape to surmise its earlier uses My own field experience in Cape York and other parts

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of Queensland, and in western Sydney, demonstrated this (detailed in chapters seven and eight). Recent work by English and Brown (2000) and English (2001) describes and analyses these interests in various parts of New South Wales. Eating and drinking the plants, animals and water of the landscape, burning firewood, burning country, cutting spearshafts - leaving signs of your travel - means intimate exchange between the country and the people: a material, bodily connection which can extend to a spiritual and genealogical one (Tamasari 1998).

CONCLUSION

Part of this thesis is an analysis of the decision-making processes in government conservation agencies (the 'policy process', in a broad interpretation). The ideology of conservation is deeply embedded into these processes, and so is the ways mainstream

Australia is accustomed to thinking about Aboriginality and Aboriginal culture. The centrality of ideas about Aboriginality in Australian nationhood and national identity, in conceptions of the landscape, and recently in conservation debates, influences these policy processes. The preceding discussion has drawn together a number of elements in the institutional expression of these issues. Constructions of nature and race are as relevant in agency organisational culture as they are in the broader culture of Australia. The contests and negotiations over these constructions and their institutional expression are mobilised in the processes of institutional change. The literature on institutional change provides tools for analysing and understanding these processes, and how they articulate to the specific elements I focus on in this research.

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Chapters five and six will now map out the practical landscapes of action for conservation ideology, policy and practice, and Aboriginal domains of interest. I am aware that these are not independent spheres of activity, but their separation here will facilitate my subsequent examination of their interpenetration and interaction.

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5 CONSERVATION: POLITICS , CULTURE and SCIENCE

Even within the United States, the Yellowstone story services an ideal that silences non-ideal alternative stories.(Robin 2000, p 8)

Collaterally, the culture of organisations imposes unconscious constraints. (Gunderson, Holling and Light 1995b, p 517)

We challenge the dominant politic that sees Aboriginal people as an important part of the scenery, but not part of the landscape. (Yu 2000 p I)

INTRODUCTION

This chapter provides an analysis of the 'operational environment' for the two state government conservation agencies examined in this thesis (QPWS and NPWS), as a context for the analysis of the relationship between conservation agencies and Aboriginal interests detailed further in the case studies. It examines issues arising from the institutionalisation of conservation activity, the 'culture of conservation' and the apparent hegemony of science. While the field of conservation has extensive involvement from community environment groups, my main focus, as discussed earlier, is state government conservation agencies, as it is these that effectively control the conservation agenda, including interaction with Aboriginal issues. Public sector agencies are influenced by processes of reform and globalisation, as well as their interna! organisational cultures. Their use of science is significant and problematic, and influences relationships between agencies, community groups and Aboriginal interests.

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My data and analysis from six years participant observation, textual analysis and interviews with the NSW and Queensland conservation agencies confirm these broad constructs. As discussed in chapter three, since 1997 I have been employed by NPWS, with three years observations and analysis as a participant observer, then three years of more arms-length observations while on leave but a regular visitor. The discussion in this chapter incorporates data and analysis from my own organisational research, as well as analysis of the extensive research literature in the field of conservation management.

This chapter reveals core themes: conservation agencies are defined and directed by political and cultural structures and tendencies. These encompass the hegemonic, but ambiguous and complex, role of science, in tension with the historical and persistent

Romantic tradition of conservation. These themes function independently of Aboriginal issues, but when applied to Aboriginal-conservation interactions have critical implications.

CONSERVATION AGENCIES

INSTITUTIONAL and GLOBAL INFLUENCES

The concept of biodiversity conservation is a relatively new one (Gaston 1996). Australia's biodiversity conservation effort has been and is largely focused on establishing protected areas (Thackwav 1997).

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Conservation in Australia is defined as:

the protection, maintenance, management, sustainable use, restoration and enhancement of the natural environment (Commonwealth of Australia 1996, p 50), and

Central to the conservation of Australia's biological diversity is the establishment of a comprehensive, representative and adequate system of ecologically viable protected areas integrated with the sympathetic management of all other areas, including agricultural and other resource production systems, (p 6)

Protected areas, in various forms, have a long history, with changing roles over time

(Worboys et al 2001). Australia has adopted the World Conservation Union (IUCN) definition of a protected area, which is:

An area of land and/or sea especially dedicated to the protection and maintenance of biological diversity, and of natural and associated cultural resources, and managed through legal or other effective means, (quoted in Cresswell and Thomas 1997. p 2)

Protected areas have for a long time been the unquestioned centrepiece of conservation programs, preceding concepts such as reserve systems and biodiversity. While their function has been questioned for at least the last two decades (see discussion in Recher

1998), they are still widely regarded as the fundamental component of national conservation programs (Worboys et al 2001).

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Historically, conservation agencies in Australia have been primarily influenced by Britain, the British Empire and the United States of America. After initial models from Britain (for example, Royal National Park established in 1879 and based on the large 'commons' parks of urban Britain), Australia was influenced more through practices in the Empire, and simultaneously, the USA (Caughley and Sinclair 1994, Grove 1995, Robin 2000). These had essentially separate philosophical origins, the imperial one based on resource management and game reserves, the American one exemplified by preservation of special scenery, partly as a symbol of national identity (Robin 2000). Both conservation concepts incorporated the stereotyping of indigenous peoples as 'noble savages' into the newly discovered (and imaginary) Edens. Subsequently, early imperial conservationism, while being a heterogeneous mixture of indigenous. Romantic and Orientalist elements, when linked with the needs of the colonial state, became a cause of indigenous peoples' oppression and a highly convenient form of social control (Grove 1995). American national parks, while initially including Indians, soon excluded them through the reservation settlement process (Stevens 1997a).

The early history of American national parks had a direct influence on Australia. In 1962 the First World Conference on National Parks was held in the USA, and international standards adopted. In 1967, after failed attempts in 1962 and 1966, the National Parks and

Wildlife Act was passed in NSW and the National Parks and Wildlife Service was established (Goldstein 1979). The first director of this organisation came directly from the job of Parks Advisor to the United States Department of the Interior (Robins 2000). The

USA was an early legislator on national parks, creating Yosemite in 1864 and Yellowstone

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in 1872. Yellowstone and Yosemite are significant both for their relationship with indigenous Indian people and the development of the hegemonic 'Yellowstone model' for protected areas: 'publicly owned, non-inhabited, minimal interference' (Figgis 1999, p 8).

Hales (1989, p 140) discussing this model, argues 'park boundaries were to be the walls against which profane activities would founder, providing within sanctuary to the human spirit', revealing both the quasi-religious origins and anthropocentrism, and the alternative names for the concept: 'the sanctuary model' and 'fortress parks'.

Yellowstone was established on land that had been occupied by indigenous people for eleven thousand years. At the time of its declaration it was inhabited year-round by

Shoshone Indians, and into the 1880s Bannock and Shoshone Indians continued hunting in the park. In 1887 the park was crossed by Nez Perce Indians who attacked a park hotel and killed several visitors. In response, a fortified park headquarters was built and the superintendent lobbied for the exclusion of Indians. In a circular irony, Yellowstone has transformed from the world's first inhabited national park to the international model for an uninhabited, wilderness reserve. When the park was first established and still the home of several Indian groups, it was a small example of George Catlin's vision of 'a nation's Park, containing man and beast in all the wild and freshness of their native beauty'. The relationship between indigenous people and settlers is iconically, and ironically, symbolised in Yellowstone: the world's first wilderness national park, embodying the American frontier myth while erasing its (Indian) human history and (settler) violence, and illuminating the post-frontier conception of the wilderness as a peaceful recreational refuge for urban tourists (Stevens 1997. Wright 1996, Cronon 1995. Denevan 1992). Conservation

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management in Australia essentially follows the Yellowstone model, and has been described as an 'obsession with freehold title, public ownership and bureaucratic management' (Sturgess 1998, p 25).

As Australian states (rather than the Federal Government) have responsibility for land management activities, there are nine separate protected area systems operating, with at least fifty different types of protected area (Cresswell and Thomas 1997). Table 5.1 below illustrates some aspects of these structures across Australia. In 1992 the Commonwealth government established the National Reserve System Program to facilitate coordination and create a common framework for biodiversity protection across these diverse institutional arrangements, and in 1994 all jurisdictions agreed to adopt the six level IUCN system of categories as the common basis for describing the different types of protected areas

(Cresswell and Thomas 1997).

Table 5.1 Administration of protected areas in Australia (data from Cresswell and Thomas 1997) Please see print copy for images

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As an activity of government, conservation is carried out under a legislative framework, with statute representing the 'public interest' (Lemons and Junker 1996). As an internationally accepted goal, it is also structured under a nested hierarchy of international, national and state agreements and policies. All governments in Australia have ratified a number of international instruments which have direct implications for Aboriginal interests.

The IUCN categories for protected areas include categories inclusive of indigenous uses and management; the National Strategy for the Conservation of Australia's Biodiversity which is articulated to the international Convention on Biological Diversity, makes specific mention of biodiversity and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples (Commonwealth of Australia 1996); the World Heritage Convention areas in Australia include Uluru - Kata

Tjuta and Kakadu National Parks and the Willandra Lakes Region; the UNESCO Man and the Biosphere Programme includes Uluru - Kata Tjuta National Park .

Australia also continues to be strongly influenced by American trends: the 1998 "Visions' process in NSW NPWS was directly modelled on the 1992 'Vail Agenda' process of the

United States National Parks Service (Allan 1998). The symposium which resulted in the

Vail Agenda was held on the 75th anniversary of the US National Parks Service. The NSW

'Visions' process was initiated on the 30th anniversary of the NSW National Parks and

Wildlife Service. The Local Government Association of Queensland's Inquiry (LGAC

2000) into National Parks, and the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service's 'Master

' Sec laekson and Crouch (1W5) lor an analysis ol the effect ol international environmental treaties on indigenous peoples in Australia. and Cornell and I ane (IW7) lor a specific example at VVillandni Lakes.

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Planning' process were initiated on the 25th anniversary of the parks service, and directly stimulated by the NSW exercise completed the year before.

State conservation agencies are part of the executive arm of government, answering to ministers who answer to parliament, which is responsible to the people. While public servants are supposedly carrying out 'neutral' instrumental activity, they are also expected to act in the interests of the government of the day (Bridgman 1998). Government organisations are also not simply the sum of their formal arrangements: there is an ongoing, negotiated relationship with the complexities of real life (Kariya 1992). Lee (1993) also points out that the assumption that the actions of a government agency are in the public interest is demonstrably untenable when they become involved in disputes with other government agencies. The embeddedness of conservation agencies in the whole machinery of government is clearly a factor: the agency may internally have a progressive ideology which it cannot implement because of Cabinet control or resistance by other agencies

(Sturgess 1998).

Control of biodiversity conservation activities by public service agencies has a number of consequences. Holling and Meffe (1996) identify 'command and control' as the approach taken in relation to natural resource management, including protected areas: 'bureaucracies are an exercise in variance reduction through regulation and control; their purpose is elimination of extreme behaviour through regulation to promote conformity to a specific set of standards'

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events because of their possible impact on neighbours or the conservation estate itself - fire is the obvious example in many Australian national parks. Holling and Meffe (p 330) observe that 'when the range of natural variation in a system is reduced, the system loses resilience'. Loss of resilience then progressively leads to a greater likelihood of

'unexpected events' and eventual system failure. As discussed in chapter two, this loss of resilience occurs in the managing institutions themselves, as well as the ecosystems they are trying to manage.

A related critique, summarising particular attributes of sustainability policy (including conservation) which challenge the competency of government management, lists: temporal scales longer than those determining policy and management attention; spatial scales extending across ecological and political boundaries; and new moral and ethical dimensions

- governments and bureaucracies clearly often fail to respond successfully to these attributes (Dovers and Lindenmayer 1997).

Analysing the general failure of conservation agencies to achieve effective off-reserve conservation. Binning (1997) argues that 'nature conservation has been institutionally isolated within parks and wildlife services, which are more often than not locked in "mortal combat" with primary industry departments as politicians are pushed by stakeholders from one natural resource crisis to another'. Papps and Wilson (1995), both at the time senior

NPWS staff, acknowledge that NPWS had failed to develop an appropriate response to the identified need for off-reserve conservation, and identify that interagency conflict was a major impediment to biodiversity conservation. This inter-organisational conflict is clearly

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demonstrated in the mustering of conflicting, but scientifically-structured arguments for each opposing side.

In a response to this, some administrations are trying to operationalise an 'all of government' approach to key issues. In NSW the Natural Resources Assessment Council and its predecessor were the beginning of integrated decision-making for natural resource management, where land management and natural resource agencies are required to work together and create agreed outcomes. The Regional Forest Agreement process demonstrates the difficulties, failures and partial successes of the early period of this approach (see

Coakes 1998, Dargavel 1998, Kirkpatrick 1998. Lennon 1998, Horwitz and Calver 1998).

These are problems located at the interfaces between government, conservation practice, and ecosystems. A further tension arises in the interface with social players: bureaucratically prescribed models of conservation planning and management, particularly those which impose top-down solutions, can undermine conservation objectives by causing localised conflicts, problems with local acceptance, and local behaviours antagonistic to conservation. The legal and policy framework establishes the environment for interaction between conservation agencies and social interests. There are a number of implications and influences on the relationships and the processes. While legislation provides the principle direction for government agencies, there is a tendency for terms in statutes to be vaguely or ambiguously worded (Lemons and Junker 1996. Mercer 2000). This is often deliberate, in a strategy to be inclusive towards a range of stakeholder views. One result is that implementation is subject to political pressure, bureaucratic preference and management

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discretion. Even when the intent is clear, statutes are often selectively implemented because of perceived political risk or other factors. This margin in interpretation and implementation can offer opportunities which are often utilised by pressure groups, but can also be creatively used by agencies to develop innovative solutions to intransigent problems. It also allows development of new policy in response to new information, without necessarily having to draft amended legislation: the development of the 'ecosystem management' model in NSW NPWS and other agencies is an example.

The other main influence on implementation is case law, or the decisions of the courts.

This tends to be much more explicit, but is founded on an adversarial process and can take long periods to reach a conclusion. The process from application, decision, appeal, and appeal to higher courts is often carried out over several years. It can lead to new legislation

(for example, the High Court decision in Mabo resulting in the Native Title Act 1993) or new policy. While the process may result in a clear position, it is also usually at significant costs both financially and in terms of the ongoing relationships between the parties.

Reflecting these levels of influence, Lee (1993) quotes John Kingdon describing government as 'organised anarchy'. Within (or sometimes despite) the prescriptions of legislation, elected representatives set the agenda each term by deciding to what and whom they will and will not pay attention. Binding court decisions usually take priority over legislation and policy unless the government decides to change the law to eliminate similar future decisions.

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PUBLIC SECTOR REFORM

Compounding the challenges for government conservation practice, in the 1980s and 1990s there has been a broad process of reform in the public sector in Australia, the UK, USA and

Aotearoa/New Zealand (Geno 1998). This has essentially been a process moving from

'professionalism' - public servants as technical experts - to 'managerialism' where the manager's knowledge base moves from substantive knowledge to strategic management skills (Geno 1998). Considine (1996) argues that there is a subsequent shift to 'market bureaucracies', with bureaucracies increasingly simulating corporate approaches.

This process of reform is driven by the dominance of neo-capitalism or economic rationalism, which is characterised partly by the 'retreat of government': reduced funding and staffing, a market-based management approach, and an increasing role for the private sector - all these factors apply to conservation agencies (Sturgess 1998, Figgis 1999). The

'Visions' process specifically identified the need for NPWS to quantify the economic benefits of national parks, and two publications subsequently began this process, genetically (NPWS 1999b) and for an individual national park (NPWS 1998b).

Conservationists both within and outside government agencies have criticised these changes, arguing that it is difficult to relate an emphasis on quantifiable economic values to nature conservation. There has been strong resistance to perceived threatened changes in agency culture. A NPWS employee writes 'people stay in the NPWS a long time. It's not just a job. it\ a family- (Morrison 2000) The Queensland Rangers Association argues for the considerable dedication and ability of the majority of QPWS employees' (2000 p 171).

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and that 'trained, skilled and well-resourced teams of professional park rangers and QPWS officers should undertake the management of national parks' (p 173), Conversely, the Cape

York Peninsula Development Association (2000) argues that management should be outsourced to neighbouring pastoralists, shire councils and traditional owners for greater economic efficiency.

Figgis (1999, p 41) argues that in Australia, 'endless reviews, restructures and deep cuts to staffing and resources have assailed government agencies...Such sustained upheaval has had serious impacts on morale, and overall has weakened the willingness of environment agencies and individuals to take advocacy roles'. These reviews have been a response to the criticism that conservation agencies

have become 'stranded' in an inflexible institutional structure largely created in the 1970s that is unable to cope with the emerging complex array of social, political, ecological and economic demands. (Worboys et al. 2001. p 88)

Examining state agency forestry activities, Geno (1998) and Mercer (2000) underline a clear tension between the increasing demand for environmental responsibility and the constraints of market-based approaches. Geno (1998) suggests that the implementation of management systems from international processes in Australian native forests represents a capture of sustainable forestry by managerialism, and identifies a lengthy series of conflicts between the agencies' own organisational management philosophies and their sustainable forest management philosophies.

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More positively. Brown and Harris (2000) analyse changes in United States public sector agencies based on increasing concerns for appropriate environmental management. They identify that these changes reflect changing paradigms globally. Organisational response to changing social expectations occurs both internally, in the values and beliefs of staff, and externally, in new policies or mission statements to direct implementation actions. My interviews with senior management in NPWS corroborate this view: they identify the need to help staff align their beliefs and values with changing social values, and indeed, to take a lead role in directing broader debate.

In parallel to this alignment of the public sector with economic-based approaches, is a tension in government around increasing demands for public participation in decision­ making and agenda-setting (Byrne and Davis 1998). The tension is in the challenge of encouraging broad input to the policy process while not allowing it to be 'captured' by special interest groups. That Figgis (1999, p 23) could say, '[t]he comfort zone, where national parks were essentially a matter for the environment movement and government agencies, is almost certainly going to change', is a clear indication of the influence of a special interest group, and its acknow ledgement that processes were changing.

ORGANISATIONAL CULTURE

Chapter two discussed a number of organisational elements and processes. Here, I will locus on organisational 'cultures' a term used to describe a number of different things in organisational studies literature This can include issues to do with organisations having to respond to different national cultures when operating internationally. It can refer to the task

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of integrating people with different ethnicities into the one workforce. It can also describe both the 'corporate culture' generated by formal organisational statements about values, and the informal attitudes, values and concepts of the workforce (Wright 94). This thesis considers the last three definitions, but particularly the last two.

Hofstede (1997) provides a summary of the elements widely recognised as comprising organisational culture. In his analysis, culture is:

• Holistic referring to a whole which is more than the sum of its parts

• Historically determined reflecting the history of the organization

• Related to things anthropologists study like rituals and symbols

• Socially constructed created and preserved by the group of people who together form the organization

• Soft...

• Difficult to change...

Consequently 'organizational culture' can be defined as the collective programming of the mind which distinguishes the members of one organization from another, (p 179-180. italics in original)

While formal organisational culture will essentially be explicit and unambiguous, the informal group norms of the organisation will be derived from a plurality of cultures and interest °roups, and can be heterogeneous and contested. There is also often tension and negotiation between the management-derived cultural entity and the informal culture self-

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created by the workforce (Thompson and McHugh 1995). As the informal culture encompasses the breadth of views of the workforce, elements such as racism and sexism are not excluded. Increasingly standard agency 'equity policies' are specifically designed to respond to this.

The section following contains brief data profiles of the two conservation agencies I examine, and then a comparison and analysis of their cultures.

PROFILE: QUEENSLAND PARKS and WILDLIFE SERVICE

The Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service was established under the Queensland

National Parks and Wildlife Act 1975, from elements of the Department of Primary

Industries (Fauna Branch), the Forestry Department (Forestry Unit) and the Department of

Lands. The Nature Consenation Act 1992 superseded the previous legislation, and the

Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service (QPWS) was re-established in December 1998 from some components of the old Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service

Because QPWS sits within the framework of the Queensland Environmental Protection

Agency (FPA). it is not possible to always separate out statistics between the two identities.

The mission statement of QPWS is

[presenting and protecting Queensland's natural heritage in an ecologically sustainable way to enhance our economic and social well-bein«

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At June 1999, QPWS administered 458 terrestrial protected areas covering 7,058,420 hectares, which is approximately 4.08% of Queensland. This is an increase of 64.2% of the protected area estate since 1991 (LGAQ 2000). Out of a total staff of 492 there were 372 rangers. From the total EPA staff, thirty eight percent were women, and 2.7 % were

Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander. Eighty percent of QPWS staff are located outside

Brisbane. The LGAQ Report (2000) states the QPWS recurrent funding as $53 million, but the EPA Annual Report (EPA 1999) lists final appropriation for the same year as $104.4 million plus income from other sources being $4.4 million, totalling $108.8 million. These variations probably reflect special funds for acquisitions and other projects which were outside the normal definition of 'recurrent'. There were an estimated 13 million visitors to the parks estate.

PROFILE: NSW NATIONAL PARKS and WILDLIFE SERVICE

The NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS) was established under the NSW

National Parks and Wildlife Act 1967. This act was replaced by the National Parks and

Wildlife Act 1974, a review of which was proposed in 2000, but not carried out. The

NPWS also has a clear colonial lineage through the Crown Surveyor and then the

Department of Lands. Prior to the 1967 legislation, individual national parks were managed by local trusts, who were ministerial appointees, essentially representing the local

'squattocracy'. The National Parks and Wildlife Act 1967 was legislated under Lands

Minister Tom Lewis, who wanted to supersede the power of the trusts, which were

'finessed' into park advisory committees (Goldstein 1979, Charles 1998).

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At June 1999, NPWS administered 486 protected areas covering 5,032,553 hectares, approximately 6.28% of NSW. Out of a total staff of 1,602 there were 289 rangers and 397 field officers, totalling 686 staff in the field (note that QPWS rangers tend to include the duties of NSW field officers). Forty one percent of these staff were women, including twenty seven percent at the Senior Executive Service level and around forty percent at the level of rangers, field officers and project officers. Seven and a half percent were

Aboriginal, and more than 707c of the staff were in decentralised locations. The total

NPWS budget was $ 224.5 million (NPWS 1999c).

In 1999, the corporate mission was:

Working with the community to conserve and foster appreciation of nature. Aboriginal heritage and historic heritage in New South Wales.

By 2000. reflecting changes from the 'Visions' process and a new Corporate Plan, the mission was:

Working with people and communities to protect and conserve natural and cultural heritage in the NSW landscape.

Changes to corporate language are being reflected in attitudinal as well as structural change in NPWS

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COMPARATIVE CULTURES

The NPWS and QPWS have apparently similar formal agency cultures, certainly relative to other government agencies within their respective states, and reflected in their mission statements and legislation. However, there are quite strong differences between the states, reflecting a range of different influences in their histories and political and environmental contexts. Perhaps most notable is the large disparity in budgets, which has flow-on consequences for public perceptions, staff morale, informal agency culture and ability to innovate.

Mercer (1995, p 26) describes the budget as 'the most relevant environmental policy document produced by governments'. Papps and Wilson (1995) argue that historically, and at the time of their paper, there is no doubt that in NSW NPWS expenditure on park management was inadequate, and NSW was then well above the average nationally.

However, in 1994 the then Coalition Government in NSW announced a substantial budget increase, called the 'Resource Package' for NPWS, which saw its budget increase from $43 million to $79 million (Lord 1999). Comparative national data for 1999 quoted in LGAQ

2000 puts NPWS at the highest national expenditure on a per hectare basis and by staff per

1000 square kilometres. The same data show QPWS as the third lowest per hectare expenditure on national parks in Australia, and the fourth lowest by staff per 1000 square kilometres2. Some basic comparative data between QPWS, NPWS and other state conservation agencies is in the table (5.2) below.

: Carter Hockitvs and IJaxler (2000. p .VU> compare similar Jala in an international context and conclude that Australia o\erall spends less on protected area management than any comparable developed nation. We invest less than halt as much a\ New Zealand and a third as much as Canada'.

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Table 5.2 Expenditure on national parks (A$) - 1997/98 (Source: QPWS supplied data from AN'ZECC benchmarking, quoted in LGAQ 2000, p 5) Please see print copy for images

The resource disparity indicated by the budget figures has a strong effect on organisational culture. Numerous submissions to the LGAQ Inquiry (2000) referred to inadequate resourcing of QPWS:

Current general staffing levels are not in place to fulfil the basic legislative requirements of protected area management. Inadequate staffing levels exacerbate safety problems, create unsustainable workloads and generate low morale and personnel problems. ...Ironically it is not uncommon for staff working in remote parks to suffer from both isolation and a lack of privacy. Visitors often go at all hours to the ranger's residence for information.

(Queensland Rangers Association 2000. p 179j

Conversely, while NPWS also, as a matter of course, regards itself as under-funded, the comparative figures above indicate the re!ativit\ of this. The report of the "Visions' process

(NPWS 1998c) accorded a ver\ small part of its recommendations to resource implications.

Ranger salaries, vehicle access, training and accommodation levels are all generally regarded as satisfactory bv staff.

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Another clear disparity is in gender relationships. While the generic figures quoted above indicate appproximate parity between the Queensland and NSW organisations (38% and

41%), the distribution is unequal. In NPWS, around 40% of ranger, field officer and project officer positions are filled by women, with numerous District Manager positions being women. Gender equity is largely unchallenged and regarded as the norm, in field-based as well as office based positions. When I started at NPWS in 1996, both the Director-General and the Minister were women, as well as many senior management positions. In QPWS (as opposed to its parent department the EPA), the percentages of women in all positions in the three operational regions: north (29%), central (27%) and south (24%) indicate a much lower proportion of women. The wording of the Queensland Rangers Association submission (2000, p 183) is also clearly indicative of corporate culture:

• Often 1 man in excess of 70.000 - 100.000 hectares

• Wives fill a role on one man parks, but are put off on two man parks.

In my work on Cape York, I encountered only one woman working for QPWS, whereas numerous of my relationships and research contacts at NPWS were with women. Davidson and Black (2001) analysed gender imbalances in conservation agencies across Australia.

Going beyond the statistical differences, their study identified further issues of typecasting', harassment and discrimination of the women who are in the agencies.

The resource and gender issues affect another element of difference between the two conservation agencies: the nature of the work and competencies of ranger staff. In QPWS. as mentioned, rangers tend to combine roles which in NPWS are separated into rangers and

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field officers. In NPWS rangers are required to have tertiary qualifications, and field officers do much of the work of park 'maintenance', including track maintenance, rubbish control and much fire management. The 'Visions' report states 'the concept of a generalist ranger who 'can-do' almost anything is outmoded by the increasing complexity of tasks and knowledge required' (NPWS 1998c, p 60). In QPWS, ranger candidates who have practical skills or backgrounds are favoured, and tertiary qualifications are not required.

This is an outcome of the resource-poor history of the agency, and assumptions that these kinds of skills require men rather than women. In Cape York, men with police or pastoral backgrounds were more likely to be hired than natural resource graduates of either gender.

The NSW NPWS, perhaps more than other conservation agencies, has an idiosyncratic and

'non-conforming' character relative to other state bureaucracies. Personal appearance and styles of dress are indicative: senior managers are more often in jeans than suits; surfing as a recreation and a lifestyle unites many staff members across management hierarchies.

Many Head Office staff choose to live in bush and coastal environments in small towns in the Blue Mountains and the south coast and commute, rather than living closer to work at

Hurstville. The agency has a high tolerance for personal idiosyncracy, especially when it is correlated with significant commitment to agency goals and high professional ability. Many new graduates and others wish to join NPWS, maintaining competitive entry standards, and assisting the process whereby recruitment becomes one of the tools for maintaining organisational culture.

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There are also clear differences geographically. Regional offices often have an atmosphere of calm involvement in the 'core business' of 'looking after plants and animals', while

Head Office tends to have an atmosphere of intensity created by regular crisis management situations involving the minister, powerful stakeholder groups and the media.

One area in which there is probably more similarity than difference is in their respective involvement with conservation biology as the basis for selection and management of reserves. QPWS is ahead of NSW in publishing a comprehensive review of the status of its bioregional ecosystems (Sattler and Williams 1999). This similarity can be partly accounted for by the fact that two ecologists, both key figures in reserve systems and bioregionalisations, worked in senior positions in both states at different times.

Common to conservation agencies more generally, within the heterogeneity which constitutes their culture, there are distinguishable sub-groups. While these factions are within the organisation, they tend to align with external interest groups and others sharing their core values (Brown and Harris 2000). There is a strong element committed to the historical ideals of the conservation movement, which has an essentially adversarial and defensive approach to innovation and evolving policy. In contrast, there is a proportion of staff (often younger) who are open to exploratory approaches, and also may be more politically committed to issues such as reconciliation and social justice. Because older staff tend to be more senior, this alternative group is often not in a position to strongly influence decisions, and can be constrained by the hierarchy of power. While these differing positions create the possibility for conflict, they also offer opportunities for new

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responses. The prevailing paradigm emphasis at any time can shift in response to key staff changes, new projects and political opportunities.

At the informal organisational level, individual staff make functional decisions influenced by their attitudes and values as a subset of the agency norms. At the officer level, selective presentation of information can influence a series of decisions which may be against the formal rhetoric, but justified in terms of individual circumstances. This process is enhanced when the position fits the informal culture, so the hierarchy of approving officers intuitively agree.

CONSERVATION AGENCIES AND SCIENCE

SCIENCE AND CULTURE

Grove's historical analysis identifies Romantic scientists as the pioneers of modern environmentalism (1992. 1995). While Noss and Cooperrider (1994) consider scientists to have been the leaders of the conservation movement, and see the continuity of this in conservation biology as a "noble tradition', Lawton (1997. p 4) stresses that 'at its heart. conservation is not a scientific activity'.

Yellowstone and Yosemite were created to preserve wild scenery, natural and historic objects and wildlife. essentiall\ for public enjoyment and recreation. The major expansion of protected areas worldwide and in Australia in the 1970s and 1980s was largely driven b\ the burgeoning Western public interest in nature and environmental issues. This period was characterised b\ strong appeals to emotion and romanticism b> conservation campaigners. kldkCd^rclam^ ,uzz> concepts from ecology and biology •Wilderness' and wilderness

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recreation were key issues, and new protected areas were generally chosen for spectacular scenery, recreation values or special features (Thackway 1996).

The 1990s saw the reascendancy of science in conservation in government conservation agencies. The new science - conservation biology - is distinctly uncoupled from Romantic ideologies, and partly because of this has to some extent created greater distance between community conservation campaigners and professional conservation scientists in agencies.

The tension between the science and the non-science is the basis for much of the current debate in conservation biology, and underlies much of the argument over conservation priorities. The current stage of this process in the development of conservation biology has led to the adoption of 'landscape management' or 'bioregional planning' approaches, which set management of protected areas into the context of management for conservation across their landscape context. Bioregional planning inevitably has to include much more understanding of socio-cultural values, and there is the potential for this trend to begin to interact with trends in cultural heritage management which engage with regional and landscape approaches (IUCN 1998, NPWS 2000a). The significance of these issues will be discussed in detail in the final chapters.

The establishment of conservation reserves is not a scientific process: the critical decisions are political, social and cultural. The questions at the beginning of the conservation process are socio-political questions: what do we want to conserve? Why? In what state? These centre around cultural values, political priorities and historical contexts. The mechanisms subsequently used to evaluate places, species or ecosystems for conservation may be

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scientific or not (assessing scenic value is not a scientific process; assessing taxonomic diversity is). The final decisions, after reviewing data and analysis which may be scientifically derived, are also not scientific decisions: they again relate to political pragmatism, budgets, and socio-cultural preferences (Caughley and Sinclair 1994, Lawton

1997).

A recent example of these tensions is in the use of a sophisticated computer modelling system in NSW. The reserve systems methodology ('C-Plan') developed by Pressey and others in NPWS (see Pressey 1999b), was to be the centrepiece of the Regional Forest

Agreement process in NSW. negotiated from 1996 onwards to determine new national parks and logging quotas. Hailed as the 'gold standard' (p 1789) in an article in Science

(Finkel 1998a), the interactive computer methodology was described as a victory for rationality, given competing interests. However, three months later, Science (Finkel 1998b) was reporting that the 'innovative and internationally praised scheme' (p 1968) had proved no match for 'old-fashioned political muscle' (p 1968), and 'with the failure of science, conservationists have returned to ... blockades and protesters chained to bulldozers' (p

1969).

In one response to this situation. Rogers and Biggs (1999) propose a conservation management model which shows a hierarchical relationship between 'organisational vision'

(dominated b\ social values) and conservation goals' (dominated by scientific endpoints).

The> argue that this objectives hierarchy is explicitly structured to integrate value systems and scientific principles' (p 443).

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The following discussion analyses the ambiguous role of the science of conservation biology through two nested themes: protected area policy and planning and wilderness.

PROTECTED AREAS

Protected areas are accepted as the core component of conservation programs. Because of this emphasis there is an extensive recent literature exploring various aspects of protected areas, including configuration, areal targets, and various systematic methods for reserve selection (see, for example, bibliography in Worboys et al 2001). There is a related area of discussion around concepts of off-reserve conservation, ecosystem management, endangered species protection and sustainable development (for example, Bennet et al

1995, Young et al 1996). Essentially because of the perceived land tenure difference between these two broad approaches, the protected area literature very largely ignores social issues, while the off-reserve literature strongly engages with it. Protected areas are generally assumed to be on public land and able to legislatively exclude or control people.

The literature tends to be focused on technical issues and scientific research, with occasional lip service to socio-political issues.

Scott (1999), writing about the lack of a representative reserve system in the United States, identifies Victorian botanist Ferdinand von Mueller as perhaps the first to call for such a system internationally, in his 1890 address to the Australian Association for the

Advancement of Science. However, as noted earlier, in Australia the concept of a national reserve system has formally been in place only since 1992. Recent publications have developed the concept further (Thackway and Cresswell 1995, Commonwealth of Australia

1999).

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The National Reserve System, and consequently the NSW and Queensland reserve systems, have the goal of establishing 'a comprehensive, adequate and representative system of protected areas to conserve Australia's native biodiversity' (Commonwealth of Australia

1999, p 6). The system is intended to be comprehensive enough to include the full range of regional ecosystems discernible at the bioregional scale; adequate to maintain the ecological viability and integrity of populations, species, communities and ecological processes; and representative of the intrinsic variability within ecosystems (Brunckhorst

1994, JANIS 1996, Commonwealth of Australia 1999). While this terminology suggests a scientific basis for the reserve system, key elements are based on non-scientific values.

Two of the terms relate particularly to Aboriginal interests: comprehensiveness and adequacy

Fundamental to the adequacy component and other general approaches to reserve systems has been areal targets: identifying what percentage of natural habitats and land should be included in reserves. The JANIS (1996) criteria for the Regional Forest Agreement process specifies 15% of forested landscapes in Australia. The World Conservation Union (IUCN) has specified 10% of the world's major ecosystems (McNeely 1993, IUCN/UNEP/WWF

1991). Noss (1996) and others recommend 50% ! Noss argues that the other figures are based on political pragmatism and are indefensible scientifically, but acknowledges that his

•biocentneallv-derived" figure is likely to be socio-politically indefensible to many

Arguing that his proposed protected areas are not 'human-exclusion zones', he then defines levels of acceptable presence exactly equivalent to current wilderness areas (Noss 1996.

PI14). Soule and Sanjavan (1998. p 2060, argue that, while achieving 10% globally would

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be a 'heroic accomplishment', this target is so inadequate it is 'effectively a prescription for reducing global species richness by half or more'.

While the National Reserve System established generic criteria for a reserve system, methodology for achieving it is unspecified. In NSW, Pressey and others at NPWS are leading international figures in developing systematic approaches to planning reserve systems (Pressey 1999a). However, NPWS, and most other conservation agencies, have mostly not used these sorts of methodologies (Thackway 1996). Several writers have examined why this gap persists between the theory of conservation planning and the practice (Lomolino 1994, Prendergast 1999). Core issues around this include the separation between the identification of potential reserves and the selection of actual ones; the cultural gap between 'managers' and 'scientists'; conflicts inherent in the persistence of the

Yellowstone model; and the durability of the Edenic myth, particularly with community environment groups.

WILDERNESS

Wilderness is a foundational aspect of protected area establishment and management worldwide, and is a core element of Australian conservation practice. Nevertheless, there is extensive debate about the place and function of wilderness in nature conservation. Three recent statements by conservation biologists and wilderness conservation activists indicate something of the spectrum of positions within the conservation movement. A fourth statement, from an Aboriginal academic, demonstrates a position from a different ontology.

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...wilderness areas and places with a high wilderness quality, all other things being equal, will provide for larger reserves, support larger or better connected meta-populations, reduce extinction risk, be less fragmented, and possess greater resilience. (Mackey, Lesslie.

Lindenmayer and Nix 1998)

...that which has been called and set aside as wilderness is subjected to the steady stamp of bush walking feet, ecotourists. and their accompanying wastes and diseases (a soup of intestinal parasites and insect vectored diseases walked and flown around the world by the wealthy seeking to escape the environmental destruction of their own cultures). Moreover. the scientific and conservation costs...of an undue emphasis on wilderness by the conservation lobby in Australia have been considerable. (Recher 1998: editor, Pacific

Conservation Biology)

Wilderness is where we find peace, solitude and an opportunity for reflection away from machinery and the pressures of modern living. Many plant and animal populations will only survive if we preserve wilderness. Australia's distinctive heritage of wild landscapes and unique wildlife are at risk if we give in to the pressures of exploitation. (Colong Foundation for Wilderness 1998)

Just as terra nullius was a lie. so was this European fantasy of wilderness. There is no wilderness, but there are cultural landscapes, those of the environmentalists who depict a theological version of nature in posters, and those of Aboriginal people, present and past. whose relationships with the environment shaped even the reproductive mechanisms of forests. (Langton 1996: then Ranger Chair of Aboriginal Studies. Northern Territory

University!

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This diversity of positions reinforces Nash's (1973) assertion of the tendency of wilderness to be a state of mind as much as an area of land, and illustrates the conflicting goals of wilderness management. While Mackey et al identify wilderness areas as positive for biodiversity conservation, they ignore the influence of management on these results. Recher and the Colong Foundation essentially identify the 'favourite places' syndrome of both recreational wilderness users and wilderness advocates, reflecting opposite sides of the same coin. Langton challenges the entire concept as (Western) culturally derived, and relates it to the founding myths and colonial processes of white settlement in Australia.

Cole (1996) points out that the 1964 US Wilderness Act contains three conflicting goals: preservation of natural or pristine conditions, avoidance of intentional ecological manipulation and provision of opportunities for use. Watson and Niccolucci (1995) highlight that this mandating of conflicting goals was a result of a political perception of the need to compromise, a common scenario when drafting legislation. Cole (1996) identifies a central management dilemma: without conscious ecological manipulation, many wilderness areas will inexorably change ('degrade') from increased human disturbance. With conscious manipulation of ecosystems to counter this disturbance, wilderness areas will no longer be pristine, eventually becoming a human artefact managed to reveal as few apparent traces of humans as possible.

The NSW Wilderness Act 1987, and the sections of the Queensland Nature Conservation

Act 1992 dealing with wilderness, also contain apparent conflict between recreational use and preservation of the area's capacity 'to evolve in the absence of significant human

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interference' (sect 9). However, the core contradiction is within thefirst defining paragraph for wilderness (6.1.a):

The area is, together with its plant and animal communities, in a state that has not been substantially modified by humans and their works or is capable of being restored to such a state

As restoration would likely constitute a substantial modification by humans, we may be left with Graber's definition of 'conscious reconstructions of what humans think is natural'

(Graber 1995, p 16).

The challenge to, and of, 'special rights' is a common theme for contestants in wilderness arguments. Recher identifies wilderness advocates and recreationists as the group which most directly benefits from special rights in wilderness areas, and consequently most threatens existing areas. Conversely, wilderness campaigners cite modern Aboriginal people as wanting special rights not available to the rest of the population.

The diversity and contradiction of strongly held positions on wilderness is indicative of its centrality as an icon. It is this iconic status which also explains the ease with which the contradictions are absorbed. A senior research scientist in the US National Parks Service states the organizing myth of America's national parks today is wilderness' (Graber 1995).

While there will be. socially a diversity of views on what constitutes wilderness, there is enough cohesion at the level of politicians, conservation agencies and campaigners for it to function effectivelv as a defining myth for national parks This allows persistence of the

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concept while elements are vigorously debated. Its persistence also means that conservation agencies, conservation biologists and some conservation groups seek to co-opt or incorporate it into more recent and 'scientifically defensible' functions of nature conservation (JANIS 1996, Soule and Terborgh 1999).

Engagement with the different ontological position of Aboriginal views can also stimulate this process of co-option. Gill (1999, p 65-66) analyses aspects of this issue:

Undeniably, conservation groups have exploited indigenous motifs for campaigns... Cape

York is remote from the main Australian population centres. This remoteness may render the Aboriginal orientation of the Wilderness Society's Cape York campaigns more palatable to its supporters than would be the case for similar campaigns in more populated areas of southeastern Australia. Indeed, in the Starcke case the convergence of Aboriginal interests, remoteness and conceptions of wilderness reflects and constitutes the polarities of savage/nature and wilderness/civilisation...

While wilderness ideals are much less evident in QPWS, they currently continue to be central to NPWS, with the agency stating that 30% of the total NPWS estate was declared wilderness at June 2000 (NPWS 2000c).

CONSERVATION AND ABORIGINAL ISSUES

GOVERNMENT INSTITUTIONS AND ABORIGINAL PEOPLE

If conservation agencies are institutionally-bound when faced with the everyday variations of local issues, how well do they respond to the complexity and heterogeneity of Aboriginal communities' interests ? Much of the literature on this deals with service delivery to

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indigenous clients, and is consistently critical of the effectiveness of state organisations.

Bennett (1999) identifies a wide spectrum of institutional problems for Aboriginal clients in

Australia. English and Brown (2000) discuss the potential for positive or negative effects for Aboriginal people of decision-making by NPWS and a suite of other government agencies in land management issues.

Both the formal and informal organisational cultures affect management actions concerning

Aboriginal interests and conservation. Formal mission statements tend to rhetorically include Aboriginal interests, although usually being carefully worded and circumscribed.

Implementation at the political level however, is attuned to voter moods, marginal electorate security and the spectrum of interests to be accommodated. The classic bureaucratic response to difficult issues is to delay them, and difficult Aboriginal issues are routinely treated this way. As an example, a NPWS 'field manual' concerning responses to

Aboriginal land claims has been in 'draft' form for over five years, meaning it has no formal authority so can be ignored

For old-school conservationists in agencies, increasing Aboriginal involvement and control is seen as the newest fashion, driven by court decisions which elevate social justice over environmental protection. Aboriginal joint management is characterised as a backdoor land rights process, undermining the security of the national park concept.

In 1999/2000. a small group of committed staff began a 'reconciliation' process in NPWS.

While producing an impressive Statement of Reconciliation' (NPWS 2000d). endorsed by

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the Director-General and the Minister, some group members admitted that there was more rhetoric than substance in the outcome. Subsequently, however, the same group reconvened to analyse what aspects had been implemented, and explore further processes for implementation. The rhetorical function of the reconciliation statement was demonstrated by the Director-General using it as an argument to not publically release the progressive, innovative, cross-cultural report by English and Brown (2000), It's A Part of Us:

Aboriginal People's Perspectives on the Cultural Values of Biodiversity, as it might

'threaten the goodwill' generated by the reconciliation process.

CULTURAL AND NATURAL HERITAGE

Chapter four briefly discussed the role of conservation agencies in Australia in combining

the functions of protection and management of natural values and Aboriginal (and often

'historic') cultural values. NPWS has legislative responsibility for both, but QPWS has

responsibility only for 'nature', with its parent department, the Queensland Environment

Protection Agency, having responsibility for 'culture'. These functions are generally carried

out by distinctly separated sections of the organisations, with Aboriginal cultural heritage

management having much less significance than natural heritage management. For a long

time the inclusion of Aboriginal cultural heritage was seen as an anomaly in the 'core

business' of nature conservation.

Historically, Aboriginal cultural heritage management was focused on material remains

('relics'), and the legislation asserted the Crown's ownership and was intended to protect

these relics because of their presumed scientific value. Work was carried out by

archaeologists and pre-historians, and there was no connection to living Aboriginal culture.

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Aboriginal people were not mentioned in the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Act 1974 which protects 'Aboriginal relics' (Sullivan 1996, p 2), until 1996 amendments.

Since the 1970s this position has been changing, with the main shifts being to greater

Aboriginal involvement in Aboriginal heritage management, and a move towards accepting that cultural heritage is more than just relics and sites. While these changes are beginning to be incorporated into policy for conservation agencies, fundamental problems remain, with the state still asserting ownership, and many changes are by bureaucratic discretion rather than a transfer of rights (Ross and McDonald 1996, Sullivan 1996). With increasing

Aboriginal involvement in Aboriginal heritage management and archaeology, there are strong voices arguing that Aboriginal cultural heritage and natural heritage are intimately linked, if not indivisible (Ross and McDonald 1996, Greer 1996, English and Brown 2000).

Simultaneously, the recognition of native title and developing joint management arrangements for protected areas are influencing Aboriginal involvement and control in cultural heritage management (Murphy 1996).

SCIENCE, CONSERVATION AND ABORIGINAL PEOPLE

The percentage of the landscape to be incorporated into reserves ('areal targets') will no doubt continue to be negotiated. However, any targets will have ramifications for societies and conservation. These percentages relate to Aboriginal interests in apparently opposite wavs: an increasing protected area estate may gradually reduce land available for claim under Aboriginal land rights legislation, reducing Aboriginal access to land: but the protected area estate itself ma\ preserve native title rights not maintained elsewhere, and. at a more constrained level, may be available for joint management regimes, potentially

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increasing Aboriginal access to land. These processes will have different outcomes: in

NSW, land claimed under land rights legislation is freehold and can be dealt with in any of the normal ways, whereas land accessed by native title or joint management processes is likely to be highly constrained, and not able to be sold or developed.

The development of an interim national biogeographic regionalisation has also revealed that some entire bioregions and many unique ecosystems are on land already under

Aboriginal ownership. Accordingly, to achieve the comprehensiveness criterion, some

Aboriginal land needs to be brought into the national reserve system. Federally, the concept of Indigenous Protected Areas was created and is being negotiated in an attempt to achieve this (Smyth and Sutherland 1996, Thackway 1997). Environment Australia, the Federal conservation agency, states that by July 2000, eight Indigenous Protected Areas had been declared over Aboriginal land, covering more than 2.8 million hectares (Environment

Australia 2000).

The comprehensiveness component of the National Reserve System also raises a number of issues which intersect with Aboriginal interests. There is an assumption that the ecosystems of interest are pre-European, that is, they are the ones fashioned and maintained by pre-

European Aboriginal land management practices, but Aboriginal people are now generally to be excluded. This further raises the question of why this particular state should be desirable, and how this relates to concepts such as 'synthetic vegetation' (Bridgewater 1990) and management-free wilderness zones. These issues are discussed more fully in the final chapters.

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The concept of wilderness has been a central area of contention between conservation and

Aboriginal interests. While the main focus of this has been from community conservation groups, conservation agencies are also engaged in contesting Aboriginal claims. Mosley

(1998) representing the Colong Foundation, an organisation self-described as 'expert on wilderness issues', put forward the following argument:

The landscapes over much of Australia were affected for tens of thousands of years by

Aboriginal management including the use of fire. The re-introduction of such regimes would be in direct conflict with the aim of minimising human interference so that the environment can evolve in response to the forces and processes of nature. Regular burning for instance can fix the vegetation at a particular stage interfering with natural succession to old growth. With this policy the role of people would change from that of guardians to gardeners.

This statement simultaneously accepts and challenges the substantial body of literature on

Aboriginal environmental effects. Mosley appears to be saying that wilderness management goals should be to promote ecosystem processes that functioned not only prior to European settlement (circa 200 years ago) but prior to Aboriginal settlement (circa 40-60,000 years ago). This positions wilderness as representing life on earth prior to humans, rather than prior to modem industrial society. Surprisingly, this goal of restoring a pre-human nature is also put forward by the private company Earth Sanctuaries Ltd, whose reserves would hardlv be considered wilderness by most wilderness advocates (Earth Sanctuaries Limited

1999).

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CONCLUSIONS

Conservation agencies have a heterogeneous and negotiated culture, but also powerful organising myths, so 'conservation-as-usual' easily and generally unquestioningly incorporates a range of contradictions. Many national parks exemplify these: inhabited by non-Aboriginal people to varying degrees; maintaining populations of feral species; controlling populations of native species; and subject to high levels of unmanaged human impact.

The issues raised here are not new to conservation agencies, but the 'culture of conservation' acts to contain debate, so challenges are often absorbed, and conservation-as- usual continues. Conservation agencies' position in the machinery of government acts to maintain conservative processes; the adversarial history of the conservation movement acts to position Aboriginal interests as the latest 'threat'; and the hegemony of science masks the primacy of social values in negotiating these issues.

Within this dominant organisational paradigm there are opportunities for large scale change as well as niches for heretical values to develop and grow. At the current time a number of strands with diverse origins but related themes are beginning to coalesce. A new paradigm in cultural heritage management is being strongly expressed, both in terms of Aboriginal control and in the blurring of boundaries between cultural heritage and natural heritage. The recognition of the limits of the Yellowstone model, and the need to negotiate with

Aboriginal people and others to achieve national conservation objectives is opening out the

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concept of protected area systems. Questioning around the ideals and definitions of wilderness and concepts of nature is creating entry points for new conceptual approaches.

These processes are largely internal to the conservation movement. They are supported, and in some senses also driven, by external processes. Reform of government practice is a destabilising process which, while potentially limiting, also offers windows of opportunity for positive change. New developments in conservation biology and ecology theory identifying the pervasiveness of uncertainty and the instability of earlier paradigms opens theoretical debate to alternative, or additional, paradigms.

These organisational and broader scientific and social processes occur in a national and global context of changing parameters. Legislative and social change following the recognition of native title in Australia, the Reconciliation movement, and the characteristics of global change will drive changes to conservation practice. There are clear opportunities for new approaches inclusive of Aboriginal and conservation interests.

After establishing the 'operational environment' for Aboriginal domains of interest in the next chapter, these opportunities will be examined in the case study chapters (seven and eight) and chapters nine and ten.

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6 CONTEMPORARY ABORIGINAL DOMAINS: PEOPLE, LAND and RIGHTS

No English words are good enough to give a sense of the links between an Aboriginal group and its homeland...Our word 'land' is too spare and meagre. We can now scarcely use it except with economic overtones unless we happen to be poets... A different tradition has left us tongueless and earless towards this other world of meaning and significance. (Stanner 1979, p 230)

If we admit that Aboriginal people are fully sentient and intellectual beings, we can admit that they would engage with the effects of the global economy and information society, and that they would bring to these problems interesting and innovative approaches. (Langton 1998 p 29)

INTRODUCTION

The colonial and post-colonial history of denial and dispossession of Aboriginal people and their rights has led to processes to regain rights to land. These processes, and their institutions, are situated between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal society, attempting to mediate many contradictions and conflicts.

To understand how the non-Aboriginal conservation culture and processes described in the previous chapter interact with Aboriginal concerns, it is necessary to have a complementary picture of the 'operational environment' for Aboriginal domains of interest. 'Domains' describes both lands over which Aboriginal people previously or currently have control, and the field of Aboriginal issues in Australia: that is, spatial domains and political/relational domains (see Trigger 1986).

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Analysis of Aboriginal population and spatial distribution is significant, to explore how this relates to interests in land and conservation. Developing the themes established in chapter one, analysis of cultural continuity allows comparison with the 'cultures of conservation'.

How this contemporary Aboriginal culture is structured into Aboriginal organisations is a key issue, as Aboriginal organisations are usually the context in which interaction with mainstream issues, including conservation, is engaged. The legal framework for Aboriginal access to land is also a fundamental issue. Land rights and native title are core foci for

Aboriginal cultural continuity and political activity, and also central sites for conflict and opposition from non-Aboriginal Australia.

A significant conceptual point in this discussion is that I am primarily focusing on a 'space between' Aboriginal concerns and non-Aboriginal concerns, rather than looking at

Aboriginal society per se. Prior to Cook. Aboriginal and European interests did not significant!} intersect After settlement, a non-Aboriginal perspective, which persists into the present, situates Aboriginal interests as a subset of mainstream Australian society.

Many Aboriginal people however, position Aboriginal interests as intersecting with, but not a subset of. non-Aboriginal society. The creation of Aboriginal organisations is a function of the necessity to have a formal interface between non-Aboriginal and Aboriginal institutions Aboriginal organisations or corporations, as constructs operating according to

Australian statute, are articulated with Aboriginal social and political communities, but are not the same as them. While they have crucial roles both within Aboriginal communities and between them and mainstream societv. the corporations may have organisational cultures which differ from the communities

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Similarly, as discussed in chapters two and four, the concept of native title is fundamentally a 'recognition space' (Mantziaris and Martin 2000) between the two societies, rather than a concept of either Aboriginal law or Australian law. Native title is also both a legal construct, defined by the Native Title Act 1993 and case law, and a social concept, influencing many aspects of Australian society. Additionally, there is an important distinction between statutory land rights and native title, in terms of both law and social issues.

During the period of my research both the Native Title Act and the NSW Aboriginal Land

Rights Act 1983 have been subject to review and amendment. The Queensland Aboriginal

Land Act 1992 has also been subject to reexamination. As with the reviews of conservation agencies, the official documentation of these processes and the critical comment generated have provided research materials, which can be triangulated with my own observations while working within Aboriginal organisations (Cape York Land Council and NSW

Aboriginal Land Council), and while working on issues coming under these statutes.

Research centres at the National Native Title Tribunal, the Australian Institute of

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, the Australian National University and the

University of NSW, in particular, have also generated extensive analysis and policy development documentation over this period.

This chapter begins with an outline of the intersection of Aboriginal and conservation interests, then an overview of Aboriginal population and distribution, and Aboriginal land. particularly in NSW and Queensland. This contextualises an analysis of cultural continuit)

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and diversity, and how this relates to Aboriginal communities and, especially, corporations.

Finally, I analyse the legal, administrative and social implications of land rights and native title processes. These contemporary Aboriginal spatial and relational domains are where interaction with government conservation agencies takes place. They are also significant for the Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal cultural constructions of nature and indigeneity previously discussed.

ABORIGINAL DOMAINS AND CONSERVATION

Aboriginal society is not homogenous or static. There is a wide and fluid spectrum of interests, political and otherwise, just as in mainstream Australian society. This heterogeneity is an important issue, as it confronts political, bureaucratic and industry demands for 'certainty': stable and singular solutions. It is also not surprising. Estimates of

Aboriginal population prior to 1788 vary from 300,000 to over 2 million (see Butlin 1983,

Kohen 1995). Between 200 and 300 languages were likely to have been spoken (Henderson and Nash 1997). Two centuries later these figures translate into a clearly identifiable but diverse Aboriginal population and culture.

Historically, when the Crown assumed sovereignty over what is now Australia, no treaties were developed between these indigenous people and the new governments. It was assumed that Australia was terra nullius, and courts gave no recognition to indigenous ownership and rights This was specifically affirmed in the Nabalco case in the Northern

Territorv in 1971 b\ Justice Blackburn In 1992 this assumption was overturned by the

High Court in Mabo v Queensland (No 2). The Commonwealth Government then enacted

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the Native Title Act 1993 to establish a national scheme for the recognition and protection of native title. While the substance of the judgement in Mabo was to do with the Torres

Strait island of Mer, which contains no national parks, Justice Brennan specifically suggested that native title may exist in national parks in Australia (Bartlett 1993).

Prior to the Native Title Act, various statutory land rights regimes were established in some states. These regimes resulted in significant amounts of land being returned to Aboriginal people in parts of Australia, including some declared national parks. Subsequent to the

Native Title Act, there are essentially three distinct processes by which Aboriginal people can assert title or other rights to land: statutory land rights processes, native title processes, and free market land purchase through the Indigenous Land Corporation or other organisations.

Existing Aboriginal population distribution and land ownership is significant for conservation interests. In NSW, an increasing Aboriginal population (including in urban areas) is keen to regain access to land, and the limitations of native title and land rights mean that their focus is often on existing or proposed protected areas. In 1996, the relevant

NSW Minister refused to grant more than 50 Aboriginal Land Claims on the basis that the areas were needed for future national parks. These included land in western Sydney and near Jervis Bay, discussed in the case studies. In Queensland, a majority Aboriginal population in Cape York wants to regain rights to their traditional lands, much of which are now national parks or being considered for future ones. The outstation movement both strengthens cultural ties with land, and provides a strategic land management base. Existing

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Aboriginal land in both NSW and Cape York contains areas of high to critical conservation value.

Aboriginal organisations are the primary sites for interaction with conservation agencies.

Many of these organisations developed in hostile contexts which encouraged oppositional strategies (opposing mainstream acculturation and marginalisation, especially by governments). Their organisational culture is determined by indigenous community politics, not through mainstream models of managerialism or technical knowledge

(Finlayson 1998).

Engagement between conservation agencies and Aboriginal organisations is thus very strongly a cross-cultural process, but agency professionals are often unaware of the significance or pervasiveness of this. Their criticisms of organisational inefficiencies are based on their own Western models, and they are seldom prepared to accommodate these cultural differences. There is a related problem with non-Aboriginal staff working in

Aboriginal organisations, where the Aboriginal governing bodies and their non-Aboriginal professional staff may be effectively working for different (cultural) objectives (Finlayson

1998). This can hamper negotiations and progress with agency staff.

Native title was specifically linked to the issue of conservation and national parks in the judgement by Justice Brennan in Mabo (quoted in Bartlett 1993, p 5): 'native title continues where the., appropriation and use [of Crown land] is consistent with the continuing concurrent enjovment o. native title over the land leg. land set aside as a national park)'.

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This has been confirmed in the Miriuwung-Gajerrong appeal decision in the Federal Court

(3 March 2000, detailed judgement p 39): 'the majority [of judges] agrees with the trial judge that the creation of the Keep River National Park does not extinguish native title'.

There are numerous unresolved native title applications over existing national parks

(including more than 140 in Queensland at June 1999). While these relate to protected areas as cadastrally defined landscapes, there are also native title issues relating to native flora and fauna and to ecosystem'processes outside protected areas. The key decision to date in the High Court upheld an appeal by Murrandoo Yanner against a conviction for hunting and killing crocodiles without a licence (Yanner 1999). The majority of judges held that

Yanner was exercising a traditional native title right of his people. That right was not extinguished by the Queensland Fauna Conservation Act 1974, which holds that all fauna is the property of the Crown. The Federal Court in Miriuwung-Gajerrong similarly found that the WA Conservation and Land Management Act did not impose 'a regime of control that wholly prevents the continued enjoyment of all native title rights and interests in relation to the land' (p 51). Consequently, judgements to date indicate that native title is not extinguished by declaration of a protected area, and is not extinguished by regulatory legislation over flora and fauna.

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PEOPLE AND LAND

POPULATION

Taylor (1997), summarising the literature on indigenous demography, describes four discernible historical stages. Stable population growth during the pre-European period was followed by drastic population decline accompanying the frontier of European occupation.

This decline did not level off until the 1930s, with the population at about 20% of its original estimated size. After 1940 the population started to increase, with rapid population growth during the period of 'welfare colonialism' in the 1960s and 1970s. There now appears to be the beginning of a period of slower population increase. The characteristics of this indigenous population are 'clearly divergent from the mainstream demographic context' (Taylor 1997. p 104).

The 1996 Census (Australian Bureau of Statistics 1998a) calculates the estimated residential Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander population at 386,000. Over half of this population lived in NSW (28.57r) and Queensland (27.27c). In NSW this was just under two percent of the total population, and in Queensland just over three percent. While around 907c of the total Australian population are contained in the most densely settled

2b7 of the continent. 907c of the indigenous population live in areas covering 257r of the continent. Indigenous people are much more likely to live in non-metropolitan areas than the rest of the population, but conversely, are becoming increasingly urbanised. Around

72'; live in urban areas, with a greater proportion in smaller (less than 100,000) urban areas than major ones This is a complete reversal of the picture thirty years ago, when only

27r; of Aboriginal people lived in urban areas. Aboriginal people living in capital cities

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increased from 10% to 31% in the same period (Ross 1999). This divergence has its roots in the major redistribution of the Aboriginal population which was a consequence of

European settlement. A wide variety of locational settings and circumstances created the basis for varying demographic responses (Taylor 1997). Accordingly, there is now a simultaneous expansion of the urban and capital city population, and the most remote, outstation-based Aboriginal population, particularly in northern Australia.

This Aboriginal population expansion relates to factors other than just demographic ones

(births, deaths and migration). More people are identifying as Aboriginal, and most of these people are in the highly urbanised south east states. These states also show the highest level of intermarriage between indigenous and non-indigenous people, with the children of these mixed couple families identifying (or being identified by their parents) as Aboriginal (Ross

1999). Making comparisons with recent American literature, Ross (1999) suggests that in areas with early European settlement, Aboriginal populations were initially decimated and subsequently grew rapidly. In areas with later European settlement, populations were less drastically affected and have grown more slowly (see figure 6.1).

Some particular demographic characteristics of the Aboriginal population are significant for this thesis. There is a high level of adult mortality and morbidity, with life expectancies around 56 years for males and 64 years for females (substantially lower than the rest of the population) (Australian Bureau of Statistics 1998a). In a society which values knowledge highly and gives status to knowledgeable community 'elders', low life expectancies have a

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large impact. Older people are the ones most likely to have extensive knowledge of earlier cultural traditions (Ritter and Flanagan 2001). Please see print copy for images

Figure 6.1 Early European Settlement (from Ross 1996)

Relatively high levels of infant mortality are also important. Strategies to improve infant

survival by ensuring births are in mainstream western hospitals means that children are

bom much less often on traditional country, and cultural birthing practices are eroded1.

Recent demographic and health literature argues that 'social justice, social action, power

and access to resources [will be] ke> components of indigenous health outcomes' (Taylor

1997. p 97).

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NSW has more Aboriginal people than any other state in Australia. The 1996 census estimated about 20,000 Aboriginal people living in western Sydney, with Blacktown Local

Government Area having the highest number of Aboriginal people of any local government area in Australia (see figure 6.2). This large community of Aboriginal people is represented by many Aboriginal organisations, including the Local Aboriginal Land Councils and native title groups. Please see print copy for images

Figure 6.2 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander population in western Sydney 1996 (from Australian Bureau of Statistics 1998d)

1 This is noted in Capo York Regional Advisory Group (1997). and was expressed as a concern to me by Aboriginal people in Coon and Lockhart River.

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Cape York has a population of around 18.000 people. While Census figures suggest over half of this is indigenous (Aboriginal 31.9% and Tones Strait Islander 20%). Cape York

Regional Advisory Group (1997) suggests that this is an underestimate, with about 60% being a more accurate combined percentage for the indigenous population". Approximately

37% of the Cape York population lives in major Aboriginal communities, including

Lockhart River which is considered in the case studies. While there is much diversity in these, they have in common a number of factors. They are essentially 'refugee communities' deriving from the impacts of colonial settlement and government policy.

They include more than one cultural group, and experience social tension as a result, and are generally well below the Australian average for a range of social indicators (as is the case for the Aboriginal population as a whole). Until recently they were subject to strict control by church and/or government. Notwithstanding these impacts, clan and language identity remains strong, and communities have also developed their own communal identities, expressed in activities such as the Laura Dance Festival and the Lockhart River

Art Gang workshop (Cape York Regional Advisory Group (1997).

Small towns and settlements account for around 25% of the total population. Coen, also considered in the case studies and founded as a mining town, is one of these, and has a predominantly Abonginal population. There is a generally a distinct cultural separation between communities, with a very small number being able to be described as mixed

Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal. (Cape York Regional Advisory Group (1997). In 1993, a

•core' population of 823 Abonginal people lived at 95 different outstations on Cape York,

VHL- ilui pastoral properties had a population .

218 Redefining Relationships - 6 .

including permanent, seasonal and occasionally used sites (Cooke 1994). Note that this number is nearly double that for the permanent population of pastoral properties. The same study estimated that around 2,000 people either lived or aspired to live on outstations, approximately a third of the Aboriginal population.

LAND

Indigenous people make up around 2% of Australia's population. Recent work by Pollack

(2001) calculates that land held by Aboriginal communities was around 14.3% of Australia in 1993, but in 2000 was estimated at between 16.4% and 18% of Australia. This land, like the population, is very unevenly distributed.

Aboriginal people hold title via a spectrum of processes. The National Aboriginal Land

Fund was established in the 1970s to enable purchase of land for Aboriginal communities.

It was replaced in 1981 by the Aboriginal Development Commission. In 1990, ATSIC took over the land acquisition programs, and continued to provide grants for land purchase until

1997. In 1995, the Commonwealth Government created the Indigenous Land Fund and the

Indigenous Land Corporation to oversee it, as part of its response to the Mabo decision.

The Indigenous Land Corporation now manages most of the Commonwealth land acquisition funds, with ATSIC maintaining a smaller Regional Land Fund (NSW

Department of Aboriginal Affairs 2000a). The intent of the Indigenous Land Corporation is to provide funds for land purchase for those indigenous people who will be unable to successfully assert native title rights, due to past dispossession from their lands.

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The Native Title Act 1993 was passed by the Federal Keating Labor Government as a response to the Adjudgement. The Native Title Act established the National Native Title

Tribunal to provide an alternative to the judicial process for asserting native title rights.

Statutory land nghts regimes exist in NSW and Queensland, although they are structured quite differently. The native title and statutory land nghts regimes are dtscussed in detail later in this chapter.

In NSW, the Aboriginal Land Rights Act has operated since 1983, creating a process by which vacant Crown land (with some restrictions) can be claimed. At October 1999, 6,231 claims had been lodged, and 1,721 had been granted in full or in part (see table 6.1) (NSW

Department of Aboriginal Affairs 2000a). This successfully claimed land totalled 65,823 hectares, and constitutes 0.08% of the land area of the state. Land acquired under other mechanisms (not including Indigenous Land Corporation purchases) constituted an additional 0.11% at 1996. giving a total of 0.19% (Indigenous Land Corporation 1996a).

In Queensland, indigenous held land totalled 4,200,000 hectares, or 2.44% of the state in

1996 (Indigenous Land Corporation 1996b). A large amount of this was through the process of transfer of Aboriginal reserves into Deed of Grant in Trust lands ('DOGITs') .

Nearlv half of this total for Aboriginal land is on Cape York Peninsula. For Cape York in

1997. Aboriginal lands total around 2.023.200 hectares, which is 14.8% of the land area, although this figure does not include all Aboriginal-owned cattle properties (Cape York

Regional Advisory Group 1997)

' Vjriims amendments in the Oucciisland U;nJ \ t 1962 \esied lormcr reserves in indigenous ownership under a special lurin nl Ireehold (IX Hil 1st uiklci vthiih communits councils hold land in trust lur the residents

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While this brief summary has described land in terms of percentages and hectares, these holdings are of great significance to Aboriginal people. Yunupingu (1997, p xv) says 'Our land is our life. This belief is central to Aboriginal people's existence.' Non-Aboriginal people often consider their freehold blocks hearth and home, and of much greater than just economic significance. For many Aboriginal people, the relationship includes a core spiritual connection. Rose (1996, p 7) summarises:

Country in Aboriginal English is not only a common noun but also a proper noun... country is a living entity with a yesterday, today and tomorrow, with a consciousness, and a will toward life. Because of this richness, country is home, and peace; nourishment for body, mind and spirit.

Aboriginal-owned land is also of course of economic significance, and both the Indigenous

Land Corporation and the NSW land rights legislation specifically mentions the importance of creating and sustaining an economic base for Aboriginal communities through land acquisition.

CULTURE

'CONTINUITY AND CHANGE*

Numerous researchers have written about contemporary Aboriginal culture, from 'remote'

Australia (for example Rose 1992, Cowlishaw 1999), to urban Australia (for example

Rowse 2000). They collectively summarise a picture of Aboriginal culture with a high decree of heterogeneity, but connected by central elements such as kin networks, identity. beliefs and attitudes to the past; as well as elements bom of interaction with settler society.

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such as 'resistance cultures', 'hybrid' and informal economies, and adoption of clothes and language from settler sub-cultures. Keen (1999) summarises a range of anthropological models of cultural continuity and change, reviewing the 'culture-loss' model, successfully used against the native title claimants in Yorta Yorta, through to 'emergent cultural forms', where distinctive features continue while their form changes. He paraphrases Macdonald

(1998), suggesting that 'deeper structures of continuing values underlie and continue to inform changing forms "on the surface". The Aboriginal domain retains its distinctive form of sociality, and remains a distinct polity' (Keen 1999, p 6).

Chapter one discussed core issues around Aboriginal identity and social constructions of indigeneity. For non-Aboriginal Australians, Aboriginality, native title and land claims, and

Aboriginal organisations are all, effectively, located between Aboriginal society and culture and non-Aboriginal society and culture. They are products and constructs of the interaction with settler society. These constructs are significant because they provide the cultural context in which interactions between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal society occur.

The most enduring popular non-Aboriginal construction is that 'real Aborigines' live in remote Australia and are in some way attached to the remote past (and there are not many of them left). Other •Aborigines', often urban, are 'half castes', with variously degraded forms of culture, and inauthentic. This crude and generalised distinction is enormously powerful, with versions of it daily expressed in the media, parliament and by 'ordinary

Australians' Another common construction is reflected in the spatially-based differentiation between traditional' Aboriginal communities, and "historical' communities;

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that is, those people who live on or near their traditional country; and those who have been removed, or have left, their traditional country, and now live, and may have allegiances, elsewhere. This has obvious connections to the remote/urban construction. These are both focussed on space/place and time: those distant in space and time are more legitimate

(perhaps because they are less threatening), than those proximate in space and time

(Langton 1981, Keen 1994 and 1999, Rowse 2000).

Exploring some of the complexities of these, Martin (1997) argues that traditionally-based links and historically-based links often exist on a continuum, rather than being fundamentally different. He points out that there is often extensive and constant contestation over who can rightfully claim to be the traditional owners of many areas, because of enormous levels of historical social dislocation, and because of the various ways in which people can assert genealogical links. There are also often commonalities developed by co-residents in small communities, which may outweigh differences arising from differing areas of origin.

ORGANISATIONS

Regional and local Aboriginal organisations often effectively carry 'the burden of balancing cross-cultural conflicts which arise when one legal system insufficiently recognises another' (Summerfield 2000, p 12). A core conflict arises from ambiguous views that resources, including land, are 'both a matter of equity, yet also constitute a domain for legitimate Aboriginal political activity based on competition between locally constituted interest groups' (Finlayson 1997. p 145).

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Between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal societies are institutions and processes intended to mediate Aboriginal interests in mainstream Australian society, and vice versa. Land rights, native title and land purchases are all non-Aboriginal processes intended to benefit

Aboriginal people. Aboriginal land councils. Native Title Representative Bodies,

Prescribed Bodies Corporate, land trusts, and Aboriginal corporations generally under the

Aboriginal Councils and Associations Act 1976, are also all non-Aboriginal administrative arrangements. Sullivan (1997, p 4) describes this distinction for 'traditional' Aboriginal communities:

...there is a fundamental flaw in the way that Aboriginal groups are seen as being appropriately represented by corporate bodies. The holders of native title in Aboriginal customary law are a social community, and their land holding is part and parcel of their territorial political structure as much as it is a form of property. The necessary mechanisms lor regulating a corporation dealing in property are not appropriate to regulating an entire social community owning a termors.

This dilemma is one of the factors at the heart of Aboriginal disputes over land. That is, what non-Aboriginal society perceives as being inherent internal conflicts which demonstrate the inability of Aboriginal people to effectively relate to mainstream

Australian society, is a function of the regimes that that society demands as a condition of re-accessing land (see also Smith and Finlayson 1997).

()ne o! the fundamentally problematic issues here is the question of which political domain

(Aboriginal or non-Aboriginal) provides the power for assertions of authority in Aboriginal

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organisations. While, for instance, the Native Title Act says it is traditional law and custom which provides authority, this is in fact accorded no, or little, power by the state (Sullivan

1997). The 'recognition space' of native title becomes the site of contestation for

Aboriginal authority, with both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal domains being used to legitimate this authority. Because of the perceived de facto strength of the non-Aboriginal domain, Aboriginal individuals may increasingly use their positions of office in Aboriginal corporations and their networks in, and understanding of, the non-Aboriginal domain to legitimate their authority, rather than their knowledge of Aboriginal law and custom

(Finlayson 1997). This has congruence with elements of the historic/traditional dynamic.

Often people displaced from their traditional country will be in towns or other urban areas and more exposed to and involved with non-Aboriginal domains of power, and consequently better positioned to claim authority from there.

A defining characteristic of Aboriginal political and social domains is the emphasis on 'the primacy of the local over the regional or national' (Martin 1997, p 156). This is in part a reflection of the Aboriginal ethical and political imperative to serve the interests of the kin or other local group to which the individual is linked (Martin 1997, and numerous other authors). While this is often constructed as 'nepotism' by non-Aboriginal observers, it is often entirely consistent in terms of Aboriginal culture. Consequently, organisations which operate at more than a local level have the challenge of understanding this dynamic but meeting non-Aboriginal standards of accounting which do not accept these processes. This will include Native Title Representative Bodies and Local Aboriginal Land Councils.

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LAND RIGHTS

Reynolds (1992) comprehensively reviews the history of Aboriginal rights to land in

Australia. Numerous other writers have considered aspects of land rights (for example

Brennan 1992 and 1995. Goodall 1996, Yunupingu 1997). In the discussion following, I give a very brief history and description of the regimes existing for Queensland and New

South Wales, before focusing on the cogent issues of the constraints of the legislation and its administration, and the current situation for each state. A historic context is significant for the themes of this thesis: while bureaucratic memory may be short. Aboriginal people remember their history, and sometimes make 'every official accountable for the history of policies' (Smith 1999, p 198).

NEW SOUTH WALES

This brief outline of the evolution of land rights in NSW is summarised from Wilkie

(1985). Goodall (1996). Way (1999) and NSW Department of Aboriginal Affairs (2000a).

From the early nineteenth centurv. government policy established church-controlled missions for Aboriginal people in NSW After many of these failed, largely due to

Aboriginal resistance to acculturation policies. Aboriginal reserves were created, with around 110 existing by the turn of the century. However, with increasing pressure for non-

Abonginal access to these reserve lands in the 1920s, including provision of soldier settler blocks after World War I. and again after World War II, many reserves were closed in a

'second wave' of dispossession and dispersion4.

hl.shcdon | v..Jtr^m ^sVvka,redded lo :

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During the 1930s and 1940s Aboriginal people commenced structured campaigns for citizenship and land rights. This continued and increased in the 1960s and 1970s, with the

Tent Embassy being established by NSW Aboriginal people on the lawns of Parliament house in Canberra in 1972. In 1973 the Aboriginal Lands Trust was established, consisting of nine Aboriginal people elected from the Aboriginal population of NSW, and receiving freehold title to the 56 remaining reserves. The Lands Trust could submit claims for Crown land, and after ten of these were submitted, the NSW Government established a Select

Committee to look at the issues. The findings of this Committee resulted in the creation of a

NSW Ministry for Aboriginal Affairs in 1981 (headed by Aboriginal lawyer Pat O'Shane). and then the passing of the Aboriginal Land Rights Act in 1983.

Nationally, two additional events over this period stand out. In 1967 a referendum enabled the Commonwealth to make laws for Aboriginal people, and include Aboriginal people in the Census. In 1971, Justice Blackburn handed down his decision in the Nabalco case

(Milirrpum v Nabalco), previously discussed.

The Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1983 created a three tier structure of Aboriginal Land

Councils: local, regional and state. This has become a significant political and organisational structure for Aboriginal people in NSW (but is not the only one, and is not necessarily 'representative'). It provides for a process of claiming land and purchasing land for Aboriginal people. On enactment, the previous reserve lands (around 4,600 hectares) held by the Aboriginal Land Trust were transferred to Aboriginal people represented by the

Local Aboriginal Land Councils. These Councils are entitled to make claims to Crown land

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not lawfully used or occupied or required for an 'essential public purpose', and to purchase land on the open market (see table 6.1).

The NSW Aboriginal Land Council received and administers an investment fund, which, up until 1998, received the equivalent of 7.5% of all NSW stamp duty on land transactions.

This fund, which at the end of 1998 contained $492,505,102, is invested and the interest used to fund the operation of the NSW Aboriginal Land Council and the regional and local land councils, as well as providing some funds for land purchase. There are currently 119

Local and thirteen Regional Aboriginal Land Councils across NSW. The NSW Aboriginal

Land Council is the peak representative body, and consists of 13 councillors elected by

Local Aboriginal Land Council members.

Table 6.1 NSW Aboriginal Land Claim Statistics as at 5 October 1999 (from Department of Aboriginal Affairs 2000a, p 85) Please see print copy for images

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In 1996, the National Parks and Wildlife Amendment (Aboriginal Ownership) Act, amended both the National Parks and Wildlife Act and the Aboriginal Land Rights Act to allow for a handback and joint management process for existing national parks, as well as a mechanism for land claimed under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act to become joint managed national park. To date, Mutawintji National Park in western NSW has been handed back to its 'Aboriginal owners' (as defined under the legislation), and land at

Stockton Bight near Newcastle has been conditionally granted as a land claim which will become a joint managed national park. These mechanisms are discussed further in chapter eight.

QUEENSLAND

Brennan (1992, p 4), writing about the period from 1981 to 1991, says 'in the last decade, the Queensland parliament has passed more laws regarding Aboriginal land and local government than any other parliament in Australia'. This has resulted in multiple bases for

Aboriginal land holding. The description below is summarised from Brennan (1992), Way

(1999) and Indigenous Land Corporation (1996b).

Aboriginal reserves are the oldest form of tenure for indigenous communities in

Queensland, originally coming under the Aboriginals Protection and Restriction of the

Sale of Opium Acts 1897. Reserves were 'an integral part of both the protection regime of the early twentieth century and later assimilationist policies of successive Queensland

Governments' (Way 1999, p 14), and, as such, were part of an essentially draconian regime of repression and control. The reserve systems forcibly removed many people from their traditional lands, disrupting family, social and cultural traditions, and resulting in people

229 Redefining Relationships - 6

from different cultural groups being forced to live in single communities. The State could revoke reserves for particular purposes, with an infamous example occurring in the reduction of a reserve from 354,000 hectares to 124 hectares, to make way for bauxite mining by Comalco at Weipa. Reserves were replaced by a system of Deed of Grant in

Trusts (DOGITs) made by amendments to the Land Act (1967 and 1994), but Aboriginal reserves still exist as granted under the Land Act 1962.

The Aboriginal Lund Act 1991. passed by the Goss Labor Government, allowed for the transfer of land occupied by indigenous peoples to a new form of inalienable freehold title.

For this to happen, the land must be 'transferable' under the terms of the legislation.

Fxisting Aboriginal reserves. DOGITs. and the Aurukun and Mornington Island shire leases are 'transferable land'.

There is also a limited claim procedure for land that has been transferred under the legislation, as well as for Crown land declared by regulation to be 'claimable'. Fourteen national parks are declared claimable under the Aboriginal Lind Act. However, no grants over national parks will be made unless the grantees have already agreed to a perpetual lease back to the State. This has effectively prevented any Aboriginal joint management initiatives in Queensland to date. When land is 'transferable', there is essentially an administrative process to be followed which is not particularly lengthy. However, if land is

'claimable', a claim procedure before the Land Tribunal established by the legislation must be followed, which can be a very lengthy and stressful process for the Aboriginal claimants

The case studv examines these issues in more detail.

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NATIVE TITLE

This section looks at some of the issues of native title, including what it is, the functioning of the National Native Title Tribunal, the state and territory regimes for native title, and the relationship between native title and conservation issues.

Native title is perhaps one of the most complex and misunderstood social and legal issues in Australia today. One of the fundamental difficulties is that while the High Court in Mabo recognised existing indigenous law which 'reflects the entitlements of the indigenous inhabitants... to their traditional land', 'native title' via the Native Title Act is a concept and construct of Australian law. The Native Title Act is a means of giving effect to one system of land tenure in another.

As discussed in chapter four, Mantziaris and Martin (2000) conceptualise it as a 'space of recognition' formed by the intersection of two circles, one representing Aboriginal law and custom (from which native title draws its origins and content), and the other the Australian legal system: the combination of traditional law and custom, the legislation and the common law of native title within the recognition space, gives content to the native title rights and interests.

While the High Court recognised the prior existence of indigenous law, it also confirmed the power of the State to acquire indigenous land. Subsequently, the 1993 Native Title Act simultaneously gave effect to, and controlled, the consequences of the Mabo judgement.

The 1998 amendments to the Native Title Act (enacted by the Howard Coalition

231 Redefining Relationships - 6

Government), following the High Court Wik decision, effectively reduced the benefits to

Indigenous people of Mabo, the original Native Title Act and Wik. Table 6.2 and the two maps (figure 6.3) following indicate the disparity between what was seen as the promise of native title by indigenous people after the Mabo decision, and the reality after eight years of native title negotiations and decisions.

Table 6.2 Number of active claimant applications at 12 October 2000 (from Neate 2001, p41) Please see print copy for images

232 Redefining Relationships - 6

Please see print copy for images

Figure 6.3 Native title claims and determinations, June 2000

233 Redefining Relationships 6

The concept of native title has many difficult aspects. The following discussion is summarised from Dodson (1999) and Neate (1999). While native title is recognised by the judgements and laws of Australia, its source is in the traditional laws and customs of the indigenous people who have a connection with a particular area of land or water. Because of this, native title rights and interests will not necessarily equate with other forms of property under the general law, and may vary from place to place in Australia. Native title is different to statutory land rights regimes. While statutory land rights are effectively discretionary grants to Indigenous people by the Crown, native title is something which

Indigenous people already have: "native title laws exist to identify and protect what already exists' (Neate 1999, p 3). The common law on native title is developing. Each court case provides additional perspectives Because of the level of opposition to native title, and the commitment of native title applicants to seeking justice, cases are routinely appealed through to the High Court, which is a lengthy process.

Underlying these aspects, Dodson (1999. p 2), says, is a new battle:

The struggle now is not so much against the non-recognition of Indigenous culture but rather a struggle over the meaning and value that non-Indigenous law and society should give it...The full dimensions of native title have not been settled either by the legislature. b> the common law or by Australian citizens engaged in the process of reconciliation.

The Native Title Act established the National Native Title Tribunal, and while allowing for litigated outcomes, stresses the supposed benefit of mediation through the Tribunal. While

Neate [\999, 2000b) argues for the advantages and successes of Tribunal mediation

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(understandably, as he is the President of the Tribunal), Bartlett, in two papers (1996,

1999), comprehensively outlines a series of early Tribunal failures, described as a

'philosophy of decision making which favours certainty and development and discounts native title and the right to negotiate' (1996, p 137). Currently, there are at least two major challenges to the effective functioning of the Tribunal. One is the effectiveness of the concept and process of mediation of native title applications through the Tribunal. The other is the challenge of recognising and protecting native title under a federal system of government, both in terms of cross-boundary issues and in terms of the alternate state and territory regimes allowed by the Native Title Act.

A mediated process is based on reconciling the 'interests' of the parties, whereas a litigated or court-based process is essentially adversarial, based on the 'rights' of the parties. The form of mediation used by the Tribunal is the interest-based negotiation model which involves parties identifying their 'interests' and options for meeting those interests.

Mediation is meant to ensure a fair outcome by removing power imbalances between participants, and hearing a dispute in an unbiased context. The mediator has no agenda but the fair outcome of the issue. Neate (2000b) recognises that native title mediation is different to other forms of mediation in a number of ways, including the potential for a large number of parties, the fact that they may not know each other or each other's values and backgrounds, and the length of time it can take.

Beattie (1997) extensively critiques the mediation model in cross-cultural situations such as native title mediation, and aspects of his critique are paralleled in my own experience of

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mediation. Beattie identifies problems of cultural imperialism, gender stereotypes, and the enormous power of the mediator in the process. Behrendt (1995) also reviews the cultural limitations of mediation models, and Sandford (1996) critiques the mediation model while suggesting more appropriate forms of intercultural negotiation. My own experience highlighted the problems of limited resources, meaning for instance, that meetings were held in offices (more comfortable for the non-indigenous parties), rather than on the land under discussion. Native title applicants and staff of Native Title Representative Bodies regularly discuss their assessments of the known sympathies of various mediators, reflecting anything but a belief in the impartiality of the process.

The federal system is the second challenge to the functioning of the National Native Title

Tribunal and native title generally. Land management is the responsibility of the states in

Australia, and tenure management is also state responsibility. This means that how native title may survive varies in each state, and its influence on land management varies as well.

This is obviously problematic in situations were the native title application covers more than one state (for example, both Yorta Yorta and Miriuwung Gajerrong). Following the

1998 amendments, the Native Title Act allows for a very significant role for the states and territories to establish their own bodies to take over the work of the Tribunal. Analysing the significance of these changes. Dodson (1999, pp 3-4), says:

There is no sense ot'a whole from which the meaning of native title can be seen to emerge.

Instead, there is a procession of different land management regimes which treat native title in diltereni wa\s depending on the land use patterns of the particular state. As native title

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becomes enmeshed in state land and resource management issues, questions of discrimination and human rights appear to fade into the background.

Neate (2000a, p7) says,

The practical consequences of the enactment (and Commonwealth endorsement) of alternative provisions legislation include:

• the addition of laws in an already complex field without precluding the operation of at least some provisions of the Native Title Act;

• the development of different procedures for dealing with these issues on a state by state

(and Territory) basis; and

• potential differences in the content and administration of the different laws in different parts of the country.

Although there is legislation in NSW providing for the state to deal with native title matters, that legislation has not commenced to operate. Related legislation in Queensland commenced operation in 2000 (Neate 2001).

Note that this picture of a legislative and administrative field of expanding complexity contrasts with the general picture concerning protected area management. In the last decade or so, increasing efforts have been made to create greater harmony and correspondence between varying states management of protected areas, for instance through the National

Reserve System Program (Thackway 1996), the Interim Biogeographic Regionalisation of

Australia process (Thackway 1995) and various informal mechanisms. Aboriginal people

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are thus faced with an increasingly nationalised and coordinated perspective on protected area management, and an increasingly regionalised and fragmented perspective on native title.

CONCLUSIONS

The preceding summary describes something of the complexity of Aboriginal political and relational domains, and sketches out Aboriginal spatial and social domains. These domains spatially and politically overlap with the interests and activities of conservation agencies.

Chapters seven and eight give a comprehensive analysis of how this functions.

The consequences of Aboriginal dispossession and social dislocation, and the institutions and processes created to address this, are interwoven with tensions, ambiguities and conflicts. While the judicial system has addressed some fundamental injustices, the political system has often avoided institutionalising these in legislation, policy and practice, so injustice and inequity persist.

Aboriginal populations in non-metropolitan Australia face significant social and economic disadvantage. Participation in local protected area management offers opportunities to combine economic improvement with the cultural and environmental strengths of 'caring for countrv'. Similarly, urban Aboriginal populations, just like urban non-Aboriginal populations but at a fundamentally different order of significance, want opportunities to access natural landscapes and engage with them.

238 Redefining Relationships - 6

Statutory land rights processes in Queensland and NSW, while delivering some historical mission lands to Aboriginal people, continue to run the gauntlet of opposition from conservation agencies, effectively competing for the same land. Aboriginal ownership provisions linked to land rights in Queensland and NSW have so far delivered very limited outcomes, except for Mutawintji in NSW.

The complexities of recognising one legal system within another challenge simplistic notions of tenure, and raise concepts separating ownership and control. Native title rights in ecological processes (such as water flows) link to conservation concerns with cross- boundary management. But ownership and private property rights continue to be metaphorically and actually powerful, providing authorisation and bases for control. As

Dodson (1999) argues, neither the courts, the parliament nor the people of Australia have come to terms with the fundamental change created by native title. The case studies will discuss how conservation agencies are amongst those who hope for business as usual.

Protected areas are an interface between the past ('pristine nature') and the present and future (increasingly fragmented and 'degraded' landscapes). They are temporal and spatial hinges , representing (memorialising?) landscapes of the past perpetuated into the future, and spatially separating nature from culture in Western terms. Aboriginal domains are unavoidably interfaces between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal society, indigenous and settler cultures. They are also temporal and spatial hinges, linking past cultural traditions and connections to contemporary Aboriginal culture, and spatially overlaying land as

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Western property and commodity with land as 'the active manifestation of creation' (Rose

1996, p23) and active agent in human affairs.

In contemporary Aboriginal culture, dynamics around traditional and historic links to place, the primacy of local and family allegiances versus regional or larger concerns, and the relative authority of different political domains, underlie interactions with conservation agencies and other elements of mainstream Australia. These dynamics all offer opportunities for complementarity to mainstream approaches, but are usually considered problematic or oppositional.

These links and interfaces are both permeable and mobile. Spatial metaphors emphasising coexistence and reconciliation might enable us, as Howitt (1998, p 3) says, to move towards 'a more complex, constructive and inclusive "edge politics" that grapples with ambivalence, uncertainty, change, overlap and interaction'. I use the metaphors of complementarity and the recognition space to approach these issues. The next two chapters examine particular geographically placed recognition spaces.

240 **• m

V \PART III Redefining Relationships - 7

7

QUEENSLAND: FROM PLACE TO PROCESS

/ went back to the Yintjingga [Lamalama]. ..here, with these happy, genial, carefree fishermen, I served my apprentice as an anthropologist. (Thomson 1956, p 34)

This coastal area covers lands traditionally owned by the Umpila people. Since there has been virtually no attempt to inform or involve the Umpila people to date, any future consultations or discussions will likely be strained, due to this departure from the more open, 'democratic' planning practices. (Le Cussan 1993, p 27)

Governance and implementation of the Cape York Natural Heritage Trust Plan is fragmented with no single point of accountability or responsibility, and confused messages are being given to the community which has little sense of ownership or even confidence in the process. (Reeves and Breckwoldt 1999, p ix, after expenditure of $10 million on Cape York)

INTRODUCTION

In early 1998 I was invited to work with the Cape York Land Council on an Aboriginal land issue in far north Queensland. The project is a continuing negotiation between the

Queensland government and Aboriginal traditional owners1 concerning conservation and

Aboriginal interests in land. It focuses on the Silver Plains-McIIwraith Range site, a

'remote' area on the east coast of Cape York Peninsula. The land is 307,000 hectares, and includes most of the Mcllwraith Range, and the plains, valleys and coast of the Silver

Plains Pastoral Lease (figure 7.1). This project was the first case study to be examined in my research. I was employed full-time by Cape York Land Council (CYLC) to work on the negotiations between January and June 1998, and then part-time into 2000, so the primary

241 Redelming Relationships - 7

locus was necessarily on my employment brief, with a secondary focus on particular 'case study' issues. My job was to negotiate the best outcomes for the traditional owners, using my experience in Aboriginal issues and conservation planning.

During my employment I was a participant observer when working with the traditional owners and the Land Council; and interviewed Queensland government officers as part of the negotiation process. I also analysed departmental and CYLC documents, as well as reviewing the research literature.

The limitations on my ability to treat these negotiations as a case study were more than compensated for by the effectiveness of introductions to traditional owners by other CYLC staff, and the assistance with remote area access needed for the project. The substance of the project means that some elements must remain confidential.

This chapter first describes the proposal and the place, before examining both Aboriginal and conservation interests in the land. It then describes and analyses the project negotiations, and draws conclusions. As a real political negotiation, it provides a good example of the relationship between varying perceptions of nature and the practical, on- ground outcomes It illustrates the diversity within both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal cultures, and how this heterogeneitv of the protagonist groups influences outcomes. It discusses the significance of the mapping process in negotiations, with issues of contested ownership of the same sites, as well as perceptions of significance in different sites.

Iiiihix.lupi.i I u^il*kTii.-|rjJin.HL.I..»iK.T. : , ,h, \Nciginal fv..pi,- »h,, Mamiv »uh. ami arc ide. cd vu.h. lh, S,K„ I'IJIIIN-

242 Redefining Relationships - 7

Please see print copy for images

Figure 7.1 Location of the study area and tenures of Cape York Peninsula (from Cape York Regional Advisory Group 1997)

243 Redefining Relationships - 7

THE PROPOSAL

In 1994 and 1995 discussions between representatives of Cape York Land Council, the

Aboriginal traditional owners of the Silver Plains-Mcllwraith Range lands and the

Queensland Government led to the development of a proposal to change tenure and management. This process was initiated by the Aboriginal owners, and was 'patched' into existing policy instruments by government agency representatives.

The proposal was to return all the Silver Plains-Mcllwraith Range lands to the traditional owners as Aboriginal freehold, and then provide a leaseback of approximately half of the land as National Park (Aboriginal Land) (under the Queensland Nature Conservation Act and Aboriginal Land Act), for a period of 50 years. Conservation Agreements over parts of the Aboriginal freehold were to be negotiated. The proposal included a majority of traditional owners on the Board of Management of the national park, as well as resourcing for ranger training and ranger positions for traditional owners in the national park. This would mean that approximately half of the total area would become unencumbered

Aboriginal freehold, owned by the four Aboriginal groups; with the other half becoming a national park to be joint-managed by the traditional owners and the Queensland state conservation agency.

To achieve consolidation of the tenures, it was necessary for Queensland to purchase the

Silver Plains Pastoral Lease from its then owner, an absentee American who had held the lease since 1979. This was undertaken in 1994, for $4.5 million. The Queensland

Government (Labor under Premier Wayne Goss) agreed to provide 50% of the purchase

244 Redefining Relationships - 7

price of Silver Plains pastoral lease, the Commonwealth Government 257c, and Aboriginal interests 25%. There were delays in confirming the 25% contribution by Aboriginal interests, and while the purchase took place with Queensland and Commonwealth funds, the proposal as described above did not proceed.

In August 1997 the Indigenous Land Corporation agreed to provide the contribution by the traditional owners, and CYLC recommenced discussions with the Department of

Environment, who indicated that the Queensland Government wanted to proceed with the general structure of the 1995 proposal.

THE PLACE NGALAPICHI - WUNTA - MOJEEBA - PUNTIMU: SILVER PLAINS-MCILWRAITH RANGE, CAPE YORK PENINSULA

The first part of the title of this section is four names in Aboriginal languages for four different places in the study region. The places are in Kaanju, Umpila, Lamalama and

Ayapathu country respectively. This landscape is densely named by the Aboriginal traditional owners, but there is no name for the region overall, and only one of these places has a corresponding English name. The second part of the title is the name of the two principal Western tenure blocks: the Silver Plains Pastoral Lease and the Mcllwraith Range

Timber Reserve. These are the names used by government officers and other non-

Aboriginal people to describe the region. Generically, both Aboriginal people and government staff use the shorthand term 'Silver Plains' for the region.

In Western terms, the Silver Plains - Mcllwraith Range lands are remote, diverse and spectacular (figure 7.2). The landscape has steep rugged gorges, tall montane rainforest.

245 Redefining Relationships - 7

open savanna country cut b\ streams with gallery rainforest, and complex and beautiful coastal landscapes. Topographically, the land is composed of the broad granite plateau of the Mcllwraith Range, at an average elevation of 450 metres, rising in places to over 800 metres, and the coastal and inland plains, valleys and low altitude ranges to the east and south. The Mcllwraith Range is drained to the east by several significant streams (Massey,

Rocky, Chester, Leo and Nesbit) and the Stewart River and its tributaries form a broad valley in the south and east. The Embley and Macrossan Ranges and a series of old and new beach ridges run north-south between the Mcllwraith Range and the coast. The southern boundary of the site is formed by Balclutha Creek, and includes a distinctive remnant volcanic formation (one of several sites of contested significance).

Landscapes of Silver Plains

Vegetation includes the complex and diverse high plateau rainforests (Xanthostemon,

Lunula spp) of the Mcllwraith and Macrossan Ranges, the low-layered forests of Broad-

leaved Paperbark (Melaleuca vindifloru) of the Nesbit and Leo Creek valleys, tall gallery

rainforest on the coastal streams, unique grasslands (Imperata cylindrica/Mnesithea

ronbotllioide/Arundinella serosa) in the Nesbit valley, deciduous vine forests and thickets

246 Redefining Relationships - 7

on the western slopes, savanna woodland in the south and east, and the Hoop Pine vine forests (Araucaria cunninghamiana) in the south of the Mcllwraith Range (Abrahams et al

1995).

Please see print copy for images

Figure 7.3 Locations of rare and threatened fauna as an indicator of conservation value (from Abrahams et al 1995)

Biological surveys indicate the area has the greatest diversity of both bird and mammal species within Cape York Peninsula. The area is the habitat for at least one fish, three frogs

(Scrub Rocket Frog, Cape York Nursery Frog. Northern Nursery Frog), seven reptiles

(including the endemic Cape York Leaf-tailed Gecko), fifteen birds and three mammals.

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which are nationally rare, vulnerable or endangered. It contains the highest concentration of regionally restricted birds anywhere in Australia, and has important habitat for Estuarine

Crocodiles. Green and Hawksbill Turtles and Dugong (Abrahams et al 1995, Le Cussan

1993). The Cape York Peninsula Land Use Strategy (CYPLUS) map (figure 7.3) illustrates some of these Western attributes of conservation value.

Several Western tenures overlay the physical landscape, and four groups of traditional owners have customary tenure over the land. Topographic maps name some dominant features in the landscape, and traditional owners recognise and name the entire landscape, much of it in great detail (Chase and Sutton 1981, Hynes and Chase 1982). While for the traditional owners the landscape in question extends to the islands, reefs and offshore waters. Western tenure systems mean that most of the discussion in the negotiation process for this project has focussed on the mainland, rather than also including 'sea country'. The closest population centres are Coen (270: 220 Aboriginal, 50 non-Aboriginal), and

Lockhart River (650: 600 Aboriginal, 50 non-Aboriginal) - see figure 7.4. Seasonally used

Aboriginal outstations are near Port Stewart and at Station Creek.

Until the transfer of the land, a resident non-Aboriginal manager from Silver Plains homestead managed the pastoral lease. For several years the property has been run as a marginally economic cattle property and eco-tourism venture (primarily fishing camps).

The coastal areas are visited by both shore and boat-based recreational fishermen, and commercial fishermen. Mining leases exist at Rocky Creek, Station Creek and Ngalapichi, and these are intermittently worked. Mungkan-Kandju National Park (previously called

Rokeb \-Archer Bend National Park) is contiguous with the site in the northwest.

248 Redefining Relationships - 7

Please see print copy for images

Figure 7.4 The Macllwraith Range - Silver Plains area, showing Timber Reserve, Pastoral Lease, roads and surrounding tenures (from Cape York Regional Advisory Group 1997)

These Western understandings and depictions of the region do not reflect Aboriginal ones.

A number of features noted by non-Aboriginal people as prominent topographically, are to the Aboriginal owners, of enormous cultural significance. A perched dune lake with no

European name is Numanyum, a very important 'poison place' with an associated 'story'

(mythological explanation) and strict rules about access and behaviour. The unnamed volcanic plug near Balclutha Creek on the topographic map is Kulpa, the Bandicoot Story place, and a possible boundary marker between aspects of Ayapathu and Lamalama rights

249 Redefining Relationships - 7

to particular landscapes. These elements of Aboriginal myth are interwoven with

Aboriginal historic and contemporary relationships to the land. A site west of the Silver

Plains homestead is 'Mango Yard' a mustering camp from earlier generations of cattle work. The Silver Plains homestead, yards and airstrip are valued as the heritage of

Aboriginal blood, sweat and tears in their construction - people alive today talk of how they worked twelve hour days labouring to build them. Kulpa. as for many places, is significant at multiple levels: the Bandicoot Story, its boundary role, its visual usefulness in navigation, its specialised use in cattle management activities, the particular resources available there because of the volcanic soil.

Elements of the landscape valued by Western conservationists are inextricably linked with

Aboriginal activities. The grasslands of the Nesbit River, quite rare on Cape York, are an artefact of earlier Aboriginal burning, now threatened by years of pastoralism which have simultaneously displaced the burning and introduced grazing pressure. These grasslands lie below the mountain called Wunta, the Umpila Wind Story place (figure 7.5). A unique vegetation community on ancient coastal dunes south of Numanyum, not previously recorded by scientists, is most likely a result of the recent cessation of previous burning practices".

Due lo Jala cor.i~uknu.ilil) coiKernv I tunc nm recorded aiu <>i ihc Aboriginal-named places on map> in ihis ihcsis

250 Redefining Relationships - 7

Figure 7.5 Wunta - the Umpila Wind Story place, with grasslands near the Nesbit River

Many Aboriginal people intimately understand these landscapes, combining knowledge from transmission of earlier cultural traditions, their personal experience in cattle work and gold mining, their regular activities in accessing bush resources, and their constant social discussion of the land and the people moving in it. They do not operate within the Western tenure constructs, recognising country outside the cadastral boundaries and beyond the terrestrial/marine division. At the same time, they are aware of the limitations imposed by hostile 'landowners' and the 'rights' of commercial fishing operators and others.

251 Redefining Relationships^

ABORIGINAL RELATIONSHIPS TO LAND

HISTORIC RELATIONSHIPS

It is likely that, pre-contact. there were several hundred small kin groups on Cape York

Peninsula, each occupying a recognised territory (Chase and Sutton 1981). Donald

Thomson (1972 p 2) wrote, 'in former times Cape York Peninsula supported a very dense native population'. Please see print copy for images

Figure 7.6 Donald Thomson's map of Cape York Aboriginal 'tribes' (from Thomson 1972)

252 Redefining Relationships - 7

Thomson carried out fieldwork with coastal Aboriginal people during 1928-29, based at the mouth of the Stewart River (figure 7.6). He described the groups of the region (1934 p

237):

The eastern seaboard of Cape York Peninsula is inhabited by a group of fishing and seafaring tribes whose culture differs considerably from that of the typical Australian aboriginal. The contrast between the sandbeachmen and the inland tribes, even within the Peninsula, is recognized by the natives themselves, and they divide the tribes occupying the area into two groups, named from their geographical position the Kanidji, bushmen or inlanders, and the

Kawadji, the people of the east, or Malnkanidji. sandbeachmen.

The Kanidji. who inhabit the interior or central highlands of the Peninsula, are nomadic hunters like the typical Australians of the inland. But the Kawadji. or as these people call themselves. Pama Malnkana (people of the sandbeach) or Malnkanidji (belonging to the sandbeach). though living only a few miles away, are less strongly nomadic and are expert canoe builders, fishermen and seafarers.

White settlement on Cape York occurred in essentially three waves: miners and pastoralists arriving in the 1870s, then wartime personnel during World War II. and more recently a wave of visitors attracted by tourism and prospects of different lifestyles (May 1995,

Cordell 1995, Cape York Regional Advisory Group 1997). These land-based waves of activity were paralleled on the sea frontier: luggermen, defence vessels, and tourist and fishin^ vessels (Loos 1994). Each of these groups had complex relationships with

Aboriginal traditional owners, but those with pastoralists, luggermen and tourists are perhaps the most significant in terms of connection to land and sea country.

253 Redefining Relationships • 7

Cape York pastoralists were heavily dependent on Aboriginal labour. While labour practices were often brutal and restrictive to Aboriginal people, working on pastoral properties also allowed them to 'legitimately live on their own land and practise many aspects of their old lifestyle in modified form' (May 1994, p 57). In the late 1960s, after the introduction of award wages for Aboriginal workers in the pastoral industry, involvement in the pastoral industry declined and more people became town-based, accessing stockwork seasonally on nearby stations (Coen Regional Aboriginal Corporation 1995). Stockwork today is held in high regard, particularly by older Aboriginal men; and management of economic and/or 'killer' herds is often expressed as an aspiration .

From the late nineteenth century into the early twentieth century, the northern fisheries in beche-de-mer and pearlshell were heavily reliant on local Aboriginal labour. As a sea-based enterprise, work in these fisheries created a "multi-racial society not based on complete dispossession' (Loos 1993. p 19). Sandalwood cutting was also dependent on both sea transport and Aboriginal skills, and a sandalwood cutters' base existed at the mouth of the

Chester River. These activities and traditional sea country affiliations mean that many families are sea and coast oriented, with boats, marine skills and marine subsistence and commercial interests (Johnston and Baker 1997).

l-'inallv. in the 1980s and 1990s, cultural and eco-tourism has become a significant influence for traditional owners. The popularity of four-wheel drive trips has vastly increased the number of visitors to Cape York, and the tourism industry has capitalised on

11K .jiileiikluMrv l.a> Iven m decline lor nuns war* • Alter !•-. wJr, ,„ pioneer,,,, cllort. IheCarv York IVmiisula calile ukluMn lu> lailed I 'IV\OIIK pcinuneiuU cMahlishcd • \k •. j JC I wj. p i\,

254 Redefining Relationships - 7

the combined interest in cultural and ecological aspects of the Peninsula. The Laura Dance

Festival, Cape York Pajinka Wilderness Lodge and Kuku-Yalanji Cultural Centre are all examples of indigenous initiatives in tourism. Conversely, increased numbers of often- insensitive tourists represent an increased intrusion on people's lives and lands (May 1995).

CONTEMPORARY RELATIONSHIPS

In the study area today there are four recognised groups of Aboriginal people: Umpila

(approximately 300 people), Lamalama (approximately 400 people), Kaanju

(approximately 300 people) and Ayapathu (approximately 100 people). These people can be grouped as coastal (Umpila and Lamalama use a language term meaning 'sand beach people' for themselves), and inland (Kaanju and Ayapathu similarly use a language term meaning 'inside [inland] people') (Chase and Sutton 1981). A number of researchers

(primarily anthropologists) have worked with these groups, producing publications and unpublished reports including Chase (1980), Chase and Sutton (1981), Hynes and Chase

(1982), Claffey (1996), Rigsby (1980, 1999), Rigsby and Williams (1990), Hafner (1995), and confidential reports to CYLC (Johnston and Baker 1997, Blackwood et al 1998, Chase etal 1999).

The ancestors, and in some cases, contemporary individuals, of each of these groups were dispossessed of their land at varying times since the beginning of white occupation. The most recent dispossession was the forcible removal of Lamalama families from Port

Stewart to Bamaga and Thursday Island in 1961 (Hafner 1995).

255 Redefining Relationships - 7

The main Lamalama. Kaanju and Ayapathu families live in Coen. but use outstations at

Port Stewart. Stone> Creek and Station Creek respectively to maintain access to parts of their traditional country. The Port Stewart outstation ('Mojeeba') is on small plots of land acquired in the mid 1980s. Station Creek was built illegally on traditional Ayapathu land within the Silver Plains Pastoral Lease. Stoney Creek is on Aboriginal land in the Lockhart

River Deed of Grant in Trust (DOGIT) lands. These outstations are also used as a refuge from alcohol-related problems in town. Mojeeba in particular is a dry community.

Most of the Umpila families involved in the negotiations live at Lockhart River, although a significant number also live in Coen, and some in Cairns and elsewhere. There are no outstations on Umpila country, and the nature of the public road system means that it is a prohibitively long journey from Lockhart River to Umpila traditional land. It is more readily accessed by sea, and a number of Umpila families come down the coast by boat periodically, but are generally unable to stay for any period on their country.

2jja«j> 1

*?%&* 1 1 • S 3 ;

etv .J ;•-

1 - .-«»* .liw. i Figure 7.7 The Lamalama and Ayapathu outstations, at Mojeeba and Station Creek

Observations while earning out fieldwork indicated that Coen-based families maintain

traditional connections to their respective country through subsistence resource strategies

256 Redefining Relationships - 7

from both outstations and the town (figure 7.7). Some families, particularly Lamalama, had good relationships with the previous resident manager, and were able to range widely across the Silver Plains Pastoral Lease, while others were restricted to the publicly accessible coastal and marine areas. Both Umpila and Lamalama groups use the coastal areas extensively, fishing and hunting dugong and turtle. Some Kaanju families also use the high country of the Mcllwraith Range, around Ngalapichi and other locations. Kaanju families regularly travel into their traditional country by foot, horseback and four wheel drive vehicle. A number of people told me that on Kaanju camping trips, meat is never carried, all protein being supplied from bush subsistence skills. Ayapathu families similarly spend much time at their homeland centre, using bush resources to supplement store-bought foods. Fieldwork with Lockhart River-based families showed them pursuing subsistence activities on Aboriginal land and sea in the DOGIT lands, with the permission of the traditional owners (Kuuku Yau and others).

While each group has its traditional country which is generally well recognised, individuals and families also visit and use outstations and country belonging to groups other than their own. This is sometimes on the basis of marriage connections, and sometimes through friendship or shared work interests. The senior Southern Kaanju man (now deceased) was married to an Ayapathu woman, and their children and grandchildren access both Kaanju and Ayapathu areas (for example Ngalapichi and Puntimu). Similarly, one of the senior

Ayapathu men is interested in working cattle with his Lamalama neighbours, and says 'we have our own country, but we share together', and is dismissive of discussion of boundaries between groups. Conversely, there is some disquiet between Umpila and Lamalama over their boundary country, and both groups expressed a desire to have CYLC mediate a

257 Redefining Relationships - 7

discussion about access to resources in this area (the traditional owners refer to this as 'box- up' country, that is, overlapping territories, which is confirmed by Chase (1998 pers comm). Confidential anthropological reports to CYLC (Blackwood et al 1998) summarise some of these country connections for Ayapathu as follows:

Among today's Ayapathu. there appears to be a strengthening of potential rights through

'matrifiliation' and through one's grandparents, and an emphasis on parental birthplace rather than one's own birthplace in affiliation to country. Broadly, the subsidiary rights and responsibilities that an individual would have held in a number of 'clan estates' in the

'classical' system (through one's mother and grandmothers, for example) have, in the contemporary system, taken on equal or similar importance to the rights and responsibilities that would have been held in one's clan estate - typically one's father's father's estate.

Rigsby (1999 p 116) provides a brief but detailed examination of the complexities of

Aboriginal affiliations to country for the Port Stewart area, reflecting that they are far from

'frozen and immutable'

These groups all routinely respect "story places'4 by observing rituals of approach and avoidance, similarly respect and acknowledge sites of births and deaths and actively teach children about these places in the landscape. When Lamalama people were showing me a creek associated with the Moon Story, the women in particular were careful to keep children in the vehicles and talk quietly They also talked about how the (non-Aboriginal) owner ol Running Creek Pastoral Lease, to the south, had knowmglv dynamited a

258 Redefining Relationships - 7

Lamalama story place to build a stock dam, and how the owner was now 'crippled up' as a result.

A final and critical element of contemporary Aboriginal relationships to country is their

'entanglement' with non-Aboriginal ones. I have already referred to aspects of this in

Aboriginal cattle work, as well as earlier involvement in sandalwood harvesting and marine industries. In the more strictly 'social' sphere, there are also personalised and political entanglements. Bob and Daisy Stewart, two senior Lamalama people discussed in Rigsby

(1999), are regarded as having 'grown up' the children of the Silver Plains manager.

Conversely, the key senior Lamalama man in my work was 'grown up' by the non-

Aboriginal woman who owns Coen's guesthouse. The divisions created by legislation also have significant effects. 'Part Aboriginal' people who historically had greater access to non-

Aboriginal society and rights, for instance education, are now in a position to use their skills for those parts of their Aboriginal families denied those rights earlier. This also causes tensions where those previously termed 'part-Aboriginal' are sometimes seen as having earlier 'turned their backs' on their extended Aboriginal families, and now wanting to re-enter Aboriginal domains because the balance of rights has changed (see Smith 2001).

CONSERVATION INTERESTS

Since the 1920s, natural scientists have been interested in Cape York environments. The anthropologist Donald Thompson made significant mammal collections between 1928 and

1933, and this, with the 1948 Archbold Expedition, comprises the earliest surveys, which included the MacIIwraith Range - Silver Plains area (Winter and Allison 1980).

' 'Slorv place' is ihe term used lo denote sues and landscapes associated with the activity ni ancestral hcmys: a sacred or muholo^ical

259 Redefining Relationships 7

Since the early 1970s, there has been sustained interest from both conservation groups and government departments in establishing a conservation reserve in the area. Lavarack and

Stanton (1975) from the then Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service proposed a national park over the northern section of the current area, and Stanton (1976) for the

Australian Conservation Foundation, proposed a similar area. Stanton and Morgan (1977) describe the area as forming part of the 'Eastern Cape York Key Wilderness Area'.

Keto and Scott (1989) from the Rainforest Conservation Society proposed a national park with similar boundaries to Stanton. The Wildlife Preservation Society (1990) again proposed the area as a 'key conservation site'. Le Cussan (1993) for the then Queensland

Department of Environment and Heritage listed the area as part of a large area of conservation significance Stanton and Fell (1995) for the then Queensland Department of

Environment, while identifying the rainforests of the area as very significant, indicated that they were not under any threat and so not necessarily a priority for conservation reserve tenure.

A number of these conservation recommendations, while focussing on the conservation significance in terms of flora and fauna, refer also to the significance of the area in anthropological' or 'cultural' terms. In particular, the Wildlife Preservation Society (1990) and Keto and Scott (19S9) representing conservation NGOs. made extensive reference to the rights of traditional owners, although both suggest that conservation interests should prevail over anv conflicting Aboriginal interests. Le Cussan (1993. p 27). writing in an internal Queensland Department of Environment and Heritage document, candidly states:

260 Redefining Relationships - 7

This coastal area covers land traditionally owned by the Umpila people. Since there has been virtually no attempt to inform or involve the Umpila people to date, any future consultations or discussions will likely be strained, due to this departure from the more open, "democratic" planning processes.

The 1995 Cape York Peninsula Land Use Strategy (CYPLUS) Stage 1 Study report, although titled Areas of Conservation Significance on Cape York Peninsula (Abrahams et al 1995), explicitly excludes consideration of cultural significance. However, the Stage 2

Report (Cape York Regional Advisory Group 1997, p 55) recognises indigenous cultural conservation values:

The indigenous values of the natural resources of Cape York Peninsula therefore include a wide range of values related to the peoples' material and spiritual life. This cultural dimension is an integral part of the consideration of the values of the natural resources and ecosystems...Heritage is a relationship between culture and landscape. This relationship exists over all of the Peninsula.

Le Cussan's (1993) comment on likely Aboriginal responses to proposed conservation measures has some of its historical origins in the thirty years of National Party government in Queensland, dominated by the Bjelke-Petersen era. In 1976, an Aboriginal man from

Aurukun, John Koowarta, purchased leases on pastoral properties at Archer River Bend.

When the Queensland Government became aware that the purchaser was Aboriginal, they refused to transfer the lease title, arguing that the property was intended as a national park.

Koowarta challenged the responsible Minister, arguing that the refusal breached the

261 Redefining Relationships - 7

Commonwealth Racial Discrimination Act 1975. In 1982 the High Court ruled in favour of

Koowarta. establishing that Queensland's actions were unconstitutional. However, anticipating the judgement, Queensland regazetted the land as national park prior to the ruling (May 1994, Kidd 1997, see also Rigsby 1981, Smyth 1981). Archer Bend National

Park became part of the Rokeby-Archer Bend National Park, subsequently renamed

Mungkan-Kandju National Park in 1994. In 1998, hearings for a land claim over Mungkan-

Kandju National Park under the Aboriginal Land Act and Nature Conservation Act commenced with the traditional owners, including the descendants of John Koowarta.

While Archer Bend is a clear example of national park gazettal being used to thwart access to land by Aboriginal people, the Coalition government's gazettal of another five Cape

York national parks in 1977 was also seen by some as intended 'to preclude Aboriginal people gaining title to those lands' (Cordell 1995, pi3-6). Notes on CYLC files also assert that an earlier attempt to purchase Silver Plains for the traditional owners, using funds from the then Aboriginal Land Fund in 1976. was also prevented by the Queensland government, but I was unable to verify details of this event. Contemporary Aboriginal people are fully aware of this history, and the process of the land claim hearings reminds traditional owners in detail of the history of their dispossession from traditional lands (Blackwood 1998).

Parallel to this history are events which served to sometimes link traditional owners and conservationists (particularly NGOs) as protagonists against development interests. The

IVNI known examples are the campaign for the Starcke lands and the Cape York Heads of

Agreement In 1993. the Starcke Lease was advertised for sale in the Wall Street Journal.

This advertisement triggered jtn_ji|Maj^_bel^en The Wilderness Society and the

262 Redefining Relationships - 7

traditional owners of the land. The alliance agreed that the primary purpose of the campaign would be the return of the lands to their traditional owners, and only after this would there be detailed discussion about conservation outcomes. The sale of Starcke to overseas interests was prevented, with the Queensland government purchasing the property.

Part of the land was handed back to traditional owners in 1999 (Schnieders 1999, Mercer

2000). In late 1995, Cape York pastoralists approached the Cape York Land Council, the

Australian Conservation Foundation and The Wilderness Society to develop a 'peace plan' which would attempt to accommodate each of their interests. The Cape York Land Use

Agreement (Heads of Agreement) was signed by these parties in 1996 (Schnieders 1999), and subsequently reaffirmed in 2001 (Koori Mail 3 Oct 2001, p 24).

This discussion has included both NGOs and government conservation agencies, who share elements of both history and personnel. As an example, one principal ecological researcher,

Peter Stanton, whose work was referenced earlier, is widely regarded in government circles as the Cape York 'expert'. Stanton has worked for the government, NGOs and now as a consultant, reflecting the mobility of key individuals examined in chapter two, and his work has a powerful influence on the direction of conservation activity on Cape York.

Ecosytems, 'threatening processes' and key conservation areas identified by Stanton become the 'received wisdom' for conservation planning. The fact that he has had very little to say on the subject of Aboriginal interests or expertise in the management of these lands is also reflected in agency received wisdom (for example Stanton 1995, Athol Chase pers comm

1999).

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PROJECT NEGOTIATIONS: 1998-2000

ISSUES

From early 1998 I was directly involved in the project negotiations. One of the most notable characteristics of the process was its cross-cultural nature. While this may seem obvious, the issue was not simply Aboriginal / non-Aboriginal cultural difference, but the distinct organisational culture of the Queensland Government and its different departments.

In addition CYLC has its own particular culture distinct from that of the traditional owners.

The department with current responsibility for national parks in Queensland has had three different names in the six years the Silver Plains-Mcllwraith Range negotiations have continued, reflecting three different governments (Goss Labor: 'Department of

Environment and Heritage'; Borbidge Coalition: 'Department of Environment'; Beattie

Labor: 'Queensland Parks and Wildlife/Environment Authority' (QPWS)). The Head

Office is in Brisbane, with the Far Northern Region office in Cairns. There is a Ranger

Station at Coen (and an isolated one at Rokeby), servicing Mungkan-Kandju National Park. and another at Lockhart River, servicing Iron Range National Park.

The main issues to be negotiated during my employment were tenure, boundaries and management. Tenure, whether the land in the proposed national park would be declared

Aboriginal freehold or be subject to a claim process, is strongly influenced by political considerations While the department considered this to be an administrative technicality, to traditional owners it was very significant both ethically and practically: the claim process takes several veais The boundaries ol the proposed national park are significant because of

264 Redefining Relationships - 7

the limitations of the Nature Conservation Act, which restricts activities of traditional owners as well as others within any national parks, even Aboriginal-owned ones. The boundaries would determine exactly which areas would be in the unencumbered Aboriginal freehold, and which in the national park. Management is going to be the key issue in the day-to-day lives and aspirations of both the traditional owners and the Queensland Parks and Wildlife staff. Irrespective of tenure, on-ground management can have a huge affect on the conditions for everyone with an interest in the lands.

MAPPING

Soon after recommencing discussions with QPWS, the department provided a map produced with a computer Geographic Information System (GIS) as the basis for discussions. To counter the persuasiveness of the professionally produced GIS map, I proposed that CYLC and the traditional owners should take greater control of the map making process, following Peluso's 1995 'counter-mapping', as discussed in chapter three.

Extensive work was then carried out with the traditional owners, as well as a regional vegetation expert (Fell 1998) to produce a new series of maps for the negotiations. A key point with these is that we were not producing 'Aboriginal' maps to counter the agency's maps. We were not attempting to map 'classical' attachment, but to map contemporary and historic Aboriginal relationships and values in country. We worked with Fell because the traditional owners knew we had to engage with the Western conservation issues, but wanted to have much greater control over the information and the process.

265 Redefining Relationships - 7

This meant that while the agency maps generally showed no information about Aboriginal

interests, focusing entirely on conservation planning issues, the CYLC/traditional owner

maps showed both Aboriginal and conservation interests. Throughout most of the process,

the senior Queensland bureaucrats held the position that, as Queensland was paying half the

money, the national park should take up half the site. Due to this constraint, neither the boundaries proposed by the government nor the boundaries proposed by the traditional owners were optimal in terms of either conservation management or cultural appropriateness.

In addition, the study area contained varying proportions of the traditional country of each of the four groups. So. while nearly 100<7< of Umpila traditional lands were within the site, but only a small part of Ayapathu traditional lands, it was necessary to try to achieve an approximately equitable division between all four groups. Towards the end of the negotiations, part of this problem was solved when the Indigenous Land Corporation acquired Geikie Pastoral Lease for the Kaanju traditional owners, most of whose land went into the national park area. Kaanju then could pursue economic and other activities at

Geikie (also their traditional countrv). aware that they may subsequently be excluded from their lands in the national park

These factors led to two main positions being developed by CYLC in conjunction with the traditional owners. Because Aboriginal freehold would almost completely surround the proposed national park, a partnership between the conservation agency and the Aboriginal landholders would be the best strategy - accordingly the boundary constraints reinforced lh£ i^sI 1^'ciicc ^Misery a^ of managing across boundaries

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Notwithstanding this, it was necessary for critical Aboriginal sites to be outside the national park. While the management of these areas and their associated activities may be compatible with general biodiversity conservation aims, the detail of the management practices may have been incompatible with the specifics of the Nature Conservation Act, which controls activity within the national park.

Field checking of the proposed boundaries and the locations of particular sites was carried out in May and September 1998 (figure 7.8). This was done using four-wheel drive vehicles with Lamalama and Ayapathu groups. Due to road access limitations, a helicopter was used to check additional Lamalama and Ayapathu sites, and for the Kaanju and Umpila sections of the proposal. A Global Positioning System was used to locate proposed boundaries and any variations, which were recorded on a composite topographic map. Throughout the survey period, meetings were held to plan the activities, present and summarise the results, and discuss particular issues and implications.

Figure 7.8 Field mapping at Silver Plains

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Allfield work was earned out with traditional owners, who themselves chose the particular individuals who would make up any particular group doing mapping activity. While these invariably included knowledgeable older people, younger, inexperienced people were often also included so they could learn both the details of landscape and cultural knowledge and the mechanics of mapping and management issues. This sometimes led to powerful demonstrations of the emotions of attachment: on one helicopter trip, a tough, muscular young Umpila man burst into tears when stepping out of the helicopter, saying that it was the first time he had stood in his mother's country.

The technique we developed for working on boundaries was to identify areas which were non-negotiable' for Aboriginal people, that is, they had to be on Aboriginal land, as well as other areas which were less critical. This allowed the development of 'best case' and 'worst case' scenarios. While this meant that Aboriginal people were forced, to some extent, to create a hierarchy of value which did not reflect their sense of attachment, it was a practical acknow ledgement of the fact that some land was going to become national park, and no-one was sure exactly what this would mean in terms of access and management.

As part of the process of engaging with the possibilities of national park regulations, we physically marked places in the landscape (by blazing prominent trees) corresponding to the proposed boundaries. This was revealing in terms of different understandings of managing country When we drove past a lily lagoon where traditional owners talked about coming to harvest turtle and lilies. I pointed out that it may well not be permitted in a national park. Their response was surprise and puzzlement: they and their ancestors had hai-v ested from that and other lagoons for generations, 'caring' for the landscape now valued

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for conservation - why shouldn't that caring continue as part of the national park management?

MEETINGS

While the traditional owners accepted the broad bulk of the proposed national park, there were many areas of concern around the edges. A number of maps were produced from these field trips, which were then used in an extensive process of negotiations with QPWS staff. Because most of the traditional owners lived on Cape York and the QPWS office was in Cairns, myself and other CYLC staff carried out many of these negotiations on behalf of the traditional owners, with many trips back to Cape York to clarify issues, confirm agreement and get new instructions. On some occasions, QPWS staff and CYLC staff met with traditional owners together, both on Cape York and in Cairns. In the negotiations there was also a level of difference in CYLC aims and traditional owner aims, because of

CYLC's broader, Cape-wide (and in fact some state-wide) responsibilities. A deal struck at

Silver Plains would have larger ramifications as a precedent for other Cape York and

Queensland Aboriginal groups.

In discussions on management, CYLC tried to focus on management by issue, rather than tenure. The proposed national park has very extensive boundaries with Aboriginal land. In many instances traditional owners, CYLC and the department were concerned about the same issues. However, the department's focus on tenure as the underlying basis for management, with a strong emphasis on wanting to own the land that had conservation significance, or else have some other 'strong' tenure or regulator) control, produced different agendas.

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The meetings between CYLC and QPWS, and with both organisations and the traditional owners, demonstrated many of the cross-cultural challenges. Power disparities were obvious in two contrasting ways. In almost all meetings with the traditional owners, the final Aboriginal decision-makers were present. From their point of view agreements could be made on the spot. Limiting this was the fact that agency staff almost invariably had to get approval 'higher up'. This was sometimes refused, leading to perceptions by the traditional owners that agency staff were not keeping their part of the bargain. On the other side. QPWS had access to greater resources in researching and running the negotiations, and also greater access to ministerial decision-making processes. The issue of resources was not as disparate as in similar negotiations elsewhere, as CYLC was able to 'buy' high level expert legal consultants, and because its 'core business' is Cape York, travelling back and forth to Cape communities was normal and expected, where QPWS staff had limited travel budgets.

The embeddedness of common sense' processes within their cultures was evident on both sides On one occasion in my negotiations about the plan of management, a departmental officer offered to bring copies of the Nature Conservation Act for all the traditional owners in the negotiations (ignoring the fact that many of them did not read English, let alone legalese) While his common sense' view of national park management was that the agency worked to implement the legislation and it would be useful for the traditional owners to understand it. the traditional owners 'common sense' view stemmed from their detailed knowledge of how to operate in that particular landscape, and it would be useful if the

aycnc^^ndyrNtoiiJ_ihc_c_iuintr>_bc[rig_discuSsed. In another meeting when discussing the

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composition of a possible Board of Management, the traditional owners suggested a quite junior staff member from QPWS, arguing that she knew them well and they could communicate effectively with her. While I was suggesting that a very senior QPWS person would be appropriate because they could make more on-the-spot decisions, the traditional owners' view was that clear communication and mutual respect were critical.

A more subtle and 'political' aspect of negotiations was in different agency and CYLC attitudes to each of the four Aboriginal groups. Kaanju people were generally regarded as being in a strong position. The senior Kaanju man was universally credited as very knowledgeable about culture, and two of his children were in senior positions in Aboriginal organisations, including CYLC, and were experienced negotiators with government agencies. In dealing with Kaanju issues, QPWS tended to be largely 'hands off. that is, they accepted the assertions and demands made by Kaanju people. Conversely, Ayapathu people were seen by the agency as less powerful, and were 'credited' with less 'cultural legitimacy'.

This marginalised position was perhaps because of their association with cattle work, or because the senior man was a quiet and slightly enigmatic personality. This translated into

QPWS being prepared to challenge Ayapathu aspirations more strongly, both in their demands and their justification. For CYLC staff and myself, this meant in practice that we knew we had to be vigilant in 'looking after' Ayapathu interests in the negotiations. This was also a demonstration of CYLC's regional scale of operations: each Aboriginal group was largely concerned with its local interests, but CYLC had to balance competing regional demands and perceptions for all its constituents.

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In early 2000, after many draft versions of various forms of legal agreement had been discussed, including Indigenous Land Use Agreements under the Native Title Act, general agreement was reached on the main on-ground issues and the land holding structures. By this time, a key senior traditional owner had passed away, and there had been changes in senior staff at CYLC. Also there were now effectively five parties to the negotiations: the traditional owners, CYLC, the Indigenous Land Corporation, and two government departments: the Department of Natural Resources, who handle the land transfer issues, and

QPWS.

In August 2000 I went to Cairns and Coen to comprehensively finalise agreement on the surveyed boundaries (during the technical surveying process, some 'practical' and other adjustments had been made to boundaries we had agreed earlier). Formal and informal meetings were held with all key traditional owners, with generally only minor changes being needed to the maps. Because of concern, from both the agency and traditional owners, over what was seen as failing to honour earlier agreements, I proposed that all parties physically sign and date the final maps, noting any areas that needed changes. These maps were then copied, with a set held by each traditional owner group, a set with CYLC, and a set with QPWS

By this stage, the department had indicated that while they could transfer the unencumbered

Abonginal freehold. the> would not be able to transfer and gazette the national park for some time As an inducement to help ensure that this did happen in the future, the

Indigenous Land Corporation were requested b> CYLC to withhold part of their payment

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of the 'Aboriginal' portion of the funds to the Queensland government until transfer of the national park area.

The formal handback ceremony for the Aboriginal freehold occurred on 6th December

2000, with Natural Resources Minister Rod Welford handing title to 193,000 hectares to a

Land Trust representing the four traditional owner groups (figure 7.9). Kaanju elder Allan

Creek said 'It's too late for Dad but we have to carry on his work and I'm prepared to do that. It means so much to the four groups to get Silver Plains, and in a sense we're one big family because of it'. Lamalama elder Sunlight Bassini said his people had 'finally come back to their land' (Courier Mail 7th December 2000, p 5).

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Please see print copy for images

rigure 7.9 Media coverage of handover of Silver Plains (Cairns Post 7 Dec 2000, p 1)

It is significant that at that point the Beattie Labor Government was in a very precarious position, holding power as a minority government because of several political scandals and consequent parliamentary resignations. State elections were then held in 2001, and Premier

Beattie and his party returned with a clear majority. My own work has continued in a limited way through minor management planning work for the freehold land of the four groups, through the Indigenous Land Corporation.

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At the time of writing, the central issue remains unresolved, at least from the point of view of the state. The national park is as yet not gazetted, and conservation agreements have not been negotiated over the sections of Aboriginal freehold that QPWS is interested in. From the traditional owner perspective, with the conservation agreements they will at least be able to enter the negotiations from a position of some strength, now being legal landholders. As they are the people on the ground, it is likely that day-to-day management of the proposed national park will devolve to them as well. There is nothing permanent on the ground to mark the national park boundaries, so it is likely that they will manage the entire area: this was actually the goal we were arguing for in the joint management and plan of management negotiations.

CULTURE AND RELATIONSHIPS

During the initial negotiations over Silver Plains, letters of support were obtained from several Queensland conservation NGOs for the Aboriginal initiative. During the second phase from 1997 to 2000, NGOs were not included at all in consultations and negotiations by CYLC or QPWS, although they may have been involved in ministerial discussions. The senior ministerial advisor for part of the period was a person who had been very active in

The Wilderness Society, developing their Aboriginal policy (see Brown 1992). However, the senior government staff have clear agendas themselves, and my discussion here will focus on those.

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The differences in the cultures, ethics and values of the government agency, CYLC and the traditional owners underscored all of the process of trying to negotiate an acceptable outcome.

Traditional owners are fully aware of the differences between governments of various political orientations, the cultures of different government departments and the attitudes of different bureaucrats, but they continually expressed exasperation at the 'fickleness' engendered by these different levels and allegiances. This is due partly to the heterogeneity of culture within the department, and also to different perceived priorities depending on the officer's responsibilities

Traditional owners point out. correctly, that they are given different, and often contradictory, information, depending on which level or individual they are communicating with. The Head Office / Regional Office distinction is notable here, with Head Office inclined to be more positive to Aboriginal aspirations, which are then resisted at the functional, regional level, and sometimes not even communicated to the ranger level (see figure 7.10). In contrast. Aboriginal people argue that the position of the traditional owners remains constant, and has been reiterated many, many times (while this is not strictly accurate, it has certainly stayed broadly the same). Conversely, the agency staff perceive

CMC staff as interfering' and moving the goalposts', and would much prefer to deal directly with the traditional owners, a preference vehemently opposed by CYLC. The agencv is correct in aspects of this perception, because it is CYLC's job to stay abreast of contemporary developments and articulate responses to those into negotiations. As ncgotianonsjypicallv takejiiain ^earvjlierejire^inevitable changes in position. Another

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critical aspect of this time dimension is the impact it has on Aboriginal communities.

During the three years of my detailed involvement, at least three senior Aboriginal people associated with the negotiations died, meaning both that they did not live to see the return of their country, and reinforcing a departmental perception of a dilution of cultural strength.

Executive Director QPWS

Regional Services Director Conservation

Technical District Services Manager Manager

Wildlife Aboriginal Senior Unit and Ranger Torres Weipa Strai' Islande r Un t Ranger-in- -r- Charge Ranger Ranger Coen Mungkan Silver Kaanju Plains

Figure 7.10 Organisational structure QPWS Far Northern Region

Notwithstanding continual variations in information from bureaucrats, attitudes often remain constant, despite political change. New ministers may arrive with policies of reform, but the (old) bureaucrats are adept at holding firm to their views of how things should be done. The same senior manager has been responsible for the Silver Plains-

Mcllwraith Range negotiations through three. different state governments. While his rhetoric may adapt to the prevailing political scene, his attitude appears to remain the same.

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During the period of my involvement, he held three different positions in two different government agencies, but retained ownership of the negotiations, reflecting a strong personal commitment to the area, and what he understood as the issues. From his point of view, he was maintaining involvement in an important regional conservation issue, and was better able than others to do it because he also knew a number of the Aboriginal people reasonably well. While he has published on the issue of joint management with Aboriginal people (Symonds 1992), my assessment is that he is committed to conservation outcomes as defined by the legislation and the culture of QPWS. Because Cape York conservation objectives have been, and still are, strongly contested by the cattle industry (see for example the media article 'Cape Fear': Pryor 2000), northern Queensland QPWS culture is keen for command and control structures to be in place.

CYLC staff attempt to manipulate potential differences between long-term regional staff and senior political appointees, going 'up the ladder' of hierarchy if one level does not prove adequately responsive. One major negotiation meeting included the Director-General and the Regional Director of the department, the Director of CYLC, other CYLC staff and a number of traditional owner representatives. The Director-General, aware of ministerial and political interests and sensitivities, was publicly supportive. The Regional Director, aware of ranger culture and limited regional budgets for financing change, but in the presence of his boss, was publicly friendly but circumspect. Subsequent to the meeting, both CYLC staff and the Regional Director independently sought to further influence the

Director-General, but in opposite directions.

This meeting was also revealing about the role of CYLC and its organisational culture. The core of the meeting was a presentation I had prepared with one of the Aboriginal staff,

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using electronic computer projections. As CYLC broadly positions itself as the intermediary between the world of the traditional owners and the rest of the world, it co- opts contemporary technology to communicate the needs of its Aboriginal constituency.

The Aboriginal staff member was the technical expert, and subsequently used the same technology, driven by a generator, to enable communication to a large bush gathering of

Cape York traditional owners.

CYLC is organised as a mini-bureaucracy, but has a Governing Council of elected traditional owners (figure 7.11). Its staff is both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal. The founding director and subsequent chairperson is Noel Pearson, a major national figure in

Aboriginal politics. Like other bureaucracies, it has problems of efficiency, and reveals some of the same sort of head office - remote office problems that the Department of

Environment does. As examples, I had chronic difficulty in accessing appropriate 4WD vehicles for field trips, and I repeatedly had difficulty finding out about details of negotiations to change the Nature Conservation Act (carried out by senior CYLC staff and directors), which were critical to my on-ground negotiations.

During 2000, the staff composition was 22 Aboriginal, including the Executive Director and the Operations Manager, and 14 non-Aboriginal, including all of the Legal Services

Section. In many respects CYLC is dominated by its lawyers, and this could suggest that non-Aboriginal people have disproportionate influence. This is strongly countered (or balanced) by the fact of Noel Pearson's continued association with CYLC, as he is unquestionably one of the pre-eminent national legal experts on Aboriginal issues, and has a major role in CYLC policy and practice.

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Governing Council

Executive

1

Legal Field Research & Central Section Operations Consulting Services i

Finance Administration Communications

Figure 7.11 Cape York Land Council Organisational Structure

ABORIGINALITY, NATURE and QPWS

While the Nature Conservation Act and Aboriginal Land Act have mechanisms for national park handback and joint management, in the hands of Queensland bureaucrats Queensland

Aboriginal people almost universally see these as 'Claytons provisions'. Despite the legislation being in place since 1992, no national park has been handed back and jointly managed with traditional owners. McKeown (1992) discusses a series of problems with this legislation, arguing that it is highly paternalistic and in fact continues the general trend of the policies of the National and Coalition governments, even though it was introduced by the Goss Labor government in December 1991. The legislation was drafted in secret, and with virtually no consultation with Aboriginal people. Under the Aboriginal Land Act, the

Department of Natural Resources has responsibility for determining who the 'appropriate'

Aboriginal owners for land claims are. Unlike the Northern Territory and NSW (where vacant Crown land is claimable), land available for claim is at the discretion of the

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government, who gazette particular parcels. While a number of Queensland national parks are gazetted for claim, they must be leased back in perpetuity to the government, with only a peppercorn payment to the traditional owners. There are no provisions for majority

Aboriginal representation on Boards of Management.

The definitive failure of the legislation was recognised in 1999, and an 'Interdepartmental

Working Group' began consultations with Aboriginal groups as the basis for a review of both the Nature Conservation Act and Aboriginal Land Act. CYLC and the Queensland

Indigenous Working Group made detailed submissions. This group submitted a proposal to

Cabinet in 2000, which was referred to a Cabinet Committee. By late 2000 no further action had resulted, although the need for change was identified in the Parks Master Plan

Discussion Paper (Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service 2000).

This failure to establish joint management is due to the combination of the limitations of the legislation and the attitude of the bureaucrats. The figure below (7.12) identifies, from an Aboriginal perspective, the inadequacy of the legislation to achieve what it is supposedly intended to do (Johnston n.d).

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Please see print copy for images

ease

Figure 7.12 Aboriginal concerns about national parks declared 'claimable' under the Aboriginal Land Act 1992 (from Johnston nd).

The far northern region of QPWS holds very strongly to the Yellowstone 'fortress parks' ideology This has been adapted easily to include recent national criteria

(comprehensiveness, adequacy and representativeness), and has been reinforced by endemic underfunding tor national parks management (Gall 1994). Small budgets and

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limited resources have tended to encourage QPWS to try to zealously guard its conservation reserves. Many QPWS bureaucrats and rangers strongly oppose Aboriginal residence in national parks, as well as Aboriginal hunting and gathering in national parks

(McKeown 1992). In 1993 over 14,000 people signed petitions opposing hunting in national parks in Queensland (the Sanctuary petition, see Ponte 1996 and Ponte, Marsh and

Jackson 1994). A major figure in organising the petition was a QPWS ranger in north

Queensland (John Halloran, pers comm). They have insisted on traditional owners having hunting permits and refused camping past the legislative time limits. The key example

(outside Cape York, but still in northern Queensland) is the High Court Yanner decision.

While government officers could argue that it is their duty to diligently implement the Act, they nevertheless patently fail to do so in areas with far more significant consequences for biodiversity, such as poaching of rare native fauna in Iron Range National Park , and effective control of feral pigs in all national parks (Gall 1994). While resource restrictions undoubtedly contribute to this, there is also a clear prioritisation of issues. In my work, agency staff have arrived at meetings with traditional owners with complete copies of the

Acts and Regulations, with paragraphs tabbed and noted, and used these to justify their refusal of Aboriginal requests.

The table below (7.1) indicates, in somewhat simplified and oppositional form, some of the fundamental differences. Obviously, the cultures are not fixed and each overlaps with aspects of the other, but the strength of the differences remains.

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Table 7.1 Cross-cultural differences in Cape York agencies and Aboriginal organisations

Traditional owners CYLC QPWS HO QPWS Regional

Non-hierarchical Hierarchical Hierarchical Hierarchical

Local Regional through to Centralised/'remote' Centralised/'remote' State and national Oral culture/long Both oral and written Written culture/short Written culture/short memories memories memories Low mobility/ low Generally high turnover High turnover Mix of high and low turnover mobility and turnover Continuity of connection Discontinuity of connection Long-term association Mix of long and short Short term Short-term association term

An example of the QPWS view of Aboriginal culture is provided in their employment of archaeologists (who study the non-living aspects of culture), versus CYLC's employment of anthropologists (who study living cultures). Consultant anthropologists working for

CYLC produced detailed, subtle and intricately researched reports on Aboriginal people's association with place, recognising historic and contemporary change and the complexities of affiliation and relationships. Some of these people are very senior in their fields (for example Athol Chase at Griffith University and Bruce Rigsby, Professor of Anthropology at Queensland University). QPWS obtained no anthropological data, and did not have access to the confidential CYLC reports. CYLC accordingly had a far more detailed understanding of both the different associations with place that might exist, and the structures of values in contemporary Aboriginal societies. Some QPWS staff have broad understanding of these issues and sympath} with them, but for many the received wisdom centres around criticisms of internal Aboriginal polities', nepotism and culture-loss.

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DIVERGENT WORLDS

Discussing different knowledge systems of Aboriginal people and pastoralists on Cape

York, Strang (1997 p 198) notes:

the two groups inhabit very different perceived environments within the same geographic space, each constructing the environment in cultural terms, seeing as they have been educated, defining its elements according to their knowledge, and valuing what they know.

These divergent worlds are also observable between Aboriginal people and conservation agency staff, and were very much in evidence during the boundary negotiation process.

Driving with traditional owners in Lamalama country, I stopped at a creek to get advice before crossing. The senior Lamalama man beside me said 'rock bottom on this one, good crossing', and then, almost as an afterthought, 'cuckoo story this one', and I realised that I was continually being given information in a complex, multi-layered form.

The process was a striking demonstration of the traditional owners' knowledge of their country. While travelling between points that were discussed, recorded and checked with the Global Positioning System, traditional owners talked casually about the country we were travelling through. Their comments simultaneously embraced: travel conditions; navigation;

- condition of the country (eg. needs burning, too much ti-tree);

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- availability of resources (eg. feral and native animals and their condition, fishing spots and what you would catch there);

- seasonal conditions (eg. good time to get turtle eggs, will soon be 'burngrass' time);

- history (eg. working conditions on Silver Plains as stockmen, someone's mother born here); cattle management ; evidence of activity by outside people; traditional culture (numerous named story places and their significance).

It was notable that some navigation and travel was done in areas where some senior traditional owners had not visited for possibly twenty years. Their navigation and knowledge of our location and progress was unerring, in country that had significantly changed since they had last seen it.

As discussed earlier, on a number of occasions, field survey trips for this project were used as opportunities for senior traditional owners to introduce younger community members to their traditional lands. Trips were regarded as serious business, but were also highly social occasions, and provided opportunities to gather resources and teach children. Details of the physical aspects of the country, historical and spiritual significance, and the presence or sign of outsiders were continually and animatedly discussed.

In contrast, the regional agency staff generally have little familiarity with the on-ground conditions, primarily deriving their knowledge from secondary sources such as their formal education, tenure and vegetation maps, and published material. For detailed data. the> refer

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to a small number of 'experts' who have carried outfield surveys for flora and fauna in the region at various times. This is almost inevitable given the vast areas for which they are responsible and the limited resources available for travel and fieldwork. During the period of my boundary negotiations, a departmental helicopter survey was carried out for a particular road. The road was determined with reference to an out-of-date map, which resulted in a very expensive survey of the wrong road, the right one being well known locally but not appearing on any map. Knowledge of country by field staff, including rangers, is generally restricted to existing national parks, and then is often in the form of a

'landscape of work' (roads, fences, camping areas and other infrastructure to be maintained), rather than an understanding of ecosystem distribution or Aboriginal relationships. In 1994, in a report researched and prepared by the then Director of the

Department of the Environment, it was estimated that only 3.11% of the Cape York regional national parks budget was directed towards natural resource management (Gall

1994).

The table below (7.2) illustrate how this difference in knowledge reflects different perceptions of nature. For the traditional owners, these layers reveal landscapes: landscapes of work and resources, landscapes of family and ownership - involving people and a shared and continuous history. For the conservation agency, the layers are mostly perceived as objective and separate from people: 'the human players...are for the most part either scientists or problems' (Huntsinger. 1998).

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Table 7.2 Different knowledqe and different perceptions of Cape York landscapes Traditional owners: a social landscape QPWS: a natural landscape

Stories Geology and soils Lives: grave sites and birthinq places Hydrology and topography Clan estates Flora and fauna Resources Visual quality Social history and work Seasonal condition Disturbance history Disturbance history Tenure Tenure Access Access

Nature = home Nature = wilderness

THE MAPS

Maps are profoundly political entities (see for example Cosgrove 1999). The creation and use of the negotiation maps by the department and CYLC revealed cultural differences in process, appearance and strategy. The maps and mapping processes functioned in two ways: as tools to assert power, and as expressions of landscape perceptions and understanding (see figure 7.13).

The CYLC mapping was mostly done in the field, after initial assessment of ecosystem distribution and specific Aboriginal country affiliations in discussion with an ecologist and anthropologists. In the field, traditional owners were asked by me to indicate two levels of boundaries between proposed Abonginal freehold and national park: optimal boundaries and acceptable boundaries, that is. what they really wished for, and what they could live with if necessary. These rough maps were then re-drawn (by hand) for presentation.

Significant!), this re-drawing removed a lot of information from the maps, as the traditional owners were concerned about the transmission and use of knowledge to and by the government, and the CYLC representatives needed latitude for negotiation.

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The traditional owners were mostly quite comfortable with the process of working with two-dimensional maps, and the use of the Global Positioning System instrument became a source of wry, humorous comment on the omniscience desired by the department. At sites where locations were ascertained with the Global Positioning System, as the instrument picked up its locational satellites, small icons appeared on the screen. As these icons appeared, traditional owners laughingly exclaimed 'there's B—-!, there's N-—!, there's L-

--!', referring to key staff in the department, supposedly watching over the process.

Departmental maps were produced via the GIS computers in the Brisbane office, from hand-amended earlier GIS maps. They were aesthetically attractive, had the persuasiveness of high-technology professional artefacts, a high degree of abstraction and a connotation of rigidity and finality. The departmental staff did not go into the field at all during the negotiation or preparation process with the maps (except for one late trip to check a discrepancy in an area very close to Coen).

Departmental staff seemed not to initially acknowledge the difference between actual cadastral boundaries and the functional boundaries enforced by topography in conservation area management. Eventually, however, the department produced a map that removed from the proposed national park a large area, which had previously been highly contested, in acknowledgement of the fact that it would be impossible to manage as a discrete part of the national park. This was also a reflection of the general lack of trust: although all parties were continually discussing joint management of the entire area, both CYLC and the

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agency were clearly acting to 'protect' their interests in the event of a more hostile relationship eventuating.

Contesting assertions of power were also demonstrated in negotiations about the coastline.

As discussed previously, for the traditional owners neither the high nor low water marks were regarded as boundaries in any cadastral or territorial sense. However, because of the general administrative limitations of the negotiations, the traditional owners and CYLC accepted, for the time being, that the area being discussed was essentially terrestrial. At a certain point in the discussions, the agency raised the issue of a 'Beach Protection Zone', which is a management regulation overlying tenures along the coast, intended originally to protect dunal and other fragile coastal systems. While the discussion commenced around issues of environmental protection, it soon became apparent that the real concern was public access, which is facilitated by the Beach Protection Zoning. The agency were concerned about political sensitivities about excluding the cherished right of public access to the coast, especially so in the 'frontier' conditions of Cape York. As Umpila and

Lamalama define themselves as 'sandbeach people', they very clearly understood the coastline to be their country, with the right to exclude, or at the least, control others. The inclusion or omission of this zoning on the maps became a major point of contention, finally resolved by wording in the agreement which made the traditional owners 'trustees' of the Beach Protection Zone on transfer.

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 7.3 Examples of maps used in Silver Plains negotiations

OUTCOMES: POTENTIAL and PROBABLE

The different organisational cultures and constructions of nature discussed earlier have a direct bearing on the on-ground outcomes, in relation to both biodiversity conservation and

Aboriginal rights and aspirations.

As previously mentioned, it soon became apparent that there were going to be a number of sites of contested significance. These were sites that the department considered to have high significance in biodiversity conservation terms, and which the traditional owners considered to have high significance in cultural terms. In discussions, two resolutions seemed possible. One was that the contested sites be included within the national park, with

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special legal provisions to allow access and activities by traditional owners. The other would situate the sites on Aboriginal freehold but provided special legal provisions for protection and management of biodiversity and other natural values. Both resolutions might solve the problem, but each located control and power with different protagonists.

This focus on tenure-based solutions (that is, with an ownership emphasis) driven by the department, obscured the fact that it may be possible to resolve the issue of competing significance in the actual management of the sites. For the traditional owners, the primary issue was often one of ensuring the sanctity of the sites: preventing degradation and keeping out insensitive tourists and others. For the department, the issues were effectively similar: preventing negative impacts on the ecosystems and controlling habitat disturbance.

Wunta and Puntimu, for example, could both be effectively managed (for both parties) by preventing tourist access and monitoring for impacts of feral pigs and weeds.

The combination of QPWS's emphasis on landscapes 'purified' of people, and their miniscule management budgets has obvious on-ground implications. In several Cape York national parks, illegal pig shooting, uncontrolled recreational fishing and four wheel drive access, and wildlife poaching are regular activities. These are all of concern to traditional owners. Discussion at outstations often focused on issues such as how many vehicles had gone past, who was fishing on which river, unexplained vehicle tracks on little used areas, and other detailed analysis of what was going on in the area. Active recruitment of this level of observation and monitoring, and support for management intervention (for instance, law enforcement training and authority is an obvious way to greatly increase effective management QPWS's insistence that this management must be done by their

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rangers and on their terms, means that instead of the scenario just described, there will be one or two rangers based at Coen with responsibility for parts of Mungkan Kandju and

Mcllwraith Range National Parks: very little management presence in the parks and the region.

Recognition of the validity of different cultural values often appeared to be difficult for departmental staff. This was demonstrated by the response to the boundary adjustments requested by the traditional owners involving the birth site, described in the introduction.

This site was the birthplace of the first child bom on Lamalama traditional land in thirty years, an event of great spiritual and historic significance to Lamalama people (see figure

7.14).

Figure 7.14 The birthplace of the first Lamalama child born on traditional country since the 1960s. His birth certificate records birthplace as: roadside, Dinner Creek.

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Another area that revealed divisions was wildlife management. Dugong (Dugon dugon, a large marine mammal) hunting is a significant traditional activity for Umpila and

Lamalama men (Thomson 1934). Dugongs are endangered, but the Cape York populations are regarded as secure. The major threats to other populations include incidental take in mesh nets, destruction of habitat (siltation, clearing of seagrasses), and disturbance by boats

(Marsh 1997, Smith and Marsh 1990). The agency wants Dugong hunting controlled in

Cape York, with limited hunting permits issued. Traditional owners, aware of government support for the controversial Port Hinchinbrook development and its alleged impact on

Dugong habitat, considered this to be outright hypocrisy, regarding themselves as being under pressure because they were an easier target than wealthy property developers.

Conversely, when traditional owners expressed an interest in managing 'problem' crocodiles

(which are protected) near outstations and popular camping places, their ideas were opposed. The agency indicated that they had a standard procedure for dealing with problem crocodiles and that this was the appropriate solution, even if it was more expensive and less likely to succeed. This was a clear example of the inability of bureaucracy to come up with a local response to a local problem, rather than the (inappropriate) standard agency-wide method. In contrast, partly in response to the same issue, the Northern Territory government, in late 1997, introduced a trial harvest of adult crocodiles. This included supporting Aboriginal communities interested in crocodile big game hunting, noting 'a hunter taking a single animal can pay $25,000 to an isolated community' (Savanna Links

Issue 7 July-August 1998).

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The negotiations for the project are not yet complete, so the summary table below (7.3) is premature, but nevertheless indicates the sort of distance that developed between the conservation agency and the traditional owners.

Table 7.3 Potential and probable outcomes at Silver Plains

Potential Probable

Trust and partnership Suspicion and hostility 307,000 ha reserve 120,000 ha national park Plan of Management Plan of Management for whole site for < 50% site Small paid workforce and larger Very small paid workforce Volunteer' workforce Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal staff Non-Aboriginal staff Local Non-local Knowledges shared Knowledges separate

CONCLUSIONS

The examples discussed above indicate something of the distance between the cultures.

They demonstrate the potential for negative outcomes for both biodiversity conservation and traditional owners. The agency's insistence on doing things 'by the book' can alienate the traditional owners, who believe they have straightforward practical solutions to some of the issues.

The period of the negotiations was one of political instability: legislation and opening discussions with the Goss Labor government, recommencement of negotiations with the

Borbidge Coalition government, final agreement on part of the project with the (by then) minority Beattie Labor Government. The government agency also had numerous changes, but these were often relatively 'cosmetic': the senior manager remained the same through the negotiations, with changes of middle level staff.

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A focus on only what the legislation prescribes, fails to allow for solutions which have no statutory basis but are nevertheless not inconsistent with the legislation. There is sufficient latitude between the elements that drive bureaucracies (legislation, policy and practice) to allow for many regional or local innovations, and indeed these are commonly encountered within bureaucratic behaviour. The vision of the traditional owners, supported by Cape

York Land Council, was beyond existing policy. The agencies patched parts of it into their policies, but were then forced to commence a legislative review process as well as instituting new regional policy, both formal and informal. The government's failure to finalise this process may now jeopardise the national park proposal: the Indigenous Land

Corporation will not make the final payment if traditional owners are not involved in the national park, and a different government may not want that involvement (or even the park).

The primary obstacles to cooperative, cross-cultural solutions here are trust: an inability to consider giving up absolute control; and the barriers created by the cultural constructions discussed. The traditional owners have detailed, place-based identity, actively engaged with a socialised landscape. The agency has a relationship which is remote, removed and disengaged. The rangers are overworked, under-resourced, and tinker around the edges of conservation management.

There is a possibility for an integration of relative strengths and interests. The effective national, state-wide and broad bioregional focus of the conservation management agency articulated to the intensely local locus of the traditional owners. The articulation point

L^Lld hc^Ll the detailed regional scale: both traditional owners. CYLC and QPWS field

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staff are effective at this scale and can exchange information and share skills. Traditional owners then engage deeply and actively with their own local landscapes.

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8 NEW SOUTH WALES: FROM PROCESS TO PLACE

The fact is the Bill will allow hunting of wildlife with guns; logging for firewood and building timber; residential and tourist development. All national parks and nature reserves will be open to these threats. (Nature Conservation Council, Total Environment Centre, National Parks Association, Colong Foundation for Wilderness, Media Release 3 December 1996)

The Wilderness Society recognises the right of the Aboriginal community to look after what is theirs. We have much to learn from one another as we look to the future of protecting our lands. (The Wilderness Society, Media Release 4 December 1996)

Copy for your information. We lost. (NPWS internal memo on the outcome of an appeal by the Deerubbin Local Aboriginal Land Council over the Castlereagh land claim, 14 August 1997)

INTRODUCTION

A major part of this thesis was researched and written during the period of an ARC/SPIRT sholarship. The 'industry partner' was the New South Wales Aboriginal Land Council

(NSWALC), with the grant being negotiated with the Land Rights and Native Title Units of

NSWALC, and authorised by the Chairperson and Council. This chapter is the core result of my industry partnership with NSWALC. I was given extensive access to files and legal documents concerning the particular land issues, and interviewed a number of NSWALC staff. My other research partner for this chapter was the NSW National Parks and Wildlife

Service (NPWS). Although NPWS provided no funding support, I was given largely unrestricted access to files and documentation, and interviewed many staff. The documents and files consulted from both NSWALC and NPWS are listed in Appendix 1.

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The focus of my research became an examination of encounters between NPWS and

Aboriginal communities, looking at a series of land-based examples across NSW. As I have

'insider' status at NPWS, I also looked much more closely at the process, and the culture, from the NPWS side. I returned to work at NPWS in early 2001, and was then actively involved in policy and practical responses to land rights and native title issues, to some extent 'authorised' by my doctoral research.

In Queensland, I looked 'outwards' from a particular place where an encounter was initiated by Aboriginal people, and patched into different existing policy and legislative frameworks by the state agencies. I was employed by, and worked for, Aboriginal people.

In NSW I looked at the process as it is formally structured through the different legislative and policy triggers. 1 was on leave from employment at NPWS, and have a research partnership with Aboriginal people as represented by NSWALC, but a more distant relationship. In this section I have not provided detailed data on the cultures and characteristics of the various Aboriginal groups and organisations involved. While this is an important dimension, the processes described here are essentially driven by the government's control of the agenda, and the outcomes likely to be similar irrespective of the nature of the Aboriginal organisations. Also, because each policy process deals with a different version of Aboriginality. there is opportunity for engagement by different types and characters of Aboriginal groups.

This chapter explores three core policy processes which trigger encounters between

Aboriginal communities and NPWS. These are analysed through a series of land-based

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examples (as opposed to policy or issue based). The purpose is to identify the patterns in the relationships and outcomes for NPWS and Aboriginal people in these issues, reflecting my themes of contested constructions of race and nature, and how these articulate with effort, commitment and trust from both sides.

ENCOUNTERS: THE POLICY PROCESSES

Policy is, by necessity, a dynamic process. During the period of my research there was a major review and restructure of the National Parks and Wildlife Service; a review of the

Aboriginal ownership amendments to the National Parks and Wildlife Act; the commencement and then suspension of a review of the whole of the National Parks and

Wildlife Act; the commencement of a limited review of the Aboriginal Land Rights Act; and substantial amendments to the Native Title Act. Legislative change necessitates policy change within agencies, and also change to implementation and practice. All of these processes were revealing about encounters between Aboriginal communities and NPWS.

Early in my research (1995), a Labor State Government was elected in NSW. This government is still in power, so the situation in NSW has been one of political stability, compared with the changes in Queensland. Part of their policy platform was a major expansion of national parks: officially called the 'Greening of Sydney' and 'Greening of

NSW' policies, and known initially within NPWS as '24 New Parks' (many more than this were subsequently gazetted). A significant number of the proposed new parks were subject, in part or wholly, to Aboriginal land claims. In 1996. the Minister responsible for administering land claims refused to grant 50 of them, on the basis that they were needed

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for an 'essential public purpose', a legitimate criterion for refusal in the Aboriginal Land

Rights Act. The 'essential public purpose' for these 50 claims was nature conservation: that is, they were refused on the basis of NPWS objections. Also in 1996, State Parliament passed the National Parks and Wildlife (Aboriginal Ownership) Amendment Bill, with a list of five protected areas to be handed back to their Aboriginal owners. In 1992 the Labor

Federal Parliament passed the Native Title Act, which was then substantially amended by the Coalition Government in 1998.

This section will analyse this dynamic political, legislative and departmental policy and decision making environment, looking sequentially at the major policy triggers for interaction with Aboriginal communities.

THE ABORIGINAL OWNERSHIP AMENDMENTS

In response to Recommendation 315 of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in

Custody (April 1991), the then NSW Coalition Government Minister for the Environment,

Tim Moore, introduced into the NSW Parliament two bills to amend the National Parks and Wildlife Act and the Aboriginal Land Rights Act. These bills were progressively changed, through parliamentary committees and public consultation, into a consolidated bill submitted to the subsequent Labor State Parliament: the National Parks and Wildlife

(Aboriginal Ownership) Amendment Bill 1996. The bill was passed unanimously by both houses of parliament, and commenced as the National Parks and Wildlife (Aboriginal

Ownership) Amendment Act 1996 in May 1997 (hereafter referred to as "the Aboriginal ownership amendments').

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The concept of joint management is central to the Aboriginal ownership amendments. The responsibility for the care, control and management of any parks and reserves transferred to

Aboriginal people under the amendments is vested in a Board of Management with a majority of Aboriginal owners. The Board is required to exercise this responsibility in accordance with the provisions of the National Parks and Wildlife Act 1974, together with the terms of the lease entered into between the Minister for the Environment and the

Aboriginal Land Council (as trustees for the 'Aboriginal owners', defined by the legislation), as well as the plan of management for the park. The direct operational responsibility for the park continues to be with the NPWS , but directed to act in the best interests of the Aboriginal owners, subject to the legislation.

Schedule 14 of the National Parks and Wildlife Act lists the parks and reserves for transfer to Aboriginal owners. At the time of gazettal of the amendments, five reserves were listed:

• Mount Yarrowyck Nature Reserve;

• Mount Grenfell Historic Site;

• Mungo National Park;

• Mootwingee National Park and Historic Site, and Coturaundee Nature Reserve;

• NSW Jervis Bay National Park.

Biamanga National Park was subsequently added to the Schedule in 1998. Biamanga and

Jervis Bay are on or near the coast. All the others are west of the Great Dividing Range: near Armidale, Cobar, Mildura and Broken Hill respectively. Other reserves may be nominated for inclusion to the Schedule, and, after an assessment process, may be added by

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a further Act of Parliament. Note here that the State determines what is of sufficient

'cultural significance' to be included on the Schedule for handback, not the local

Aboriginal communities.

The reserves on Schedule 14 are not automatically handed back to Aboriginal owners. A

'Negotiating Panel' of Aboriginal people is appointed, which then negotiates the detailed terms of the lease agreement, including rent and the exercise of hunting and gathering rights and other 'cultural' activity. Rental payment is intended to compensate the Aboriginal owners for the loss of the full enjoyment of their lands, but can only be spent on activity directly associated with the management of the reserve. Once the leasing agreement has been finalised, the title of the reserve is vested in the Aboriginal Land Council on behalf of the Aboriginal owners. The reserve is then leased back to the Minister for the Environment and managed by the Board of Management. The flow diagram (figure 8.1) illustrates the processes

The 'Aboriginal owners' are defined in the amendments, and are to be listed in a Register maintained by the Registrar of the Aboriginal Land Rights Act. These Aboriginal owners must be directly descended from the original Aboriginal inhabitants of the cultural area in which the land is situated, and have a cultural association with the land deriving from the traditions and customs of the original Aboriginal inhabitants. This is essentially the same requirement as under the Native Title Act. except that there is not a demand for an unbroken continuitv of association. People displaced from their land may still become 'Aboriginal owners' Note again that, with reference to the discussion in chapters one and four on

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particular forms of Aboriginality, the State determines here which form it will accept for the purposes of joint management.

The discussion has so far dealt with land which is already part of NPWS estate: existing national parks or other reserves. The Aboriginal ownership amendments have another significant element. Lands subject to claim under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1983 may be conditionally granted subject to being leased back to the State for use as a national park or reserve, under the same administrative arrangements as Schedule 14 parks and reserves.

These lands are not, however, listed on Schedule 14, removing the requirement for an Act of Parliament. This aspect of the amendment legislation is aimed at resolving some of the problems between the NPWS and Aboriginal Land Councils described in the next section.

Since the commencement of the Aboriginal ownership amendments in May 1997,

Mootwingee National Park has been handed back and renamed 'Mutawintji' National Park in September 1998. Discussions have commenced about other parks but no formal negotiations are in train.

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Minister for Minister for the Aboriginal Affairs Environment

i f National Parks and Negotiation Register of Wildlife Service Panel Aboriginal Owners

Lease negotiations

Land title Care. vested in control and I.AI.Con management he-hull" o I" transferred Aboriginal I'rom NPWS owners Operational lo HoM responsibility

Figure 8.1 Process for transfer of ownership under Schedule 14, National Parks and Wildlife Act

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ABORIGINAL LAND CLAIMS

In NSW, under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1983, Aboriginal Land Councils can claim areas of vacant Crown land. If there are no 'essential public purposes' existing at the time of the claim for the land, the Minister for Land and Water Conservation has to grant the claim. The land is then transferred to the claimant Land Council and is held under freehold title. The Land Council can generally deal with the land in any of the normal ways

(manage, develop, sell), but needs a decision by a majority of the council to sell it. The Act is intended, in part, to provide mechanisms for achieving economic independence and security for Aboriginal people, and dealing in land is obviously one way of doing that. In western Sydney, many of the parcels of land successfully claimed by the Deerubbin Local

Aboriginal Land Council have been remnant, often isolated, 'quarter acre blocks'. Sale of these parcels may enable purchase of building blocks in more appropriate places for

Aboriginal residents. Note that, as discussed in chapter four, in the Aboriginal Land Rights

Act, the state constructs a version of Aboriginality different to that in the Aboriginal ownership amendments. The definition of Aboriginal person entitled to claim land which is potentially national park, is different to that entitled to participate in joint management of national parks.

All government agencies are notified of claims by the Department of Land and Water

Conservation (DLWC), and have the opportunity to assess whether the land is needed for an essential public purpose. If an agency successfully demonstrates that, at the time of the claim, the land is needed for an essential public purpose, then the Minister must refuse the claim. The Minister may also grant the claim conditionally, if the agency and the Land

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Council can agree to appropriate conditions to be attached to the title. From a NPWS perspective, an 'essential public purpose' could be nature conservation or establishment of a national park. The Act does not list essential public purposes, and there has been no legal finding to date that nature conservation is actually an essential public purpose.

An ongoing program of land acquisition is part of NPWS operations, to achieve a more comprehensive and representative reserve system. As NPWS normally has a very restricted land acquisition budget (around S2.2 million per annum), vacant Crown land has been the resource traditionally used for new national park proposals. Vacant Crown land is usually

'undeveloped', so tends to have nature conservation value in some form. Accordingly, much vacant Crown land is of interest to NPWS, as well as to Land Councils.

Either party may appeal the Minister's decision in the Land and Environment Court, which may uphold or overturn the Minister's decision. Either party may then appeal the Land and

Environment Court's decision to the Supreme Court acting as the Court of Appeal, which may also uphold or overturn the previous decision. These court processes typically take from six months (for example, the Castlereagh claim) to several years (for example, the

Maroota claim) to be resolved. This time penod is of course additional to the period taken for the Minister to initially decide the claim, which has typically been in the order of­ ten \ears or more1.

When the Minister refused to grant the 50 land claims referred to earlier, the refusal was appealed in 1997 by the Land Councils ,n the Und and Environment Court.

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Simultaneously, the NSW Aboriginal Land Council approached both the Minister for Land and Water Conservation and the Minister for the Environment, seeking a negotiation process to resolve the land claims out of court. The Land Council sought to have 'all possible methods of resolving the land claims considered', including the use of appropriate sections of the Aboriginal Land Rights Act, the National Parks and Wildlife (Aboriginal

Ownership) Amendment Act, conservation agreements under the National Parks and

Wildlife Act, and other appropriate mechanisms (Appendix 1, NSWALCg).

The State response, from the NPWS side, was that the approach was 'welcomed and supported', but they nevertheless insisted that various aspects would need to be finalised in court cases before any negotiations would be initiated (Appendix 1, NPWSd). It was initially the Castlereagh case in the Court of Appeal which NPWS wanted to wait for, but when that was decided, the State appealed the Maroota decision to the Court of Appeal.

Simultaneously, a number of negotiations were commenced, either where the lands were not highly sought after by NPWS, or where NPWS thought they didn't have much chance of proving their case before a court".

A Draft Field Manual on Aboriginal Land Claims was released in 1996 to guide NPWS activity in dealing with land claims, with a formal policy existing since 1989. Both clearly state that NPWS should only object to the grant of a land claim as a last resort, undertaking negotiated agreements as first preference. My working experience at NPWS since 1996 was in fact that objection was the routine first response to land claims: the section 1 worked in

1 In response lo sicnilkanl criticism, in ihe lasi year these lime frames have been significantly shortened. i lll0sc have resulted in negotiated agreements al Stockton Bight. KurofrHlalla ami Arakwal 309 Redefining Relationships - 8

had specific responsibility for assessment and response. When I interviewed the senior manager of the section in December 2000 about this, she replied that it was 'business as usual' with land claims, that is, objection was the routine response. As the foregoing indicates, not only has objection been the normal response, but the objection has been taken as far as the legal system allows: the Minister's decision, the Land and Environment Court and the Court of Appeal. Since early 2001 and my return to work, on my (and others') recommendations to senior management as a result of the Maroota case, no objections are being made to land claims in Central Directorate.

NATIVE TITLE

Native title may affect NPWS essentially in three ways. An Aboriginal group may submit a

Native Title Application over land including NPWS estate (national parks or other protected areas); or may seek to exercise a native title right involving plants and/or animals for which NPWS has legislative responsibility (eg harvesting a species listed on the

Threatened Species Conse nation Ait 1995). Also, NPWS may carry out an action which has implications for native title, for instance declaring a national park over land in which native title rights survive, or carrying out some forms of development work in parks.

In NSW to date, the first and third of these activities are currently active. In the first area. several Native Title Applications have been submitted which include NPWS estate, including the Walbunja Application (includes Budawangs, Morton, and Deua National

Parks) and the Gundungurra No 4' Application (includes parts of Blue Mountains, Nattai.

Kanangra-Bovd and Abercrombie River National Parks). Both of these applications have recently moved into the mediation stasze. but have onlv involved NPWS leiial staff to date.

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The Darug application in western Sydney has been formally 'notified', and covers vacant

Crown land and areas granted as land claims.

Under the NSW arrangements, the Minister for Land and Water Conservation is responsible for administering native title, as well as land claims. The Department of Land and Water notifies NPWS when a Native Title Application appears to affect NPWS estate or other interests. The State is always a party to proceedings involving Crown land, and is represented at mediation proceedings by the Crown Solicitor's Office and other agencies representatives as appropriate. NPWS also has a role as the body responsible for Aboriginal cultural heritage. In the Yorta Yorta case, which did not involve NPWS land, NPWS provided data from the Aboriginal Sites register to both sides (the native title group and the state and other parties).

In the second area, it was initially NPWS practice to proceed with the declaration of protected areas (a potential impermissable future act under the Native Title Act), with the intention of responding to any difficulties relating to native title as they arise. However, when the NSW Government attempted to introduce legislation creating a large number of new national parks without negotiating with potential native title holders, (the Forestry and

National Park Estate Act 1998), the NSW Aboriginal Land Council obtained legal advice indicating this was not valid. Through strategic political manouvering involving the

Democrats and Independents, NSWALC succeeded in forcing the Government to sign a

'Framework Indigenous Land Use Agreement' as a condition of allowing the legislation through parliament. This Indigenous Land Use Agreement, a legal agreement under the

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Native Title Act, recognises that 'the State has created national parks in land and waters which may be subject to native title' (p 3), and notes that the State has amended its native title legislation by adding a clause which preserves native title rights and interests in national parks and wilderness areas. It set out a process to negotiate native title interests in all national parks created in NSW since the commencement of the Native Title Act (Is1

January 1994). Since then, over one hundred and fifty national parks have been created in

NSW. However, in 2001, the state government largely abandoned the Framework

Indigenous Land Use Agreement. Instead, indicating it wished to resolve native title issues on a regional basis, as demonstrated by the Arakwal Indigenous Land Use Agreement, signed in December 2000 at Byron Bay.

The second area of relevance listed above, native title rights involving plants and animals, has not yet been significant in NSW. The 1999 High Court decision in Yanner established precedent that native title rights may override state legislation concerning protected species.

Interviews with senior policy staff at NPWS in late 2000 indicated that they were aware that the organisation was not responding proactively to native title. A proposal had recently been endorsed by the Executive to establish an internal 'NPWS Native Title Reference

Group' to start to develop a systematic understanding of native title and the agency. While this was obviously a positive measure, it was seven years after the Native Title Act had been introduced, and two years after the amended Act was passed. In February 2001 I joined this

Reference Group, and a consultancy was funded to provide legal advice to the NPWS about

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native title . The delay in creating a structured response is indicative of government responses to native title across Australia. A senior policy manager suggested to me, prior to the establishment of the Reference Group, that the 'policy response' of NPWS may well be to continue 'muddling through'.

JERVIS BAY

THE PLACE

The Jervis Bay region is about 200 kilometres south of Sydney, and includes the Jervis Bay and St Georges Basin catchments (figure 8.2). It is a few hours drive from Canberra,

Batemans Bay and Wollongong, and 20 kilometres from Nowra, the main regional centre.

Many areas of the region have high conservation value in Western terms, and three protected areas have been declared: the Commonwealth Booderee National Park, and the

NSW Jervis Bay National Park and the Jervis Bay Marine Park. The combination of attractive, high conservation value landscapes and proximity to large urban areas means that the region receives a high level of recreational visitation, currently around one million visitors per annum (Davey 1995).

The population of the region is around 14,000, spread through a number of villages including Jervis Bay Village, HMAS Creswell Naval College, St Georges Basin, Vincentia and Huskisson. This population doubles during holiday periods (Cho 1995).

' Ironically, this consultancy was funded with resources which had been earmarked to facilitate joint management negotiations, but a^ none were underway it was spent on lawyers instead 313 Redefining Relationships - 8

Archaeological evidence indicates human occupation of the region for the last 20,000 years. More than 300 sites are listed around Jervis Bay, with a much higher density than elsewhere on the NSW coast (Egloff 1995). In historic times. Aboriginal people moved back, after settler displacement, to Wreck Bay around 1900. In the 1890s, others were settled at Roseby Park Reserve, at Orient Point, following displacement through the establishment of the estates of Alexander Berry around 'Coolangatta' from 1822. Both the

Roseby Park and Wreck Bay communities were extensively involved in commercial fishing, and occupied land coming to be considered as prime coastal property. From the

1950s, portions of reserve lands were alienated for white holiday makers, and white fishing people started to object to Aboriginal involvement in the fishing industry (Goodall 1996,

Egloff 1995). The Aboriginal community today is mostly spread between Wreck Bay

(approximately 200 people) with Aboriginal title to the village area and surrounds, and

Jerrinja (approximately 200 people) with part of the old reserve lands granted to the community in 1986 (Egloff 1995, Lowe and Davies 2001).

The Jervis Bay region generally has had a long history of conservation interest, although only in the 1990s has this been particularly visible, other than for the Federal Territory (see for instance. Department of Planning and Shoalhaven Council 1992). In 1977 NPWS proposed to establish a national park for land around Lake Wollumboola north of Jervis

Bay This was supported by the National Trust in 1984, and the NSW National Parks

Association in 1991. Parts of this finally became part of Jervis Bay National Park in 1995 and 1998 (Fearv 2001).

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 8.2 Aerial photograph of Jervis Bay region (from Cho, Georges and Stoutjesdijk 1995)

In the last ten years or so, three parallel processes have developed in the region concerning protected areas and Aboriginal interests. In 1971, the Commonwealth Government gazetted

Jervis Bay Nature Reserve over much of the land of the Bhewerre Peninsula, part of the

Commonwealth Jervis Bay Territory. In 1972, this reserve, additional lands and the waters

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of the Jervis Bay Territory were declared as Jervis Bay National Park. In 1995, Federal

Parliament passed legislation to allow Jervis Bay National Park to be granted to the Wreck

Bay Aboriginal community and leased back to the Commonwealth as a joint-managed national park. The park was renamed Booderee National Park by the Aboriginal-majority

Board of Management in 1997. Booderee joins Uluru Kata-Tjuta and Kakadu as the

Commonwealth's Aboriginal-owned, joint-managed national parks. This status, however, came only after a prolonged struggle. After the declaration of the Nature Reserve in 1971, and other signs of increasing encroachment on their lands, the Wreck Bay community blockaded the entrance to Summercloud Bay, a popular tourist picnic area, on Australia

Day 1979. Negotiations sparked by this protest resulted initially in a grant of freehold title to 405 hectares of the old reserve lands in 1986, and eventually the joint management arrangements in 1995 (Egloff 1995).

In April 1994. the NSW Government announced that it would create a 6,000 hectare national park over NSW lands at Jervis Bay. In 1995, 1,000 hectares of the proposed area was gazetted as Stage 1 of the NSW Jervis Bay National Park. In 1998, 2,000 additional hectares of freehold land were purchased from a private landholder for addition to the national park. Approximately 3,000 hectares of additional land which has been identified for inclusion in the national park is the subject of Aboriginal land claims by the Jerrinja

Local Aboriginal Land Council and the NSW Aboriginal Land Council (NSWALC). In

1998. Jervis Bay Marine Park was declared over most of the waters of Jervis Bay and surrounding coastal waters, under the NSW Marine Parks Act 1997.

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TENURE AND LAND CLAIMS

The lands proposed for the Jervis Bay National Park consisted of essentially two tenures: private freehold and Crown land. About two thirds of the Crown land is covered by claims under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act by the Jerrinja Land Council and NSW ALC ('land claims' hereafter). The other one third of the Crown land is unaffected by land claims, and became the first part of the national park in 1995. The land claim areas comprise eight claims: five by Jerrinja Land Council and three by NSWALC. It is NSWALC policy that if their claims are granted they will be transferred to Jerrinja Land Council, so all eight may be considered together (see figure 8.3). The claims were lodged between 1986 and 1994. In late 1995, NPWS comprehensively objected to the granting of the bulk of the eight land claims, having also objected to some of the individual claims earlier. These claims have not yet been determined by the Minister for Land and Water Conservation. Delia Lowe of the

Jerrinja community described the land claims areas:

All the claims are important for the future of our people - socially and economically and to protect our cultural heritage. Lodging these claims gave Jerrinja LALC a legal right over these parcels of land - the right to have the New South Wales government make a formal decision on whether the claims would be granted. Yet the park proposal was announced as government policy without reference to Jerrinja people (quoted in Lowe and Davies 2001. p

269)

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 8.3 Jervis Bay National Park, Booderee National Park, Jervis Bay Marine Park (left) and Aboriginal land claims (right) (both from Feary 2001)

In 1996 (well after all land claims had been lodged), the NSW Department of Urban Affairs and Planning made a Regional Environmental Plan for the area (Department of Urban

Affairs and Planning 1997). The significant aspect of this plan is that it rezoned a large area of land (approximately 6,000 hectares) to Zone 8(a) and 8(b). Zone 8 (a) is 'national park or nature reserve', and applied to the area of Jervis Bay National Park gazetted in 1995. Zone

8 (b) is "proposed national park' and covered the areas of freehold subsequently purchased by NPWS. and the Crown land areas covered by the land claims. Under this 8(b) zoning, the land must be managed in a way that:

• protects the natural heritage, and

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• conserves wildlife, and

• protects the special features, natural scenery and landscape qualities, and

• protects natural habitats from the negative effects of introduced plants and animals and fire, and

• provides for opportunities for future Aboriginal ownership, and

• allows for opportunities for co-operative management between the relevant Aboriginal communities and NPWS.

In addition, under 8(b) zoning, any owner of the land may request NPWS to acquire the land, and if this happens NPWS must acquire the land at market value (Department of

Urban Affairs and Planning 1997).

In 1998, the owner of the 2,000 hectares of freehold covered by the 8(b) zoning requested

NPWS to acquire the land. The land was accordingly purchased at assessed market value for approximately $12 million4. The owner was multi-millionaire property developer

Warren Halloran , described in local news media as 'the mysterious millionaire' and 'Mr

Millions' (Illawarra Mercury 1999).

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Jervis Bay land claim summary:

• Aboriginal land claims are lodged b etween 1986 and 1994:

• the first pan of NSW Jervis Bay National Park is gazetted in 1995;

• Department of Urban Affairs and Planning rezones proposed nationa park (includirl g land

claim areas) to 8(b) in 1996;

• NPWS amendments for Aboriginal owners hip commence in 1997. and include the first part of

Jervis Bay National Park:

• NPWS acquires freehold 8(b) lands for $12 million in 1999

• By late 2001. the land claims have not been finalised.

Two other tenures are relevant in the context of the NSW situation. The Commonwealth

Booderee National Park is owned by the Wreck Bay Aboriginal community and leased back to the Commonwealth Government. This national park includes the waters of the

Federal Jervis Bay Territory, south of a line between the northern tip of Bowen Island and

HMAS Creswell Naval College on the mainland. Booderee, including these waters, is jointly managed by Environment Australia and the Wreck Bay Aboriginal community through the park's Board of Management. Beecroft Peninsula, which provides the northern and eastern enclosure to the waters of Jervis Bay, is owned by the Commonwealth

Department of Defence (Navy). This land, and much of the other land discussed here, is culturally significant to the Aboriginal communities and may be subject to native title rights In addition, Beecroft Peninsula has for some time been proposed as 'Stage 2' of

Booderee National Park. This will be a complex issue, as Booderee National Park as it stands now includes only the Wreck Bay community in the ownership and management

' Hjll-if JII jnd IIK M'VV S jtv currenllv in e-url disputing IIK JIUIUIII

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provisions. Inclusion of Beecroft Peninsula would almost certainly have to involve the

Jerrinja community at Orient Point, who were excluded from the Booderee negotiations

(Lowe and Davies 2001).

NEGOTIATIONS

From 1995, NPWS Nowra District staff commenced discussions with members of the

Jerrinja Land Council as well as the broader Aboriginal community of the region, primarily to explore options for a negotiated outcome to include the Aboriginal land claim areas in the Jervis Bay National Park.

In 1997, NPWS proposed that Jerrinja Land Council should use the Aboriginal ownership amendments to agree to the claimed areas being included in the national park. In this process, the lands claimed would be conditionally granted to Jerrinja Land Council so that they become part of the national park, to be owned by Jerrinja Land Council, automatically leased back to the NSW government, and jointly managed by NPWS and the Aboriginal owners. The minutes of this meeting record that the NPWS representative said that the other option was for NPWS to formally object to the claims, but that "it's not nice for the

Parks Service to go this way' (Appendix 1, NSWALCa). As noted above, NPWS had already comprehensively objected to the claims. In that objection, NPWS had stated that if there was goodwill on both sides, they believed a satisfactory outcome could be negotiated.

It appears that goodwill does not necessarily include honesty.

NPWS then contracted a lawyer to provide advice on a range of options and make recommendations on achieving a satisfactory resolution of the outstanding land claims.

This advice, in the form of a 'Discussion Paper on Aboriginal Ownership of JBNP", was

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presented to Jerrinja Land Council in February 1999 (Appendix 1, NSWALCe, Feary

2001). At the same meeting. NSWALC lawyers were requested to present their advice confidentially to the Jerrinja Land Council members (Appendix 1, NSWALCe).

The NPWS Discussion Paper explained three options:

• pursue the land claims through the normal ALRA process;

• pursue negotiations through the Aboriginal ownership amendments;

• pursue native title applications over all available lands.

It suggested that land claims (the first option) were likely to result in a 'win some-lose some' scenario, and warned of liability to pay rates on successfully claimed land. It also confirmed that Jerrinja Land Council could sell successfully claimed land to NPWS. The paper described only positive outcomes of using the second option (Aboriginal ownership amendments). For the third option, the paper asserts that it would be very difficult to prove native title in the area, and even if proved, would result in outcomes far short of those achievable under the Aboriginal ownership amendments. It recommended that the land claims be withdrawn, and negotiations entered into with NPWS for leaseback and joint- management of the national park.

In response, the NSWALC lawyer argued that, in fact, the option of pursuing the land claims through the normal process was the best strategy. He argued that the claims had a strong chance of success, and the Jerrinja Land Council would then be in the strongest position to negotiate, as owner of the granted lands If the claims did not have a strong

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chance of success it is likely they would have already been refused. As discussed earlier, 50 land claims in other areas of NSW were refused in 1996 on the grounds that the government wanted them for national parks, and the Jervis Bay claims were not included with these. While the Minister for Land and Water Conservation could decide that the lands were needed for national park, but conditionally grant them subject to an immediate leaseback, NSWALC believed it was likely the Minister did not have the evidence to justify deciding this. The NSWALC lawyer also recommended that Jerrinja Land Council and the

Jerrinja native title holders should enter into a cooperative agreement, to maximise the flexibility of any negotiations with the State government. Some of the possible routes through the process are represented in figure 8.4.

NSWALC advised that, even in the highly unlikely situation of the claims being completely rejected, Jerrinja Land Council would be brought into the joint-managment process through the existing inclusion of Jervis Bay National Park on Schedule 14 of the amended act.

As a result of these discussions, Jerrinja Land Council and NSWALC notified the

Department of Land and Water Conservation (responsible for administration of land claims) in mid 1999 that they wished to pursue the land claims through the normal process, and would not continue negotiations with NPWS until the claims had been decided. In late

1999 this was reaffirmed. The manager of the Aboriginal Land Rights Unit of the

Department confirmed to me in late 2000 that the claims had still not been decided: they were 'waiting for agency responses'. By late 2001 the situation had not changed.

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The foregoing discussion indicates something of the labrynthine processes and alternatives involved in these land dealings, and in fact has been simplified (I leave out issues of inter-

Aboriginal disputes, relationships with the local government authority - Shoalhaven City

Council, and a number of other factors).

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Pursue land claims

Minister offers Minister Minister grant grants refuses conditiona 1 on K\ i• \.2^ Appeal Don't Appeal \ / \ V ^4 / 1 r \ ^ Accepted Rejected Keep out Oiler to Appeal Appeal by LALC by LALC of NPWS successful Unsuccess­ ful national park

^^ 1t • \

/ Some j NPWS buy.s NPWS land and gazettes \ other use J ( community J gazettes as NP land us NP

^^^ 1 r transfer Commence to LALC lease and negotiations leased- <

Joint- \ / managed \ 1 national ] park J

Figure 8.4 Jervis Bay Aboriginal land claims possible processes: note that the outcome will always be a joint managed national park, but the distribution of resources and paths will differ.

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WESTERN SYDNEY

THE PLACE

The Castlereagh and Maroota Crown lands discussed in this section are located approximately 50 kilometres north west of the Sydney CBD, in Baulkham Hills and Penrith

Local Government Areas respectively. The Maroota lands subject to land claims cover

4,500 hectares. The Castlereagh land claim is much smaller at approximately 35 hectares.

Both areas are remnant bushland either part of, or adjacent to, previous forestry reserves

(see figures 8.5 and 8.6).

The Castlereagh claim is contiguous with the Castlereagh Nature Reserve, gazetted in 1995.

In Western terms, the physical landscape is part of the Cumberland Plain, relatively flat and not far from the Hawkesbury-Nepean River. The relevant parcels of land are on tertiary alluvium and support Angophora-Eucalypt woodland and a swamp woodland community including rare and vulnerable plant species (NPWS 1998).

The Maroota claims cover the bulk of a proposed 'Maroota National Park', which is effectively contiguous with Marramarra National Park, gazetted in 1979. Maroota is the interface between the Hawkesbury Sandstone landscape, with steep ridges and dissected valleys, and the Cumberland Plain alluvium and shale landscapes. The valleys of the

Maroota lands contain tall open forest, providing habitat for a range of fauna species including Koalas. Yellow-bellied Gliders and Powerful Owls. Little Cattai Creek, within the claim areas, was one of only two locations in western Sydney found to contain freshwater mussels (NPWS 1997), an indicator of high water quality and lack of

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disturbance. Maroota is within the 'northwest sector' of Sydney which has been undergoing significant residential and commercial expansion in the last ten years.

Both Maroota and Castlereagh are within the boundaries of the Deerubbin Local Aboriginal

Land Council5. The eastern boundary of Maroota is Old Northern Road, which forms the boundary between the Deerubbin and Metropolitan Local Aboriginal Land Councils.

This land council changed its name from Daruk Local Aboriginal Land Council to Deerubbin in 1997.

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Please see print copy for images

l-igure 8.5 Maroota, Castlereagh and other Aboriginal land claims in western Sydney the size of the red circles is approximately the size of the land claims

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 8.6 Maroota and Castlereagh Aboriginal land claims and adjacent national parks

LAND CLAIMS AND COURT JUDGEMENTS

Deerubbin Land Council have made a number of land claims over vacant Crown land in

Western Sydney, including areas in Hawkesbury, Penrith, Baulkham Hills and Blue

Mountains Local Government Areas. Many of these are in areas of high conservation value.

I will discuss first the Castlereagh claims and then Maroota.

Six land claims were made by Deerubbin Land Council in the vicinity of the then

Castlereagh State Forest in 1989: numbers 2619, 2620, 2616, 2617 and 3452. NPWS objected to all these land claims when first given the opportunity to comment.

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Subsequently, NPWS withdrew objections to 2619 and 2620 (in December 1995), but maintained objections to all the others.

Claim 3452, which is the primary subject of my discussion, covered approximately 35 hectares of Crown land immediately west of, but not part of. the previous Castlereagh State

Forest. These areas were first assessed by NPWS in 1971. and proposed as a nature reserve in 1973. In response, the then Forestry Commission proposed joint management of the area, but no action was taken by either party to pursue either proposal. In 1988, it was suggested by the Crown Lands Office that the area outside the State Forest might be appropriate for urban development, and in 1989 the land claim was lodged. These two activities were clearly perceived as a 'threat' to the conservation values of the land by NPWS, which then

(in 1990) attempted to reactivate the joint management proposal of the Forestry

Commission, but again no action ensued. At all of these times the land was zoned in a way which permitted clearing of vegetation and development.

Castlereagh State Forest was gazetted as Castlereagh Nature Reserve in 1995, as one of the incoming Labor Government's election commitments. The land claim was refused by the

Minister in February 1996 on the basis that it was needed for the 'essential public purpose' of nature conservation. In earl> 1997. Deerubbin Land Council appealed the Minister's decision to the Land and Environment Court. Justice Sheahan of that court handed down his decision in August 1997. overturning the Minister's decision (Deerubbin LALC v

Minister administering the Crown Lands Act. 1997).

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Sheahan focused on two aspects of the case. One was the issue of the relative value of the land for various uses at the time of the claim (which is the time which must be considered in determining the claim). The other was whether retention in public ownership was necessary to achieve appropriate management of the land for its conservation value. In regard to the former, he found that, at the time of the claim, the hierarchy of need being argued in government was: first, urban development; second, expansion of the State Forest; and third, nature conservation. He further found that at the time of the Minister's decision, this hierarchy had reversed. The condition of the land had stayed essentially the same over time, but the value placed on it had changed considerably, with the discovery of new knowledge and changing contexts. As the court is required to consider the circumstances at the time the claim is lodged, he concluded that it had not been demonstrated that nature conservation was the essential public purpose the land was needed for at the time of the claim.

In regard to the second aspect, he found that:

The court is satisfied that the conservation values on the land are quite high, but is not satisfied that their protection requires the claim to be refused...[and] no evidence has been presented that maintaining the land in public ownership as a nature reserve is the only, or even the best, way to afford those values the necessary protection. (Deerubbin LALC v

Minister administering the Crown Lands Act. 1997 p 18).

This decision was then appealed by the Minister for Land and Water Conservation to the

Supreme Court acting as the Court of Appeal in late 1997. That court handed down its

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judgement in April 1998, upholding the previous decision by a majority of two to one

(Minister administering the Crown Lands Act v Deerubbin LALC 1998).

Castlereagh Aboriginal Land Claim Summary: ALC number 3452: 34.5 hectares

• claimed by Deerubbin Land Council 15 Aug 1989

• refused by Minister 1 Feb 1996 (on NPWS objections) appealed by Deerubbin early 1997 to Land and Environment Court (contested by NPWS)

• Land and Environment Court overturned Minister's decision 14 Aug 1997

• Minister appealed to Court of Appeal late 1997 (on NPWS objections)

• Previous court decision upheld 1998

• Land granted to Deerubbin as valid land claim

Deerubbin Land Council lodged five land claims in the Maroota region: two claims at the

south west corner of the former Maroota State Forest in 1985, and a further three claims in

1989 over the bulk of the State Forest, its southern tip, and a separate area to the west. The

Maroota State Forest was revoked in 1976, the lands then reverting to the status of vacant

Crown land. It had remained as such since that date. The bulk of the land under claim was

refused by the Minister in March 1996 on the basis that it was needed for the essential

public purpose of nature conservation.

The proposed 'Maroota National Park' was also one of the incoming Labor Government's

election promises in February 1995. NPWS has had an interest in the area since 1973, with

a formal proposal being developed and circulated in 1975. and numerous further attempts to

have an appropriate conservation tenure declared for the land. As NPWS says in its

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statement of objection to the land claims, 'the single outstanding issue which has stood between NPWS and the gazettal of the Maroota National Park is the inability of the former

Department of Lands, former Department of Conservation and Land Management and now the Department of Land and Water Conservation to formally and definitively respond to the

Service's 1976 reference statement on the matter' (Appendix 1, NPWSd).

After the Minister's refusal, Deerubbin Land Council appealed the decision to the Land and

Environment Court in May 1996. Justice Bignold handed down his decision in April 1999, overturning the Minister's decision (Deerubbin LALC v Minister administering the Crown

Lands Act, 1997). Bignold advised that in the course of hearing the case, three of the claims

(all small areas) were settled, either by Deerubbin Land Council withdrawing the claims, or the Minister granting them. The remaining claims were numbers 3438 and 3462, and comprised the bulk of the area, both lodged in 1989.

In reviewing the case, Bignold commented that the inclusion of the area as the proposed

Maroota National Park in Labor's election promises, and subsequently as the new Labor

Government's policy, both in 1995, was the first time that the proposal had received approval at the Executive Government level. The fact that there was a twenty year delay between the first proposal by NPWS and its final incorporation into government policy and proposed action, was 'a telling fact against the Minister's case that the claimed land was needed, or likely to be needed, for nature conservation in August 1989' (Deerubbin LALC v Minister administering the Crown Lands Act, 1997 p 7).

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Bignold also considered another issue in this case: 'whether the intrinsic ecological qualities or attributes of the claimed land, generate of their own force a need or demand for conservation' (Deerubbin LALC v Minister administering the Crown Lands Act, 1997 p

7). He concluded that it is not legitimate to decide that 'the ecological significance of a parcel of land is sufficient in and of itself (ie without the intervention of human agency making informed evaluation and value judgements) to demand protection and conservation. Accordingly, the fact of the ecological significance of the claimed land does not justify a finding of the requisite "need"' (Deerubbin LALC v Minister administering the

Crown Lands Act, 1997 p 8, emphasis in original).

The Minister for Land and Water Conservation appealed the decision to the Supreme Court acting as the Court of Appeal in July 1999. The grounds for appeal include challenging the conclusions outlined in the preceding two paragraphs. In February 2001 the Court of

Appeal upheld the earlier decision, ordering that the land be transferred to Deerubbin Land

Council.

Maroota Aboriginal Land Claims: 4,500 hectares

• five claims lodged by Deerubbin LALC 1985 and 1989

• refused by Minister March 1996

• appealed by DLALC May 1996 to Land and Environment Court

• Court overturned Minister's decision April 1999

" Minister appealed to Court of Appeal June 1999

• Court ol Appeal upholds earlier decision February 2001

• Land to be translerred to Deerubbin Land Council

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ABORIGINALITY, NATURE AND NPWS

The preceding discussion demonstrates a number of themes from the encounters between

Aboriginal groups and NPWS. Government constructions of race and nature, department interests relative to 'Crown' interests, and issues of trust and effort are now discussed.

CONSTRUCTIONS OF NATURE: WESTERN SYDNEY AS RUBBISH LAND ?

An interesting anomaly emerges on reading the Plan of Management for Castlereagh

Nature Reserve (NPWS 1999a). Nature Reserves under the National Parks and Wildlife Act

1974, are areas of special scientific interest: they have a role as 'refuge areas where natural processes, phenomena and wildlife can be studied, maintained and conserved' (NPWS

1999a, p 2), with significantly less emphasis on recreation than have national parks. Prior to its gazettal as a Nature Reserve, Castlereagh had been subject to mineral extraction (large amounts of gravel), intensive logging of ironbark (both legally and illegally), firewood collection and frequent fires. One area was used as a heavy metal disposal area. Thousands of seedlings have been planted in the area, modifying species abundance and genetic composition. Hundreds of dumped cars have been removed from the forest (NPWS 1998a,

1999a). Despite this history, the extreme level of clearing on the Cumberland Plain means that this heavily used area has now become one of the 'crown jewels' of the reserve system, too precious to even be just a national park.

In an adjacent area of Castlereagh, NPWS correspondence reveals that, if the land has degraded enough over the time of NPWS interest, they would be prepared to let the Land

Councils have it, as an attempt to improve the management. NPWS withdrew earlier objections from two claims near Castlereagh with extensive significant bushland, but very

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extensive illegal dumping and other degrading influences. As Crown lands, these areas were under the management of the Department of Land and Water Conservation, but apparently NPWS thought the Land Council might do a better job (as well as paying for removal of the vast amount of illegal rubbish which the department failed to prevent or remove; controlling the illegal vehicle use; and managing to institute some sort of appropriate fire regime). Note that NPWS did not suggest that they supported development of the area: the land should 'be managed to conserve the rare plants' (Appendix 1,

NPWSd).

Figure 8.7 Rubbish land or crown jewels ? - dumped car bodies and native plants at Maroota

Evidence submitted in the Maroota cases indicated a similar ambivalence. Maroota has

been extensivelv logged, and

systematically pillaged by bush rock thieves. Widespread car dumping and stripping.

rubbish dumping, marijuana grow ing and even toxic liquid waste disposal has occurred

there over the last tvventv vears (Appendix 1. NPWSd).

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On the one hand it was argued that because of the threat posed by these activities it is essential that NPWS manage the lands. On the other it was argued that this 'near pristine bushland' is a product of its historic neglect, and consequently should come into the NPWS estate (see figure 8.7). Correspondence to the media opposing the grant of the land to the

Land Council claimed, in a presumably unintentional irony, that it was 'our very own

Kakadu' (Hills Shire Times 26 October 1999, p 12).

At Jervis Bay the Navy's use of Beecroft Peninsula as a bombing range has similar suggestions of 'rubbish country' which may eventually become a 'crown jewel' addition to

Booderee National Park. Whether constructed as rubbish country or crown jewel, the agency positions have consistently failed to acknowledge constructions as contemporary

Aboriginal country. Archaeological evidence may be provided to show significance as a prehistoric cultural landscape (see figure 8.8), but contemporary cultural association is ignored.

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Please see print copy for images

/

Figure 8.8 'Aboriginal site locations': a prehistoric cultural landscape at Jervis Bay (from Egloff 1995)

CONSTRUCTIONS OF RACE

As discussed in chapter four, the legislation underscoring these various policy encounters - the Aboriginal ownership amendments, the Aboriginal Land Rights Act and the Native Title

Act - all have different constructions of Aboriginality. Those Aboriginal people determined to be native title holders, are different to those entitled to make land claims, who are in turn different to those entitled to participate in joint management of national parks.

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Many grants of land or interest have engendered intense conflict, as one legally sanctioned group is given ascendancy over all others. The granting of ownership and joint management at Booderee initially disenfranchised the Jerrinja community, who now may gain

'ascendancy' over the Wreck Bay community if their land claims are granted. This separation of the communities is predicated on the basis of Western tenure and government systems: one is in 'New South Wales', one is in the 'Commonwealth Jervis Bay Territory'; one is the turf of the NPWS, the other is the 'turf of Environment Australia (Lowe and

Davies 2001).

The western Sydney land claims have polarised those represented by the Land Councils and those represented by native title groups of Daruk people. Having initially commenced a practice of consulting Land Councils, NPWS now attempts to be inclusive of all Aboriginal groups. In response, Deerubbin Land Council has refused to participate in some issues because they perceive they are losing power to other groups. The government generally, and NPWS individually, see this as 'Aboriginal business'; something they should not get involved with, failing to perceive that it is a creation of government policy. The current situation of parallel processes in native title, land claims and the Aboriginal ownership amendments (as well as changes to cultural heritage processes and the regional forestry activities) generates an atmosphere of competition and confusion. It is likely that this will continue for some time, even after various claims and rights have been finalised.

One category continues to be unrepresented in these processes: those who have been separated from their traditional lands but who are not in a 'formal' relationship with new areas (for instance, through membership of a Land Council). These Aboriginal people may

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be able to access lands through purchase on the open market, now channelled through the

Indigenous Land Corporation.

DEPARTMENT INTERESTS AND CROWN INTERESTS

The chronologies of action (or inaction) and decision-making revealed in the court processes over disputed land claims demonstrate an interesting problem for the State. The

Minister for Land and Water Conservation is the responsible Minister, and the Department of Land and Water Conservation has the administrative role of assessing land claims. In court, however, the Minister represents the State and Executive Government as a whole, not his or her individual portfolio.

In Castlereagh, and particularly in Maroota, the chronologies demonstrate that over extended periods of time the governments of the day did not have an agreed use in mind for the lands, but in fact a range of uses were proposed and abandoned. These were typically contested between different departments, with the Department of Land and Water

Conservation and its predecessors being often in the controlling position. In Maroota, this department obstructed NPWS proposals for twenty years. However, when it came to assessing the claim and then supporting the assessment in court, the department and the

Minister argued that in fact the NPWS proposal should receive precedence over the land claim They had (in the role of department and portfolio minister) denied the 'essential public purpose' for twenty years, and then, when faced with the prospect of the land moving out of State ownership (in the role of representative of Executive Government), vociferously supported it. Effectively, the NPWS proposals had moved up the ranks into approval by Executive Government, but this was well after the land claim was lodged.

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In Castlereagh, urban development and presumably private subsequent ownership, were initially ranked as a 'higher use' than nature conservation. The supposed spectre of

Aboriginal development activity (remember the land is, and always was, zoned to permit development) then provoked enthusiastic support for the nature reserve proposals which the

Department of Land and Water Conservation had opposed for twenty three years. At Jervis

Bay, in attempting to preempt the outcome of the land claims, the land was rezoned to commit it to conservation purposes, a process which could potential see the state government paying millions of dollars to the Aboriginal communities.

SOCIAL JUSTICE, TENURE, AND MANAGEMENT

The issue of whether particular forms of tenure are necessary for particular types of management is an ongoing theme in this thesis. The land claim disputes indicate that very often NPWS believes this to be so: nature conservation requires Crown protected area tenures and management by NPWS. Two examples in the land claims disputes are illuminating here.

In 1996, with many land claims disputed or unresolved, a NPWS employee gave an interview with a western Sydney newspaper where he argued that Aboriginal land claims jeopardised the survival of rare and endangered plant and animal species. The interview was printed under the headline 'Claims endanger wildlife' (Fairfield Sun, 25 June 1996, p

7). The employee, an active member of the National Parks Association on a short term contract with NPWS, was disciplined by management, and a correcting letter sent by the

Director-General of NPWS. This letter said, in part, "the Service does not believe that if

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Aboriginal land claims are granted, that [sic] the conservation of threatened species would be compromised'. The Director-General was referring to the legal protection afforded by the Threatened Species Conservation Act 1995, which has effect irrespective of tenure.

Having made this statement to the media, NPWS did not, however, withdraw its objections to any of the land claims it was actively contesting.

The second example concerns the Castlereagh claim. After disputing the claim to the highest legal level possible (the Court of Appeal) and then losing, NPWS and the

Government effectively abandoned any interest in the land. In addition to mechanisms under the Threatened Species Conservation Act (which may operate if development is proposed), NPWS has access to other instruments to achieve nature conservation on private land, such as Conservation Agreements. If the land was really needed for the essential public purpose of nature conservation, opening discussions with the new owner, Deerubbin

Land Council, would be an obvious step in attempting to protect the nature conservation values by means of a Conservation Agreement or other process. The Plan of Management for the Nature Reserve (NPWS 1999a) lists as a High Priority Action: 'seek addition to the reserve of adjoining lands'. Of those adjoining lands, two blocks are the ones from which

NPWS withdrew its objections to land claims, two have unresolved land claims, and one is the disputed block granted to Deerubbin Land Council in the Court of Appeal.

In the Aboriginal ownership amendments, even though the land is nominally in the ownership of Aboriginal communities, the nature of that ownership is tightly circumscribed b\ the provisions of the National Parks and Wildlife Act. with some flexibility through the lease provisions The NPWS continues to be operationally responsible for management

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The Jervis Bay situation involves both the land claims process and the Aboriginal ownership amendments.

A simple view of the core issue at Jervis Bay could be presented as follows. Jerrinja Land

Council submitted land claims over large areas of vacant Crown land under the Aboriginal

Land Rights Act, some of them more than thirteen years ago. The NSW government, without deciding the claims, subsequently announced it wanted these lands for Jervis Bay

National Park, and the Department of Urban Affairs and Planning rezoned the claimed lands to 'proposed national park'. Under the new zoning, the government purchased lands from a private landholder for $12 million for inclusion in the park. If Jerrinja Land Council are legally entitled to the land claimed, then why should they not be granted the land under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act ? The Land Council could then choose to sell some or all to

NPWS for market value, just as the private landholder did. Why should an extremely wealthy property owner be paid a very large sum for his land, and a relatively poor

Aboriginal community asked to give theirs up for nothing ?

When this scenario was raised by me with a senior NPWS manager, he replied that the government would change the law rather than buying the land. The issue from a government perspective is the anomaly of disposing of Crown land for no income (via the land claim process), then re-acquiring it at market price from the group it had just granted it to. The anomaly becomes more pronounced if the land is then granted back to Jerrinja Land

Council under the Aboriginal ownership amendments, and then leased back to the government, presumably for a rental return to the Land Council.

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These anomalies are self-evident, and the tortuous processes ones which it might be preferable to avoid. However, they are all creations of the government, not the Aboriginal community. The Aboriginal community is seeking to have its rights recognised under legislation purporting to do that: the Aboriginal Land Rights Act and the Aboriginal ownership amendments. The Aboriginal Land Rights Act specifically describes land rights as being for the economic, as well as other, benefit for Aboriginal communities.

NPWS included Jervis Bay National Park on Schedule 14 of the Aboriginal ownership amendments in an attempt to reach a compromise: the land claim areas would become part of the park, and the Aboriginal owners would become joint managers of the park and possibly receive some rental income. However, this is still far short of unencumbered freehold ownership, which was what the claimants aspired to in lodging the claims, and what successful claimants elsewhere have received. The Aboriginal ownership provisions have also been very slow to deliver: only Mutawintji has been handed back (in 1998) and it had a long history of agitation and negotiation prior to the ownership amendments.

The Aboriginal community and their advisors in NSWALC correctly perceive the primacy of private ownership in Australian law and policy. If they are owners, they negotiate from a position of strength. In any other scenario, the state holds the upper hand. Having the claims granted would give the Jerrinja community a basis for a flexible approach to future income, housing, economic activity and cultural interests.

From a NPWS point of view, land claims have traditionally been perceived as one of a scries of obstacles in the way of national park gazettal. The NPWS argues, correctly, that it

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had established an interest in the lands since the 1970s. This interest had not, however, translated into any concrete action until the mid 1990s, by which time rising property

values meant that the freehold portions cost the agency $12 million, and the land claims

were in place.

CONSTRAINTS AND PRIORITIES

Government today always operates in a condition of budgetary constraint. Consultation

with and participation of Aboriginal people is often noted as being slower than with the rest

of the community, requiring longer time periods for community decision-making and

appropriate forms of communication. These processes mean greater cost and longer

timeframes, issues often cited as reasons for inadequately doing these things. My own

initial attempts at NPWS to commence building relationships with appropriate Aboriginal

groups foundered because other things were given more priority by management. 'Talking

to Aboriginal groups' wasn't efficient or focused enough. The failure of NPWS to follow

up discussion concerning appropriate conservation at the Castlereagh claim similarly

focused on time and money constraints: few staff handled Conservation Agreements and

they were busy elsewhere.

However, when the effort expended on opposing the land claims is assessed, these

arguments sound a little hollow. On Maroota, the Crown filed twelve affidavits to support

its case. Five of these related directly to the NPWS interest, and involved either funding

consultants to develop arguments for the conservation value of the land, or committing

NPWS staff to weeks of work in assembling material and appearing in court. This amounts,

conservatively, to tens of thousands of dollars in cash and hundreds of hours of staff time.

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The end result of all this effort, associated with an Aboriginal interest in high conservation lands, is a very high level of enmity and suspicion between the Land Council and NPWS.

As the Manager of the Land Claims Unit at NSW Aboriginal Land Council expressed it to me: 'From our point of view, the Department of Land and Water Conservation is the Devil, and NPWS is Beelzebub'.

CONCLUSION

The period focused on in the forgoing discussion was essentially one of stable government: the Carr Labor Government was elected at the beginning of 1995 and is still in power.

During this period, however, there was a change in the Minister and Director-General. The initial incumbents facilitated the Aboriginal ownership amendments and commenced the review process at NPWS. It remains to be seen what level of ownership the current incumbents have for Aboriginal issues, and although the new Corporate Plan and other documents indicate a high level of rhetorical support for Aboriginal participation in conservation, this had not translated clearly into action by early 2001,

The agency emphasis on bureaucratic process when faced with challenging issues has been a major constraint to innovative action. Because the current legislation appears to allow for all eventualities, there has been a tendency to follow its course, rather than proactively explore new, practical, approaches.

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 8.9 Contemporary Aboriginal landscapes: Barry Moore teaching at Jervis Bay (left), and Tex Skuthorpe (and his nephew) teaching in western Sydney (right)

The legislation constructs a range of sanctioned versions of Aboriginality, and determines which ones are relevant in which processes. The Aboriginal people of Jervis Bay and western Sydney may not have the intimate engagement with their landscapes as Cape York people, but their clear Aboriginal identity and understanding of landscapes as peopled places, is directly congruent (figure 8.9). State constructs act to sever these relationships: between people in a community, and between people and their country. Possible rights to land only exist for particular parcels, rights to sea are ignored or dealt with completely differently, places for living and places for visiting are rigorously separated. Communities with long shared histories but different individual origins are sharply compartmentalised in legal rights.

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The worldview. the culture, of the conservation agency has clear influences on outcomes.

The maintenance of the Yellowstone myth and a belief in due process has resulted in adversarial relationships: winners and losers. When, as the memo says, NPWS loses, they are faced with a relationship of enmity and suspicion: no foundation for conservation partnerships. Recognising this, they have abandoned interest in the 'lost' lands and fought harder for the others. This continuing channelling of effort and finance into further adversarial process has created more opponents and raised significant challenges for positive communication. Redirecting this effort into proactively building non-judgemental relationships might reveal new, effective routes to conservation partnerships.

348 * PART IV

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9 A FRAMEWORK FOR CHANGE

The map differentiates itself from the territory precisely through acts of selection. (Cosgrove 1999, p 11)

A law for the land. A law for the people in a place. (Yunupingu, in Langton 1998, p 75)

INTRODUCTION

There are many points of intersection between the interests of Aboriginal communities and organisations, and the interests of state conservation agencies. While these intersections more often generate conflict and confrontation than co-operation and trust, attempts by governments to implement resolutions to these apparently different interests often lead to policy failure. My research was generated both by the observation of this policy inadequacy, and the awareness of potential solutions. The case studies examine situations of generalised policy inadequacy in landscapes full of potential successful outcomes.

State conservation agencies, as subsets of the dominant Australian culture, hold normative cultural constructs which may often be only tenuously linked to the realities' they symbolise. These constructs are institutionalised in the structure and processes of conservation agencies, and, as such, have a constant presence in the policy and decision­ making process. Significant cultural constructions include those focusing on nature' and

'Aboriginality', and a spectrum of detailed issues around these. Contemporary Aboriginal interests in conservation issues have to engage and negotiate with this culture of

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conservation. Aboriginal constructions of nature and indigeneity may differ strongly from those held by conservation agencies. Importantly, many Aboriginal organisations, and the legal concept of native title, are both situated at points between non-Aboriginal Australian culture and Aboriginal culture, rather than simply reflecting Aboriginal culture.

This chapter sets out how my thesis contributes to recent work in cultural geography, both empirical and theoretical. Themes which emerge from the empirical work are briefly summarised. The centrality of spatial representations - maps - to both the negotiating processes and as a metaphor for different engagements with place provides a context for the chapter. I then discuss my theories for change, including their relationship to theoretical work in cultural geography, focusing on work by Rose (1992), Latour (1993), Proctor and

Pincetl (1996) and Whatmore (1997). This theoretical basis is necessary before proceeding to any discussion of policy or implementation, as those will inevitably be nested within the theory. The theme of complementarity, in epistemologies and on the ground, is drawn out

Irom the case studies and the preceding chapters. The theme of the recognition space, again both theoretically and geographically, is summarised and identified from the case studies. In terms of the major conceptual themes of my thesis, the sections on complementarity and the recognition space explore the necessary engagement with constructions of nature and race

EMERGENT THEMES

The empirical work in New South Wales and Cape York reveals a number of emergent themes In some senses these themes are common to issues in the wider world generally.

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but they have particular and specific significance in relationships between conservation agencies and Aboriginal people.

A fundamental defining theme is that these relationships are cross-cultural: the cultures, while internally heterogeneous, are strongly differentiated from each other. While this expresses itself in a number of ways, my focus has been on some of the differences in worldviews and how this articulates to on-ground activities: constructions of nature and race and their outcomes.

This cross-cultural element helps determine the next theme, which is that relationships tend to be adversarial and conflictual. The dominant. non-Aboriginal, conservation agency ideology and epistemology assumes superiority (not just to Aboriginal ideologies, but to all comers: four wheel drive enthusiasts, environment NGOs, cultures where coastal foraging and harvesting is the norm) '. Aboriginal cultural approaches then have to actively assert their beliefs and values against this assumed superiority, and conservation agencies oppose their validity (that land is home, that plants and animals are to be eaten and otherwise used).

Other processes contribute to the adversarial relationships: in NSW conservation agencies and Aboriginal organisations compete for Crown land under different legislation; in

Queensland some national parks are 'claimable', but in essence symbolically only - the state maintains control.

1 While I ho coloniser's knowledge prevails over the colonised, cnunieniis! this are recent court decisions upholding Aboriginal rislm uuuinsi the asserted rishis ol the stales and slate agencies.

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Preceding, or proceeding from, this situation of conflict is a lack of trust, on both sides.

Accordingly, Deerubbin Local Aboriginal Land Council say they won't discuss conservation issues until their land claims are settled. This reinforces NPWS suspicion, who don't trust Deerubbin's intent and work hard to oppose the claims. A QPWS officer writes that conservation assessment of Umpila traditional land in Cape York has included no attempt to inform or involve Umpila people, and that future relations are likely to be strained because of this: she's right.

The next theme, the scale of knowledge, is exemplified in the Cape York study but not so clearly in New South Wales, (perhaps because of the methodological differences between the two, but also because of the historical and social differences). This is the particular limitations of each side of the relationship, and the consequent significance of geographical scale for the effectiveness of each. In Cape York, the Aboriginal communities know the land at issue both intimately and broadly - they live there, or close by. QPWS staff have hardly been there, but 'know' it from books, reports, maps and photographs. Aboriginal people know little about state or national conservation objectives or 'threatened species' issues - issues which are abstract, more than grounded in place. Conservation agency staff have very thorough know ledge of these issues.

In NSW this local-regional knowledge theme emerges at Jervis Bay to some extent, mostly because of the Aboriginal community's continuity in place against NPWS staff mobility. In western Sydney, detailed local knowledge is demonstrated by individual Aboriginal people. again a function of a long history with the place. But more than 20,000 Aboriginal people

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live in an essentially urban environment, and only some have knowledge of the detail and values of remnant bushland landscapes. In my case study work, both the native title claimants (who can demonstrate centuries of genealogical connection), and the Local

Aboriginal Land Council asserted knowledge of their local areas. Both have knowledge about 'sites' and their distribution in the landscape. The native title claimants also demonstrated very detailed knowledge about the distribution and abundance of particular species. These connections are to a significantly changed environment, and from significantly changed Aboriginal communities. Some NPWS staff are very knowledgeable, but about subtly different aspects (values) of the landscape. Continuity of association by some Aboriginal people against mobility of NPWS staff is again a feature.

Backgrounding all of these themes is the pervasiveness of change: economical, social and institutional. While this is a broad attribute of Australian society today, it is particularly evident and urgent in Aboriginal - conservation agency interactions. Environmentally, rapid increases in habitat change (witness the vegetation clearing in the last two years in

Queensland), is paralleled by huge increases in conservation reserve areas, and very minor increases (in these states) in Aboriginal-held land. Socially, support for 'reconciliation' sees one million people marching, Australia-wide, in the years immediately following the rise to national and international prominence of the One Nation party and its racist policies.

Institutionally, both QPWS and NPWS are subject to continuing recent organisational change, accompanied by governments at all levels making myriad attempts to deal with native title in its broadest sense. Aboriginal organisations are subject to detailed review and reorganisation by external parties.

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In summary, it is a social, institutional and environmental landscape of rapid and deep change, in which two differing cultural groups are negotiating, each with strong beliefs and interests. The relationship is generally adversarial and characterised by lack of trust: both sides expend much effort opposing the other. One side is notable for its reliance on abstracted knowledge, its understanding of state and regional scales, and its staff mobility; the other by its reliance on experiential knowledge, its understanding of local and regional scales, and its continuity of association with places, whether measured in decades or millenia. Both have increasing involvement in global issues and technologies.

MAPS AS METAPHORS

It could reasonably be argued that maps, both actual and metaphorical, are a fundamental entity for geography They are as necessary as they are problematic.

In my preparation for the research and advocacy work on Cape York, I acquired and studied a number of different maps: topography, vegetation, species distribution, population distribution, Donald Thomson's anthropological maps. While few of these maps could be found in the offices of the Cape York Land Council when I started, there were two which were on many office walls: a map of land tenure on Cape York and a map of native title applications in Queensland. My job became, in a sense, the integration of the maps of tenure and legal process (institutions) with maps (some not yet existing) of people and their aspirations, history and meaning ('culture'), places and their constraints and opportunities

(szeographv). animals and plants ('nature')

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Maps have been powerful tools in the colonisation process. Post Mabo and Wik, conservative factions in Australia vigorously revived this use. Gelder and Jacobs (1998) describe the 'postcolonial racism' of the campaigns by the (then) Australian Mining

Industry Council and the Howard Coalition government, using highly selective versions of national maps to oppose native title. The publications by Davis and Prescott (a book, 1992) and Davis (a map, 1993), and the response by Sutton (a book, 1995), give a detailed picture of the complexities of mapping Aboriginal associations with land, and the hugely political significance of attempting to do so. Sutton's comprehensive critique demonstrates both the intense, local and fluid relationships of Aboriginal people to land, and the highly politicised and partisan arena of contemporary Aboriginal geographies in Australia.

Internationally, there is growing interest from indigenous communities in using modern computer mapping technologies (Geographic Information Systems - GIS) for both advocacy purposes (as a political tool) and land management purposes. Both of these uses can also function to record a spatial version of oral histories. An electronic journal. Native

Geography, documents a Canadian website called inativemaps, (Frank and Carruthers

2001). The article included a quote from Victor Hart, a Yiithu Warra Aboriginal man from

Cape York, indicating he had visited the website and how useful he had found it: local

Aboriginal interests articulating to global, pan-indigenous tools. The Central Land Council in the Northern Territory and Central Queensland Land Council both use GIS. The Giru

Dala Elders Coiporation in Bowen, Central Queensland, also use a GIS. revealing a useful aspect for Aboriginal users. They have detailed records of sites of Aboriginal significance in their area, recorded with an academic archaeologist. Under an agreement with Bowen

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Shire Council, development applications are sent to Giru Dala, who check them against their GIS records and then give approval/non-approval. That is, they do not release the detailed records to any other parties, maintaining confidentiality by their controlled use of the electronic data. In parallel, authorities charged with implementing the Native Title Act grapple with ways to electronically map native title rights (Neate 1999, Bowen 2000).

In Cape York Aboriginal memory explained 'scientific' fact: mapped areas of previously unknown and unique vegetation communities, highly valued because of their rarity, were created by the cessation of Aboriginal burning: recent ecological artefacts. Other mapped areas, prized for their persistence from the past, were previous Aboriginal/ecological artefacts, where now a reapplication of Aboriginal burning was necessary to maintain them in their 'natural' condition. The Balclutha volcanic plug, recognisable on the 1:100,000 topographic sheet, was assumed by ecologists to support unique vegetation. Aboriginal traditional owners know it intimately as Kulpa. on the ground, in multiple layers: creation and spirit stories from the Old People'; its function in cattle management; its perhaps recent function as a territorial marker; its usefulness in navigation; its resource uses within particular social restrictions. The European map is sparsely named and broad scale - a public document. The Aboriginal (mental) map is densely named, finely grained, social, historic and personal - the paper 'counter-maps' we made together reflected some of this detail, but edited because of the particularity of rights to knowledge.

In western Sydney, conservation agency maps identified the areas of remnant vegetation and habitat - the left over land', now highly prized. After the Maroota court decision, when

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I started mapping potential and actual Aboriginal tenures over these ecologies, new landscapes emerged, contemporary maps countering understandings of landscapes based on threatened species or prehistoric 'Aboriginal sites'. The very limited Aboriginal rights under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act and the Native Title Act have been asserted, challenging assumptions about how these landscapes might be managed. Aboriginal people may now have major influence over the future evolution of these landscapes, as they did in the past - how this may be complementary or otherwise to non-Aboriginal aspirations has yet to be explored. At Jervis Bay, layers of mapped planning restrictions intended to achieve conservation objectives, combined with its status as left over Crown land, may deliver significant financial resources and the land to local Aboriginal people.

Recent work from the Cultural Heritage Division in NPWS is also creating new counter- maps. English and Brown (2000) and English (2001) examine contemporary Aboriginal understandings of 'conservation landscapes', where the boundaries between the 'natural' and

'cultural' begin to disappear. Byrne (2001) documents the processes of the 'anti-cadastral', where Aboriginal people refuse to acknowledge the colonial cadastre's intrusion onto their lands. With Aboriginal communities, he maps 'shared spaces', 'in-between spaces', and

'spaces of exclusion' for their contemporary meaning. These are projects where the concept of the 'cultural' moves out of its defining box, intruding into the 'natural' and institutions of tenure. My work examines the movement from the political and cultural into the ecological, and the ecological into the cultural.

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The functions of all these counter-mapping and anti-cadastral processes are to put people back into the landscape, historically and in the present and future. They are the spatial version of the concept of the Mabo decision: a peopled landscape rather than an empty land. The Aboriginal tenures can complement the non-Aboriginal tenures in managing environmental issues 'across the landscape'. The Aboriginal tenures, the places of mapped and remembered Aboriginal use, and the conservation estate, can all become recognition spaces for the development of new relationships. Geographical scale continues to be a key issue in management and negotiation.

COMPLEMENTARITY

THEORIES FOR CHANGE

This thesis draws together a body of published work with my own research, to argue that cultural (social) constructions determine the nature of policy and its implementation. These constructions derive from the characteristics of the determining culture: its worldview, epistemology, myths, values, beliefs. State conservation agencies and Aboriginal communities have differing cultures and consequently differing constructions of key ideas, such as nature and race. Experience and research show that people tend to hold to their own worldviews despite conflicting evidence. In the following sections, I discuss three theoretical approaches which could provide appropriate foundations for developing relationships, and thence policy, to transform the current situations of policy inadequacy.

My concern with identifying appropriate theory sterns from the observation that existing theory in conservation and policy per se. and biodiversity conservation and Aboriginal people's interests specifically. appears to be inadequate. The conservation movement (in us

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broadest sense, including government agencies) legitimates itself through reductionist scientific approaches, overlying a CI9th European Romantic ideology. Most of the conservation movement rejects attempts to deconstruct this foundation, and pays little attention to critiques from the social sciences focusing on the implications of social constructionism. Ironically, the prioritisation of 'natural places' by conservation biology is itself based on a particular construction of nature defined by clearly cultural values.

RECIPROCITY

Reciprocity is a concept well established in anthropology and post colonial geography. My interest in it here is as a condition for achieving complementarity, rather than as an independent theoretical position. In colonial societies, cross-cultural exchange was intensive. The colonies would not have survived without the elements they took from the indigenous: land in a certain form, knowledge of land and resources. And the indigenous survived by selectively taking from the colonisers: tools, jobs, patronage. The colonisers in

Australia (and elsewhere) assumed superiority, epistemological and cultural, but repeatedly revealed the superiority of the indigenous. Explorers depended on indigenous knowledge of terrain, resources and social relationships; pastoralists depended (in part unknowingly) on earlier Aboriginal management of country, and then on Aboriginal labour and knowledge of country and animals.

Today, in biodiversity conservation, mainstream Australia depends on Aboriginal land to achieve the National Reserve System, sometimes on Aboriginal knowledge to effectively survey for biodiversity, on Aboriginal culture to promote tourism in national parks and elsewhere. From the international tourist demand for Aboriginal "experiences' to the

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pervasive use of Aboriginal symbols in Australian products and corporations. Aboriginal skills and knowledge, and in fact Aboriginality, are revealed as indispensable to other

Australians.

However, as discussed earlier, there continues to be a strong disjunction between mainstream Australia's use of Aboriginality and Aboriginal epistemologies, and its reciprocating for the taking of these things. Australia has not 'paid the rent'. The components for effective complementarity exist, but there needs to be acknowledgement

(for example, saying 'sorry') and payment. There needs to be recognition of who is the host and who is the guest in a spectrum of circumstances, and fulfillment of the obligations this creates. It requires a formal and informal understanding, acknowledgement and respect for difference, to lead first to reciprocal relationships, then to clear obligations and responsibilities on both sides.

Aboriginal people are aware of this failure of reciprocity, exchanges took (and take) place, but the balance was (is) not acknowledged. This is evident now in recent Aboriginal focus on intellectual property rights, and an increasing reluctance to volunteer information.

Aboriginal people are coming to the table, sometimes backed by the force of law or otherwise in positions to withhold consent, and saying: we won't volunteer what you need. unless there are strong commitments and real exchange.

As discussed in chapter one. colonial failure to reciprocate was justified by a series of constructions, from the indigenous as non-human, to the indigenous as dying out Recent

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failure is justified by new constructions, recognising cultural difference, but focusing on the reification of indigeneity with a timeless, immutable ideal, and the consequent definition of all variance from this as inauthentic and devoid of legitimacy. These institutional (and cultural) constructions of race deny transformations of indigenous society occurring as a response to the colonial process and the challenges of a changing world. Recent recognition of new rights - native title - further compounds the reification.

The other relevant point about reciprocity relates to the human-nature relationship, rather than to different groups of humans. Roberts et al (1995, p 14) suggest.

Earth's bounty is considered to be a gift necessitating reciprocity on the part of human users in order to maintain sustainability, rather than a natural resource passively awaiting human exploitation.

They identify 'indigenous' versus 'coloniser' or 'Western' worldviews. Arguments about the various failures of sustainability policy also engage with this issue of the need for transformed myths.

Linked to the challenge of creating reciprocity, is the need for recognition of the contingency of relationships, and the link between rights and responsibilities (Pearson

^000) From the 1970s, a paradigm of government response to colonially created

Aboriginal disadvantage has been the provision of 'passive welfare'. This directly resulted from colonial history: the colonisers removed the means for self-sufficiency from

Aboriginal people, and the government subsequently replaced this with passive welfare.

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Simultaneously, a pathology in Aboriginal communities has developed around the separation of rights and responsibilities. Rights are seen as 'paying the rent': mainstream

Australia's obligation for the breakdown it caused. Pearson argues that where these rights have focused on passive welfare, a disconnection from modern economies occurs. Note that this separation of rights and responsibilities is evident in mainstream Australian society as well: increasing emphasis on the rights of the individual, at the expense of responsibilities to the community (Davis and Keating 2000).

Land rights legislation has been one of the attempts to break this cycle of dependency : to provide an economic base for Aboriginal communities. Even when people regain land

(although almost always compromised by distortions caused by Western tenure systems), cultural and social breakdown may continue. Institutional constructions of racial legitimacy, including conservation agency resistance to Aboriginal use of contemporary technology and engagement with the 'real' economy (for example, insistence that any use of resources be for 'cultural' purposes only), act to prevent the escape from passive welfare.

Aboriginal people are given their 'rights', but restrained from taking up their responsibilities'. Internally developed Aboriginal community characteristics (and pathologies) may reinforce this process. Martin (2001) critiques some of Pearson's arguments, raising two issues relevant here. One is the nature of contemporary Aboriginal cultural relationships and how this reflects interaction both with impacts from colonialism and continuities from classical' Aboriginal societies, particularly around notions of dependency and authority The other centres around the role of welfare payments in communities, and Aboriginal transformations of the use of money. Altman (2001) also

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raises relevant issues in pointing out that many contemporary Aboriginal communities operate with 'hybrid' economies: embracing the 'real' economy, welfare support incomes, and 'bush' economies. In situations where Aboriginal people are wanting to gain a foothold in conservation agency structures and lands, 'hybrid' economies using mainstream conservation agency employment but also other incomes, including from bush resources and other government payments, are likely to be necessary.

THE TRANSFORMING MYTH: COMPLEMENTARITY

Much of Western epistemology is based on the Cartesian concept of binaries, including the human/nature division which is central to this thesis. Strong adherence to particular worldviews and a dualistic thinking leads to the conflictual situations evident between

Aboriginal communities and conservation agencies.

Binaries need not, however, be individual and oppositional, they could be relational and generative. My earlier discussion of the concept of cotnplementarity (chapter three) outlined the basic elements of a positive, generational, view of difference. Complementarity is based on a relational understanding: different epistemologies have points of connection, from which future working relationships, and on-ground results, can be bom. The connections are relational and contingent, and, to work for both parties, need to be reciprocal. This approach contrasts complementarity to conflict. This is a complex process of discovering the relationships between two sets of cultural values negotiating in the same space The epistemologies, worldviews, myths and values are definitively different, but this otherness is to be treated with respect, not dismissed (Salmond 1997).

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The physical and social Australian landscape is vastly changed in the last two centuries.

Traditional' Aboriginal land management techniques probably did not evolve in contexts of rapid environmental change, and will not necessarily work in them. Similarly, conservation biology based on island biogeography theory is not sufficient for the rate of change and the new understandings of ecosystem resilience and multiple stable states.

Aboriginal social structures and institutions are changing, just as are Western social structures and institutions, in response to globalisation and a host of smaller scale environmental, economic, institutional and social influences.

Acknowledging the limits of one's own epistemology and the strengths of others can provide the basis for transformative learning. Concepts of complementarity can provide the framework for new defining myths of appropriate relationships with land and biota. New relationships between conservation agencies and Aboriginal people can be built using the recognition that better results for both might ensue.

In the four phase adaptive cycle, complementarity functions as a transforming myth, a new vision as foundation for the movement from crisis to alternatives. This vision then sustains the development of new policy and implementation: old beliefs are unlearnt, and new futures strategically framed. New. bridging, institutions are developed, redefining relationships The foundational myth for Western conservation has been wilderness, but relatively recently this has been overlain (not dislodged) b\ conservation science. Both of these myths are based around achieving conservation by removing people from nature'.

The conservation movement, and conservation agencies, are grappling with pressures lo

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change these myths. One element is responding by arguing that the myths hold up, as long as we have more and better of conservation-as-usual. Other elements argue for a new paradigm, where nature is pervasive and conservation is a social issue.

Some other writers have explored divergent views and beliefs (Aboriginal and non-

Aboriginal) of particular places (for example, Strang 1997, Gill 1999), and have tended to emphasise the differences and the consequences which arise from this. My understanding of complementarity is based on the fundamental point that it requires understanding of the other position, and acceptance of its cultural validity, rather than denial or dismissal. From understanding, real communication and negotiation can develop. Note that this is not, however, automatically unproblematic: both parties need to actively work at it, and be alert to developing problems.

Recalling Paul Tapsell's explanation (1999, pers comm 22 June):

these 'opposites' (such as male/female, sky/earth, science/religion. ...western/aboriginal. guest/host) are seen as exciting points of connection from which new ideas, concepts, ways of looking at the world can be born, not out of conflict (negative) but out of complementarity (positive).

As described in the detailed studies, different intentions founded on quite different understandings may result in the same outcomes on the ground. Neither Aboriginal people nor conservation professionals necessarily have to 'give up' their worldviews: they have to understand the other parties' worldviews. What they have to give up is the assumption of

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the hegemony of their worldview. This understanding establishes the conditions for respect, and ethical negotiation. Positive outcomes for biodiversity conservation on the ground can be produced by Aboriginal social and spiritual understandings and actions, and also result in improved social justice outcomes for Aboriginal people. Positive outcomes for

Aboriginal people can be produced by conservation biologists' skills in managing threatened species and species reintroduction programs, supporting the survival of species which are spiritually and economically important to Aboriginal people.

A key challenge here is to do with systems of knowledge and consequent communication:

...indigenous and western knowledge systems are different pathways of knowledge: they are embedded in different world views, they are transmitted differently, they organise human action and human authority differently (Rose 2001 p 6).

Conservation professionals' assumptions about the hegemony and 'truth' of science may impede them from discussing their plans with the relevant Aboriginal people. Different

Aboriginal systems of knowledge which do not assume or accept that all knowledge is open and available may affect communication processes with non-Aboriginal people. Being aware of. and understanding, the differences are first steps to working through these challenges, and developing appropriate processes for negotiation.

Rose (1992) describes an Aboriginal acentred' system of knowledge, and subsequently paraphrases Muecke (1997): he provokes us to decentre (not abandon) Cartesian rationality in favour of a more inclusive set of logics' (Rose 2001 p 10). Her description ol an acentred

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knowledge system corresponds strongly to Tapsell's complementarity, and I will quote her at some length here for its insights into possibilities for cross-cultural relationships:

Sun and rain, and by association, female and male, exemplify the fundamental feature of symmetrical complementarity...Sun and rain are autonomous, each having its own Law.

They respond to each other's actions. In opposing each other they sustain each other: they are balanced, being of an order to oppose each other...

There is a cultural relativism in these concepts that is pervasive and elegant: all parts of the system have their own world view. That one's own view may be most important to one's own life, does not mean that the world is focussed on humans as a species or on one country and Dreamings over and above others. An essential part of human culture is to know that other Dreamings and other parts have their own views. Once one understands. one can learn the system from any point. The trick is to know what one is encountering...

An angle of perception is a boundary, and boundaries are both necessary and arbitrary.

Necessity lies in the fact that there are no relationships unless there are parts, and without relationships there is only uniformity or chaos. Arbitrariness lies in the fact that since all parts are ultimately interconnected, the particular boundary drawn at a given point is only one of many possible boundaries.

Each line [in the figure reproduced below] is both a boundary and a relationship. Each node

(A B.C. etc) is both a context and an angle of vision, another centre. The view of the system changes from centre to centre...

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 9.1 Relationships and contexts in an acentred system (from Rose 1992)

Rose is decribing a system that is situated and engaged, but aware of its engagement and situatedness. For the relationships I am focussing on, her insights connect to the issues of changing understandings of ecology (the incompleteness of knowledge and the dynamism of systems); the challenges to the hegemony of science from, amongst other things, indigenous ecological knowledge'; and the challenges to command and control from native title and changing tenure processes. Later in this chapter I discuss some connections between complementarity and hybridity. Here, the relevance is in the ambiguities of conservation science trying to maintain boundaries of 'pure' nature in 'hybrid' contexts.

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In this discussion I need to make clear that I am not advocating that Westerners, non-

Aboriginal people, start to think like Aboriginal people. I suggest that they need to recognise the nature and limits of their own knowledge systems and thinking, and see where indigenous ones may contribute to solving 'conservation problems' in this country.

While indigenous knowledge systems may themselves function in terms of 'symmetrical complementarity', it is the acceptance of complementary (indigenous-Western) understandings, rather than the adoption of indigenous systems that I argue is necessary.

The functional complementarity of indigenous systems is perhaps what has enabled many

Aboriginal and other indigenous people to adopt and adapt many aspects of Western understandings, to apply to the changed environmental and social landscapes where we are now all find ourselves.

Insertion of reciprocal partnerships between conservation interests and Aboriginal communities, based on complementarity, could help respond to the challenges of a rapidly changing landscape. While outcomes are likely to be uncertain, that is not different to the situation now. The attraction is in the idea (with some evidence) that the different worldviews may, in fact, significantly overlap in on-ground management outcomes: different values and intents can result in similar physical scenarios. A physical result that derives directly from spiritual beliefs, for example, need not be quantitatively or qualitatively worse than (or even different to) one deriving from scientific beliefs.

RECIPROCAL, COMPLEMENTARY AND HYBRID ?

In examining how my theoretical understandings may contribute to recent discussions in geography, I look at the relationship between concepts of reciprocity and complementarity.

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and discussions of hybridity. The concepts of reciprocity, complementarity and hybridity are obviously closely connected: the ordinary meanings of the words indicate this. They are concerned with, respectively, balanced exchanges, relationships between equivalent but different entities, and new entities formed from elements of related others.

As explained earlier, I see reciprocity as a condition for complementarity. I use the concept here in a dual sense: concerning exchanges between people and other people, and between people and nature. The words complementary and complementarity are used quite often in the literature in their ordinary sense, but not usually in the sense that I use it in this thesis: a relational, generative, activity between different-but-balanced entities. This concept of complementarity can usefully interact with discussions of hybridity.

Proctor and Pincetl (1996) discuss and extend Latour's concept of nature-culture hybrids to explain the ontological foundations (a human transformed world) and the epistemological foundations (a human conceived world) of the Western concept of nature. Nature is actually and figuratively constructed. They discuss this in the context of conservation and endangered species: conservation biologists 'cordon off or recreate spaces of nature as nonhuman habitat in the midst of industrial society's apparently insatiable appetite for commodifying the biophysical realm' (p 685).

In a related discussion. Whatmore (1997) examines hybridity from a feminist and environmental perspective. Part of my interest in her work is that it focuses on these concepts for how they might redefine ethical relationships. Whatmore's interest is in ethical

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relationships with women and with 'non-human others'. My interests are ethical relationships between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people, and both of these with non- human others, including 'land' and 'country'. Whatmore also builds on Latour, focusing on the 'network' part of his 'hybrid networks'. For her, the network metaphor liberates the

'multiple agency of hybridity'. This 'disrupts the opposition between objects and subjects'

(p 47), overcoming problems of the dominance of individualist rights and ethics.

Proctor and Pincetl identify the 'purificationisf responses of conservation biologists to the proliferation of hybrids. Whatmore focuses on the liberating concept of multiple, equivalent but different, relating ethical agents. Both of these usefully develop the notion of hybridity.

Both identify the hegemony of Western, global, environmental management in purging humans from (some) nature, and the collusion and deceit of the institutions of (Western) capital accumulation in the process.

I argue that the concept of complementarity - a generative relationship between equivalents

- interacts positively with both of these explorations. An ethical relationship between different agents sets the conditions for reciprocity: a jointly mediated sense of what is an appropriate and balanced exchange (between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people, between both and the non-human world). This reciprocal, ethical relationship then jointly generates new (understandings of) constructions of nature, ontologically and epistemologically. Nature is conceived of in new ways and interacts with people in new ways.

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Corresponding to notions of hybridity in nature are challenges to the essentialism that characterises many assumptions about 'Aboriginality'. Contrasting with this essentialism

(but paradoxically often contributing to it) is the extensive anthropological literature on the dynamism and fluidity of Aboriginal groupings (see, for example, the chapters in Smith and

Finlayson 1997). There are at least three key elements in this issue: one is the persistence of structures and processes from 'classical' Aboriginal societies; another is the post-invasion

Aboriginal responses to impacts on land, people and culture; and the third, related to the second, is the genealogical connections between Aboriginal' and 'non-Aboriginal' people".

Both of the latter demonstrate the 'entanglement' between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people and institutions in Australia, and obviously relate to the concepts of relationships and processes between two cultures (chapter six examined a number of these issues).

Martin (2001 p 14) argues that many Aboriginal communities 'exist as communities of interest, if at all, largely in relation to the outside world'.

A necessary by-product of these processes is a revelation of the consequences of constructions of race and culture. As Salmond reminds us, there is a need to examine assumptions and constructions of culture: 'if "cultures" are taken to be radically divided, questions of "authenticity"' arise and cross-cultural hybridity comes to seem an anomaly'

(1997, p 513). Unconscious adoption and reification of the noble savage/cultureless outcast dichotomy will undermine the venture .

\lso related loihiv. clement IMIIC HKrcaMiij literature on Ihe i.kntiiicjii n JN indigenous by filler lamihes who have Ir.cd several ;:ciicia(ions in one place . sec O'lium l'>vs Mathews I'Wi llieie is .'lie .Hlier p..|nl I need i.. nu> here I ha\e argued If (he M^ililicance >>l ihe placed ncss' <>l Aboriginal people in terms .i| .ullural sircn.-ih and tlk 4 HU and understanding .'I l.val wale While | ilnnk this is lejilniuie. I am concerned not lordly Konunlic

. ,,. .^JJK l ,ii.n,r

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Whatmore (1997, p 49) suggests that a broad, complex understanding of hybrid networks liberates from 'territorialised spaces' to 'more dynamic, unstable, and performed spatial orderings of flow, mobility, and synthesis'. Both Aboriginal people and conservation professionals work in this way. Victor Hart from Cape York accesses the Canadian

'nativemaps' website to explore counter-mapping strategies for regaining his land; Bob

Pressey from NPWS develops the interactive conservation software 'C-Plan" in NSW but takes the concept for international critique to the World Conservation Union (IUCN). Their actions can be complementary - respected, different, cultural constructions of local places, articulating and engaging with global responses to indigeneity and conservation - in this example, they could meet in mapping technologies. The process, and conditions, of meeting are obviously critical to new relationships. The places, processes and conditions for meeting are discussed next: the recognition spaces.

THE RECOGNITION SPACE

CULTURE AND CONSERVATION

The detailed studies open a window to the relationships between Aboriginal people and the two state conservation agencies. These relationships evolve continually, and there is a spectrum of effectiveness in interactions between different sections of the organisations and different Aboriginal communities. Four core characteristics, however, emerge.

First, looking at the broadest level, the National Reserve System program is essentially about a government reserve system. While there is provision for non-Crown tenures, it needs the imprimateur of the government. The National Reserve System is about more reserves, including on existing Aboriginal land. Parallel to this is the growth in NGO and

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corporate 'reserve systems' (for example, the Australian Bush Heritage Fund, Birds

Australia, Earth Sanctuaries Limited): again, more land coming into protected areas. For both government and non-government, these increases in land area are often not matched by increases in management capacity, so visitation is often discouraged. In off-reserve conservation activities, the general emphasis in policy is regulation: for example, threatened species legislation and vegetation clearing controls, with an 'add-on' of conservation agreements and other incentive mechanisms.

The second characteristic is that, structurally, while comparatively decentralised organisations, state conservation agencies nevertheless centralise power and control.

Conservation is a global, abstract agenda: particular plants and animals are abstracted to

'biodiversity', particular places to 'the reserve system'. The agencies are professionalised, management-focused bureaucracies with high levels of staff mobility.

Third, a young and growing Aboriginal population is increasingly asserting rights to land and its elements. Land in existing and proposed national parks is important to Aboriginal people, as well as other areas. Species regarded as 'significant' by conservation agencies are important to Aboriginal people for entirely different reasons, and may be put to entirely different uses.

Finally, land nghts in Queensland and NSW have delivered little land to Aboriginal people, and much of this has been strongly contested by the state conservation agencies, or is coveted bv them Native title challenges the notion of sequestered tenures, but this has not

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yet been effectively explored in relation to national parks. Various models of joint management are operating in Australia, with NSW being in some senses one of the most progressive, but (perhaps because of this) stalled at one national park so far. Queensland has failed to resolve a spectrum of issues preventing joint management, and no formal joint management arrangements are in place despite years of discussions.

In summary, Aboriginal people are looking for land, a place in the economy, and room for cultural autonomy. Their interests in national parks stem from all these interests: connection to country, 'real'jobs, caring for country. While the two sides of the relationship look very different, the elements for constructive engagement are present. The challenge is to learn from the history of policy failure and envisage new futures founded on new paradigms. The detailed analyses from NSW and Queensland can be categorised into a suite of possibilities, where these futures are already being explored: spaces for change.

SPACES FOR CHANGE

The concept of the recognition space was discussed in chapters three and six. The recognition space is both a theoretical condition (a framework for negotiation that is inclusive and open to learning on both sides), and a geographic place. This section examines some possible recognition spaces in terms of geography and tenure.

The recognition space as a geographic location is a new meeting place where at least two things can happen. One is that groups of people (Aboriginal and conservation agency staff) who may otherwise not meet at all have an incentive to discuss shared interests in land. The

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other is that the relationships between the groups is different to that historically applying, with relations of power being either approximately equal, or weighted in favour of the

Aboriginal groups. These spaces for change reflect broader processes as well: changing social values ascribed to the 'left over lands' of the 21sl Century, and the layers of contestation over existing titles and tenures.

Analysing 'landscapes of segregation', Byrne (2001) highlights Aboriginal persistence in the 'gaps and corners' of otherwise colonised places, and the practice of fence-jumping

(trespassing). While Byrne is writing from a cultural heritage perspective, the implications of colonial cadastral incompleteness are also expressed in contemporary conservation interests: the 'left over lands' are increasingly the 'crown jewels' of undeveloped nature, to be made into conserv ation reserves, and regulatory approaches in conservation jump fences to protect 'biodiversity' on 'private' lands.

These concepts are expressed in a number of ways in the places examined in chapters seven and eight. Maroota in western Sydney is an excellent example of the left over lands. It is increasingly surrounded by intensive urban development, but its topography and history have preserved it largely intact' until now. As left over land unclaimed by white Australia, it was also available to be claimed by both local Aboriginal land councils and native title groups. These dual processes created the competition between Aboriginal groups and

NPWS for this land and its various values. Jervis Bay reflects a similar process, but in its case highlighting a further aspect of the left over lands today: their current economic value.

Land which was unwanted, for development or conservation, now has very high values for

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both. The proximity of the contested Crown lands to the private lands at Jervis Bay allows an approximate valuation, as $12 million was paid for the approximately equivalent private land. This figure is an indication of both conservation and development values: it is how much the developer wanted, and how much the government was prepared to pay to acquire it for conservation. The Jervis Bay lands also indicate the possible layering of titles and control: freehold grant under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act, to compulsory acquisition by

NPWS, to handback to Aboriginal community, to joint management with NPWS, as well as possible native title claims.

Silver Plains reflects the limits to colonial power in terms of the difference between the paper cadastre and the practical boundaries: Aboriginal people lived in the edges and margins as well as living and working on the functioning parts of the pastoral lease. It also reflects the 'anti-cadastral': colonial and subsequent authority was always sparse in the north, and Aboriginal people could fence-jump with relative ease. The Ayapathu outstation was built 'illegally' on Silver Plains years before the government acquired the lease, and is now on 'Aboriginal' land.

There are other meeting places as well, where the recognition spaces are not ones where

Aboriginal people actually own the ground in Western terms. In conservation agencies, management of 'cultural heritage' has been an important site for meeting, but as earlier discussion analysed, there are important problems around definitions of culture and authenticity, and it is only recently that these are being strongly challenged within agencies.

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Another suite of recognition spaces are those where personal, local relationships develop into agreements about access to conservation land for cultural and social uses. These are important spaces because they acknowledge the significance of the personal and the local, and because they are usually developed far from 'head office' cultures they can escape some other constraints. Their crucial limitation is the (usual) lack of a legal or rights-based framework: they are dependent on the continuity of the personal relationship, and in situations of high staff mobility and short bureaucratic memory, this makes them very vulnerable. Acknowledging these strengths and limitations, they may have an important role as the precursor or introduction to a more formal, rights-based arrangement.

These examples from the case studies omit a key issue. Current conservation agency and other government practice to include Aboriginal people and issues is very often by inviting

Aboriginal 'representatives' to participate in various committees. This practice is often unsuccessful: Aboriginal people will argue that they can only 'represent' a very limited part of the group that the agency may want to 'participate', and they are typically marginalised in committees which are overwhelmingly non-Aboriginal. Such committees make little attempt to respond to issues of Aboriginal cultural difference, and are routinely criticised by

Aboriginal people: the 'token black' syndrome.

CONCLUSION

These places have now become (or in the case of Jervis Bay, may become) Aboriginal land: the authority supplied by property regimes has passed to Abonginal people. The places all

(now) have high conservation value. Consequently, state conservation agencies must meet with these Abonginal owners to negotiate, if the state wishes to participate in the

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management of the conservation values. Until the transfer of the lands, conservation agency staff saw no need to meet with the Aboriginal people with an interest in these lands: all of these areas were proposed for conservation estate without discussion with local Aboriginal people. This situation is now completely reversed: the Aboriginal owners could choose not to meet with agency staff. A fundamental difference in approach is indicated by the fact that most groups do want to meet and negotiate. Since the transfers, these are real, rather than potential, spaces for change. If however, the only real meeting places are created after

Aboriginal people have regained rights to land, the potential is limited: this perpetuates the situation where Aboriginal people force others to the negotiating table by law or judicial decision. It is processes of structural and attitudinal change which are necessary to create the opportunity for new meeting places - recognition spaces - across the landscape.

The next chapter examines the processes of institutional change necessary to facilitate effective results from these and other new meeting places.

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10 REDEFINING RELATIONSHIPS

The comfort zone, where national parks were essentially a matter for the environment movement and government agencies, is almost certainly going to change. (Figgis 1999, p 23)

Nor are the answers obvious, because one person's burning objectives are another person's obstacles to a better life. ( Lawton 1997, p 4)

Social learning entails wrenching changes in belief... Human institutions are the channels of change. (Lee 1995, p 235) INTRODUCTION

The spaces for change described in the previous chapter are the geographic and conceptual locations for new relationships. In some of these cases, the geographic recognition spaces are there, so it is the theoretical and institutional barriers which need to be addressed.

Institutions, both conservation and Aboriginal, will be the frameworks in which the relationships will develop. Institutions are cultural domains, and the two suites of institutions I am examining are from distinctly different cultures.

Processes of institutional change are where complementarity and the recognition space become operationalised. This section examines the processes for institutional change that might be appropriate to respond to the policy inadequacy that currently prevails. It follows from the observation that 'improving the performance of natural resource systems requires an emphasis on institutions and property rights' (Berkes and Folke 1998 p 2). This approach has been investigated extensively in relation to agricultural practices and landcare in Australia, but not in biodiversity conservation, and relatively recently for Aboriginal

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issues (see Mantziaris and Martin 2000). The corresponding social change lies in breaking down the compartmentalisation of issues: 'Aboriginal people bring a large bundle of issues into their conversations about environments' (Rose 2001 p 6); and '[w]hat we are doing in natural resource management is absolutely political and riddled with conflict - it is about governance and social goals and institutions after all' (Dovers 2000, p x). Institutions are fundamentally cultural entities - examination of them within their cultural frameworks can help reveal the places for negotiating change: the recognition spaces.

This chapter sets out practical recommendations for addressing the inadequacy of policy and practice in the area of Aboriginal interests and biodiversity conservation. 1 summarise organisational theory suggesting that policy failure is indicative of a particular phase in institutional dynamics, and identify the nature and context of this phase for the two state conservation agencies. I propose a framework for organisational and policy change in which cultural understanding is central, and where engaging with the 'constructedness' of nature and race can positively interact with processes for institutional change. I then outline approaches to redefining the relationship between conservation agencies and Aboriginal organisations and communities, and the individuals that comprise them.

WICKED PROBLEMS AND THE ADAPTIVE CYCLE

OVERVIEW

Policy failure of the type described in this thesis is characterised by the nature and scale of

the problem to which the policy responds Dovers. Norton and Handmcr (1996. p 1146)

construct a hierarchy of policy problems ranging from micro-problems, through meso-

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problems to macro-problems. Macro-problems are defined as 'multi-faceted, complex. fraught with uncertainties, spatially and temporally diffuse, highly connected to other issues'. They then, using Funtowicz and Ravetz (1991, described in Dovers et al 1996) outline three problem-solving strategies: 'applied science', 'professional consultancy', and

'post-normal science'. The last of these is used where 'facts are uncertain, values in dispute, stakes high and decisions urgently needed, and defined "epistemological uncertainty'" (pi 147). Dovers et al make clear the distinction between the political nature of the policy process and the limited role of science: 'although informed by "hard" information, [decisions] will rest on "judgement" in the face of uncertainty, and thus depend on values, morals, ideology, guesses, convenience, expedience and preferences'

(1996, p 1150) - that is, policy will derive from the culture of the policy makers.

The issue of policy making in situations of 'macro-problems' is even more likely to engage culture (myths and epistemologies), because the existing cultural domination is challenged by its own policy failure. Holling et al (2000), Davis and Keating (2000) and others use the term 'wicked' to describe problems of this nature1. One of the core issues in successfully responding to wicked problems is that deep, transformative learning must occur. A defining characteristic of wicked problems is disagreement about the nature of the problem.

Where values are in dispute, and each party's understanding of the problem is determined by their values, the protagonists constructions are unlikely to be the same.

1 |<,(tcl and W cfrhcr (197 >) first used this term.

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The characteristics of the generic problems described clearly fit the particular problems facing QPWS and NPWS and the Aboriginal communities with which they interact. 'Facts' are uncertain (for instance, legal rights); values are distinctly in dispute; there is a fundamental epistemological tension between the cultures; the problems are spatially diffuse (Cape York to western Sydney in this study, but in localities Australia-wide more generally), and temporally diffuse (timeframes well beyond political cycles); and highly connected to other issues (such as threatened species and feral species management, employment, social justice issues). Dovers et a/(1996) describe the creation of the National

Reserve System in itself as a macro-problem, and the challenge to the concepts and practice of biodiversity conservation by Aboriginal worldviews, land rights and native title intensifies the scale of the problem.

On the conservation agency side, the problem is founded in (i) its assumptions about government control of conservation management; (ii) 'scientific' criteria for reserve development; and (iii) the defining agency construction of nature. Accordingly, Aboriginal claims are perceived as unacceptable, because the agency would have to relinquish greater or lesser degrees of control over conservation estate or issues; and the claims might compromise (or ignore) accepted criteria for the reserve system. Agency landscapes are full of biodiversity and natural values, to be studied, protected, appreciated, and used for recreation. From the point of view of Aboriginal people, the problem is founded in assumptions about the rights of First Nations, cultural continuity, social equity and economic independence. Aboriginal landscapes are home and hearth, places lived in and

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worked in, full of spirit, history, and social values. Fundamentally, the Aboriginal constructions of nature challenge the agency ones.

Chapter two discussed the 'four phase adaptive cycle' in institutions and organisations.

Applying this model, and remembering that the four phases may occur differently at different scales in the organisation, both QPWS and NPWS demonstrate attributes of a particular phase or phases. These phases are that of 'implementation to crisis', moving to

'crisis to alternatives'. Summarising the cycle from Gunderson et al (1995) again (see figure 10.1 below), if a policy is the plan of action to achieve goals, at some point it will cease to be viable, either because the original goals are not achieved and/or because other social goals interact negatively with the policy. The nature, complexity and connectedness of the problem is such that the policy fails to resolve it. When policy fails, crisis in management occurs, with two factors contributing: goal expectations are not met. and the contextualising myths change.

From this crisis, the next phase is characterised by renewal and reconfiguration, with choice from new alternatives: these can deal with minor reconfigurations or major ones. While

'bureaucrats' carry out policy implementation, 'activists' are critical to promoting policy crisis. Activists tend to have a narrow and immediate focus, and tenaciously pursue it. attempting to harness political, media and public interest to expose the inadequacy of existing policy and management arrangements. With the recognition of the crisis, demand for new approaches is generated. A third group of people are necessary here, to develop an integrated understanding of the issues, evolve alternatives and define new possible futures.

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This appears to generally be an informal, temporary network of people operating in a

politically independent arrangement. To cany through the new, re framed, strategies and the

reconfigured myths, a fourth, more formally constituted group is required". Please see print copy for images

Figure 10.1: The four phase adaptive cycle: note that the process works as a figure-of-eight (from Gunderson et al 1995b)

While identification of the 'crisis' is obviously a key step, this alone may not carry through

the transformative process. If successful assessment of the situation is followed just by

cumbersome process and formalising of existing arrangements, the policy failure may

become obscured or deferred, rather than addressed - learning does not occur. Replacing

the uncertainty of the issue with the certainty of a process is not a solution (Gunderson

1999)

• Dmcry: .;

Murrav-Darl.n, ItaM.i l „,»..,.-,..„ are MKVCXNIUI AuMralui, examples ..I ihis lourth sel. npcraliM, In i.nple.^,.. o„„rl, x „e« nolicv paradi.iiis " '

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THE ADAPTIVE CYCLE IN NPWS AND QPWS

In NPWS, a series of events and other changes are pointing at the phases from implementation to crisis to alternatives. When the state refused to grant 50 Aboriginal Land

Claims on the basis that they were required for new national parks, a series of court cases was precipitated, with the decisions so far upholding the Aboriginal rights rather than those asserted by the state. High Court native title decisions have consistently held that national parks do not extinguish native title rights, but not specified the detail of these rights. While the NSW Aboriginal ownership amendments were passed unanimously in parliament, the scale of the implications of the Mutawintji lease resulted in a slow down of all other negotiations, with no other handbacks completed. Similarly, the Forestiy and National

Park Estate Bill (1998) was only passed after the government negotiated agreement with the NSW Aboriginal Land Council to enter into a Framework Indigenous Land Use

Agreement recognising that native title rights may exist in over 150 national parks in NSW.

During 2000-2001, the government abandoned this process and agreement, to the dismay of

NSW Aboriginal communities (Jopson 2001) .

The structural (and conceptual) separation of 'natural heritage' and 'cultural heritage' in

NPWS, (and in a different form between QPWS and the EPA) reflects the particular constructions of these concepts. In NPWS, recent work demonstrates a strong movement from the cultural heritage side to challenge narrow constructs and embrace much broader understandings where the divisions break down. On the natural heritage side, less progress has been made in challenging the divisions.

5 It is significant in this case thai this was an initiative ol' die Cabinet Oliice. nut NI'VVS. who had little actual lnxolvcmcnt in the process

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In Queensland similarly, there are indicators of the phases from implementation to crisis to alternatives in institutional and organisational events. Aboriginal activism in Cape York, and thence Queensland generally, has precipitated government analysis of the failures of the existing legislation on joint management. The High Court's decision in Yanner upheld the rights of Aboriginal people against the asserted rights of the state, raising questions about appropriate policy change. Native title applications are lodged for 140 national parks, and more applications will follow. The 1999 mid-term review of the $40 million Natural

Heritage Trust Cape York Program (Reeves and Breckwoldt 1999) effectively identified it as a failure, (although the state government has now responded to some of that criticism with policy change). More generally, Noel Pearson has triggered a special and specific response from the state to Cape York Aboriginal communities (the 'Cape York

Partnerships' program, but see Martin 2001). The Silver Plains - Mcllwraith Range negotiations have returned significant land areas to Aboriginal ownership but not resolved the conservation issues. Johnston and Yarrow (1999), analysing failures in Queensland, illustrate the situation of persistent deadlock in figure 10.2. The differences in expectations and processes are clearly evident in the left and right hand columns.

Both NPWS and QPWS are in the process of organisational restructuring, with NPWS mostly complete and much of QPWS still underway. This may mean that there is greater openness to new issues and alternatives: windows of opportunity created by new staff and changed structures and soals Redefining Relationships - 10

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Please see print copy for images

Figure 10.2 The current negotiation process in Queensland (from Johnston and Yarrow 1999)

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TENURE, RIGHTS AND MANAGEMENT

Cross-cultural collaborative approaches, like others, require two parallel processes:

'product-oriented' dimensions, and 'process-oriented' dimensions. There is obvious overlap between these, as 'products' (for example, plans of management) may well specify

'processes' (for example, new relationships and responsibilities), and vice versa (McCool and Guthrie 2001). As discussed in chapter two, there will be various challenges here: state government staff are generally unused to adaptive, interactive negotiation: there may well be perceived 'turf problems; and there are complex inter-cultural issues. This section examines aspects of change around the 'product' dimension: mechanisms for implementing new relationships between agencies and Aboriginal communities.

While legislation is by no means the only institutional structure affecting processes and outcomes, it is certainly a dominant one. It can explicitly prohibit, or specify, particular activities or relationships. Often however, legislation is vague or contradictory. These various characteristics can be positive or negative for negotiating new relationships. Where legislation is 'silent' on a particular issue, then potentially there is nothing to stop activities in that area proceeding. Where legislation is contradictory, it may be possible to use one part to allow something apparently prevented by another part. Where legislation specifically prohibits a desired activity or relationship, then a process of legislative review and reform will be necessary. I am not a lawyer, so I am not going to analyse the detail of

'black letter' legislative amendment which is potentially necessary, but focus instead on policy and institutional arrangements.

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MECHANISMS

In chapter four, I outlined a spectrum of tenure arrangements for 'protected areas' in

Australia. This thesis has analysed only some of these tenure arrangements. The diversity of government conservation agencies under the Federal system, combined with increased involvement by environment NGOs in conservation reserve declaration and management means that a diversity of tenures will continue to be used for protected areas in Australia. In discussing processes for change, I will now review four broad areas of tenure attempting to embrace Aboriginal and conservation interests, which effectively already exist at various levels of explicitness. As I am focusing on tenure and rights including property rights, I do not examine in detail various other processes such as formal or informal arrangements for

Aboriginal people to access national parks which stop short of recognising explicit rights.

The four areas are: (i) joint management arrangements, (ii) 'Indigenous Protected Areas',

(iii) the indigenous estate and its contribution to conservation, and (iv) native title rights over conservation reserves and species. Of these, the first three are clear 'tenure' manifestations of the various recognition spaces discussed earlier, and the last is the most challenging manifestation of the recognition space because of its 'co-existence' focus.

While the first three are all different versions of a single theme (Aboriginal owned land managed for conservation), the second and third demonstrate clearer Aboriginal autonomy,

'self-declaring' the conservation status of their land.

(i) Joint Management Arrangements

Woenne-Green ct al (1994) comprehensively analysed Abonginal participation in national parks in all Australian jurisdictions, with a focus essentially on various different forms of

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'joint management'. Smyth (2001) again briefly reviews all jurisdictions. All of the existing joint management arrangements are based on some form of claim under a statutory land rights process, or by specific Acts of Parliament.

In NSW, as discussed in chapters four and eight, there are two mechanisms for 'handback': inclusion in Schedule 14 of the amended National Parks and Wildlife Act 1974, or via section 36A of the Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1983, with the two clearly articulated to each other. Five national parks were included on Schedule 14 initially, and another

(Biamanga) has since been added. There is a long process of negotiation to achieve handback and joint management, and of the list on Schedule 14, only one, Mutawintji has so far been handed back. Baird and Lenehan (2001), reviewing the results of the handback legislation to date, conclude that the government is not committed to progressing further handbacks.

Under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act process, one, as yet ungazetted, area has been agreed for negotiations for handback: land at Stockton Bight near Newcastle, claimed by the Local

Aboriginal Land Council. This may result in a grouping of protected area types, but is complicated by a native title application over the same area from a group different to those represented by the Local Aboriginal Land Council.

In Queensland, as discussed in chapters four and seven, there is a process for national parks to be declared 'claimable' under the Aboriginal Land Act 1991 and the Nature Conservation

Act 1992. Fifteen national parks have been declared 'claimable', all in remote areas in the

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north and west, and thirteen of them in Cape York. While the Aboriginal Land Tribunal has heard claims for several of these and made recommendations for granting, none has been handed back because Aboriginal people have refused to accept the very constraining conditions around leases and plans of management. Table 10.1 summarises some aspects of the NSW and Queensland mechanisms.

Table 10.1: Joint management arrangements in NSW and Queensland (adapted from Smyth 2001) Please see print copy for images

These both clearly have limitations in terms of Aboriginal control, as well as perceived limitations from the conservation agency side. Smyth (2001 p 76) summarises:

A key element in these arrangements is that the transfer of ownership back to Aboriginal people is conditional on their support (through leases or other legal mechanisms) for the continuation of the national park. It is therefore an arrangement of convenience or coercion. rather than a partnership freely entered into.

While this is the case, it is likely that joint management scenarios will continue to be the preferred 'solution' to man\ issues Further development of the concept, and increasing

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experience by conservation agencies and Aboriginal people in the practice, may improve functioning and outcomes.

(ii) Indigenous Protected Areas

As discussed earlier, the analysis of Australia biogeographic regions and their relative representation in protected areas (Thackway and Cresswell 1995), revealed that to achieve a 'comprehensive, adequate and representative' national reserve system it would be necessary to include some land already owned by Aboriginal people. The concept of

Indigenous Protected Areas was developed by the Commonwealth to achieve this (Smyth and Sutherland 1996).

The primary objectives of the Indigenous Protected Areas Program of Environment

Australia are to establish partnerships between government and indigenous land managers to support the development of a 'comprehensive, adequate and representative' national system of protected. It is intended to achieve this by assisting indigenous people to establish and manage protected areas on lands to which they hold title, and assisting indigenous groups and Commonwealth, State and Territory agencies to develop partnerships and agreements for the cooperative management of existing protected areas.

The program also intends to promote and integrate indigenous ecological and cultural knowledge into contemporary protected area management practices (Centre for

Environmental Management 1999).

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Recent statistics from the Commonwealth indicate that 2.8 million hectares have been declared as Indigenous Protected Areas (Environment Australia 2000). These lands and the plans for their management are very varied. While there are some successful examples of

Indigenous Protected Areas, none have been finalised in either NSW or Queensland. Funds were provided for the negotiations at Mutawintji, and a project is being developed on land purchased by the Indigenous Land Corporation in the New England Tableland bioregion.

Dhimurru, in north east Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory, is the most sophisticated approach to developing an Indigenous Protected Area to date. One of the keys to

Dhimurru's success is the strong level of Aboriginal control over all aspects of the process. summarised in the 'guiding principle' for management:

Respect for Yolnu values - these are extensive and all-embracing values of all sites in the IPA for

Volnu and no attempt has been made to define them in this Plan. At all sites in the IPA's management units Yolnu values are rated as high for management purposes. The preservation ot" these values must be the primary locus of management effort ...

It is for Yolnu to define the nature and extent of values they ascribe to their country. In general these values arise from the fact that the landscape and seascape are:

• The physical elements that unite people with the ancestral past and with the present spiritual and natural world:

• l he source of social connectedness and responsibility; and

• I he source ot sustenance and shelter. (Dhimurru Land management Aboriginal Corporation

2000. p24\ 20)

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The management decision-making process sets out clearly the relationships between the various parties, illustrated in figure 10.3. Please see print copy for images

Figure 10.3 The decision-making process at Dhimurru (from Dhimurru Land management Aboriginal Corporation 2000)

Indigenous Protected Areas have been criticised by Aboriginal groups for a number of reasons. One of the most significant is the likely need to have a relationship with the relevant state government conservation agency, some of which have been, historically if not now, highly antagonistic to Aboriginal access to land (for example the Northern Territory, see Lightbody 1997). There is also a strong perception that while the government has

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emphasised the incorporation of indigenous-held land into the protected area estate, it has de-emphasised the opening up of the existing conservation estate to indigenous access.

In spite of these criticisms, the Indigenous Protected Areas concept may be very positive in the long term. It may support Aboriginal access to land management resources, and its articulation to international policy processes may help influence national and state ones. In particular, its specific association with the World Conservation Union (IUCN) categories links it to the Principles and Guidelines on Indigenous and Traditional Peoples and

Protected Areas (IUCN/WCPA/WWF 1999), which establish a progressive framework for these relationships.

Indigenous Protected Areas may well be appropriate responses at Silver Plains and at

Maroota, because of the primacy of Aboriginal control. However, effective achievement of this control will have to be strongly negotiated. From the conservation agency side, it requires trust in values and processes which are probably little understood. One solution to this, for agencies, is to establish collaborative monitoring processes over the protection of

'natural' values as well as Aboriginal values.

(iii) Indigenous (Conservation) Estate

The research by Thackway and Cresswell (1995) also revealed the extent of indigenous- held land which contributes 'informally' to conservation. That is, the sometimes very large areas which are managed in such a way that, either deliberately or by 'default', their 'natural' values are conserved. As Pollack (2001) identifies, as much as 187c of Australia was 'held'

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by indigenous people in 2000, with that percentage expected to increase; contrasted to the estimated 7.84% of Australia in the protected area estate in that year (Hardy 2001).

Generally, the contribution of this land to biodiversity conservation outcomes will be variable. It is very unevenly distributed, and has been subject to very varying levels of environmental impact. Many areas in the north of Australia (for example Arnhem Land and parts of Cape York) may have been subject to relatively low levels of non-Aboriginal human induced change, while other areas in the rangelands and southern Australia may have been far more influenced by grazing and other activities (see for example Landsberg et al 1997). However, some of the areas examined in the case studies clearly have very high conservation value, recognised both by the conservation agencies and their Aboriginal owners.

I will briefly examine two aspects of this 'indigenous estate' here: the implications of this estate functioning completely independently of government policy and mechanisms; and the treatment by government of these lands relative to its treatment of non-indigenous freehold and leasehold lands. I then examine the opportunities for government and

Aboriginal people in seeking policy connections.

In the first aspect, large areas of the indigenous estate currently operate effectively independently of any government conservation policy or mechanisms. This is a reasonablv explicit reflection of some of the issues raised in chapters one. four and five focusing on

'purified' notions of 'real nature', and the imperatives for command and control in

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government conservation agencies. Governments are not in a position to exert much command and control on indigenous-held land, and have historically baulked at effectively responding to conservation issues in landscapes occupied by resident people. Both the

Silver Plains lands and the land claim at Maroota may eventually fit this category, not because of Aboriginal resistance (Aboriginal people in both areas have already indicated their interest in managing for conservation), but because the state is not flexible enough to accommodate the sorts of arrangements Aboriginal people may seek. In such cases, while the land may indeed 'contribute' to national and state biodiversity conservation objectives, it does so at no cost to government. Ironically though, it is unlikely to be acknowledged as contributing, because there are no formal arrangements, including monitoring ones .

The extent of indigenous-held lands is of an order of magnitude comparable to the freehold and leasehold lands held by the non-indigenous population. These lands have been, and are, the subject of significant attention by resource agencies in government. Numerous programs exist to support landholders in land management objectives which meet national policy directions, such as Landcare. These programs typically fail to respond proportionately to indigenous concerns or indigenous lands. One reason for this is that much policy effort is focused on 'productive' landscapes: attempts to achieve 'ecologically sustainable' production on agricultural and pastoral lands subject to various forms of land degradation. In these lands, significant resources are being provided, essentially untied to command and control structures, to landholders to assist management of their lands. Much

IK- I ivkhart Kna I >eed ol (irjut in I rusl lands immediately n< >rth <>t the Silver l'lamv-Maellv.railli kan^e area i > pi I > lln. M.eiuru> ]£f_ 'ejv mill very hijli OHINQIA JIHHI values, elleclneh laimred h\ the Male conservation a^eno

400 Redefining Relationships - 10

Aboriginal land is seen as being outside the (Western) systems of production. The failure to provide equivalent levels and types of resourcing to Aboriginal landholders has been repeatedly raised. While the Indigenous Land Corporation now provides resources for land management, they tend to be focused on activities associated with economic outcomes rather than cultural issues such as 'caring for country'.

The second aspect stems from a policy connection between Aboriginal lands and conservation objectives which developed from the Queensland government's review of its legislation. A paper prepared as a submission by the Queensland Indigenous Working

Group to the Queensland Government, for a review of policy for indigenous interests in protected areas (Johnston and Yarrow 1999), proposed a new category: 'indigenous national park'. This proposed what would effectively be 'contract-managed' national parks, where the managing agency would be an indigenous organisation operating under an agreement with the Minister for Environment, and resourced by the state. Figure 10.4 illustrates the process proposed. The significance of this new category, at one level, is its recognition of the multiplicity of protected area regimes operating in Australia, discussed in earlier chapters. These regimes include entirely private, non-government regimes such as the Bush

Heritage Fund and Birds Australia initiatives. Governments provide various levels of recognition to these regimes, and their recent growth would indicate they will become more significant over time.

401 Redefining Relationships - 10

Please see print copy for images

Figure 10.4 Proposed process for indigenous participation (from Johnston and Yarrow 1999)

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The category of 'indigenous national park' could be an entirely appropriate response to situations of both policy inadequacy and resourcing difficulties associated with

'remoteness'. In my case studies, such a scenario could be an effective response at Silver

Plains, where there is a permanent resident Aboriginal population actively engaged in caring for country contrasted with a transient, underfunded, and unhappy state ranger presence. In western Sydney, while there are not resource difficulties associated with remoteness, the combination of extensive Aboriginal owned land and a large Aboriginal population could also be effectively mobilised by a system of 'indigenous national parks' which recognised contemporary cultural connections and responded to employment and social justice issues. In both cases, a detailed agreement with the relevant state minister would provide the appropriate articulation to state conservation objectives. Neither of these scenarios is outlandish: there are geographic precedents in the private regimes operating in similar circumstances. The challenge for conservation agencies is to develop regional and state conservation strategies which embrace conservation agency estate, NGO and private conservation estate, and Aboriginal estate where it contributes to Western notions of conservation.

(iv) Native Title Rights to Conservation Reserves and Issues

Native title is clearly a looming and unresolved issue for conservation agencies. In

Queensland 140 protected areas are the subject of native title applications. No cumulative statistics have been developed for NSW, but certainly very significant areas are subject to native title applications. In addition, native title rights to species have been recognised in

Queensland (Yanner) and other states. I use the term 'unresolved' because there have been

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very few situations where agreements have been developed between native title holders and conservation agencies. In NSW the Arakwal Indigenous Land Use Agreement is the only example, with an initial round of agreement reached only late in 2000, after seven years of negotiation.

In NSW, NPWS commissioned a legal consultancy in mid-2001 to analyse the implications for NPWS of native title. Two aspects were revealing about this consultancy. One is that it was not done until 2001, when the Native Title Act commenced in 1993, and negotiations were underway in several areas in NSW. The other is that the firm who was chosen to do the work specialise in 'protecting' government from native title, rather than exploring the possible benefits to both parties. As a result, the consultancy report (Clayton Utz 2001) is a

'defensive' document. The challenge for NPWS is now to develop policy from this document which will not be defensive, but will guide NPWS in achieving the positive partnerships with Aboriginal people identified as core objectives in its Corporate Plan.

In Queensland, there are potentially greater hurdles, as the existing legislation (Nature

Conse/ration Act) does not have appropriate mechanisms for responding to native title interests in national parks. The scale of the issue in Queensland, and the fact that several of the key native title decisions have been in that state (Mabo, Wik, Yanner) create a situation of strongly asserted (and upheld) native title with an inadequate policy framework. The

Queensland Indigenous Working Group Report referred to earlier (Johnston and Yarrow

1W9) pointed to the necessarv change. An Indigenous Land Use Agreement was one ot the mechanisms used to negotiate the division ol land and the proposed management

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arrangements for the Silver Plains aggregation, but was not finally implemented because of the failure to reach agreement on the national park part of the arrangement. Indigenous

Land Use Agreements are clearly going to be a key element, and the Arakwal Indigenous

Land Use Agreement will be an important initiative to monitor and adapt.

REDEFINING RELATIONSHIPS

The preceding section examines some possibilities in the 'product' dimension of collaborative policy change. This section examines elements of the 'process' dimension, again using insights from the institutional 'adaptive cycle' model. I examine issues around the necessity for both structural and attitudinal change and the roles of the four groups identified by Gunderson et al (1995b). In both of these, the importance (and limitations) of individuals and personal relationships are very significant. As the discussion so far demonstrates, attitudinal change (change in values or even just in attitudes to values) is far more challenging than structural and product-oriented change, although these latter are critical to the ongoing nature of the policy resolution.

In conservation agencies, the primary challenges are in stimulating attitudinal change that does not 'flip' into another negative scenario, the most obvious being an 'elevation' of

Aboriginal values to 'noble savage' status. Instead of creative and critical thinking around the uncertain issues of how contemporary conservation can be negotiated between

Aboriginal people and agencies, there is a shift to a different 'certainty': that 'they' have it right and 'we' have it wrong. Some Aboriginal people, attempting to contest western

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hegemonies, have used these arguments themselves, adopting a notion of unchanged continuity from a past golden age which can be unproblematically brought into the present.

A related example is in the common assumption that the way to integrate Aboriginal interests with conservation objectives is through incorporating, or otherwise acknowledging, 'traditional ecological knowledge'. However, there are actually few examples in Queensland and NSW of this, essentially because even this is discounted by agency scientists and managers.

The limits of the 'traditional ecological knowledge' approach can be contrasted with the challenges of engaging holistically with indigenous epistemologies. My earlier reference to the work of both Bruce Rose (1995) and Debbie Rose (1992) brings out some of these elements, and publications by Aboriginal intellectuals examine these issues in detail (for example Yunupingu 1994. Graham 1999). The key attitudinal challenge then, is accepting that Aboriginal knowledge and values (with traditional ecological knowledge as an example rather than the corpus) are embedded in holistic and comprehensive epistemological structures, just as are Western knowledge and values. And, just as in Western forms, these are dynamic, evolutionary and exploratory, engaging with a changing world: the same world, but understood differently.

Moving to 'structural' issues, related to the attitudinal ones, it is very important for those not initiating the change to be able to see believable possibilities. In NPWS. the work by fnglish and Brown (2000) and fnglish (2001) are consciously intended as examples of new

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possibilities, demonstrated on the ground and documented with reports, maps and databases. Similarly, in my own work in western Sydney for NPWS, producing tenure maps highlighting the relationships between Aboriginal tenures, conservation tenures and

'biodiversity' is fundamental in stimulating change. The maps demonstrate that the operational landscape has changed, and the need for the organisational landscape to change to respond appropriately. These two processes are highly complementary, with English documenting new methodological and theoretical approaches to be applied to the new landscapes revealed by strategic (counter) mapping.

In these processes, English and I have occupied aspects of both the second and third groups described by Gunderson et al (1995b). We have a limited role as 'activists', promoting the crisis in policy and (sometimes clandestinely) supporting others who are doing so, and ongoing roles as 'rebel bureaucrats' in the 'omega' phase of the policy cycle. This is the phase of unlearning: 'suspending boundaries, shedding old behaviours and discovering new possibilities' (Gunderson et al 1995b, p 504). This example is indicative of the significance of the role of individuals. Neither English nor I occupy senior positions in NPWS, and consequently are not structurally able to access the critical 'strategic conversations' of senior management. But the nature and evidence of our work (and that of others), and committed support from our own senior managers, has elevated the issues to major significance for the executive. Conversely, we were both able to use the rhetoric of recent corporate language and the staff reconciliation statement to initially justify the investigations we proposed.

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Having now to some extent 'convinced' the top of the hierarchy, the challenge is to embed the changed understandings into the other levels of the organisation. In the adaptive cycle's terms, to have a 'wise integrator' codify the alternatives into the new round of policy - to move through the alpha phase of reconfiguring knowledge, underwritten by new organising myths, into the phase where bureaucrats once again implement (new) policy. In NPWS

(and certainly in QPWS) there is not, however, evidence that a new 'organising myth' has been clearly articulated: it might be too soon, or it may be that no-one has managed to define one coherently enough. There is, however, certainly evidence that people are aware of the need for one. The titles of English (2001) It's a part of us, and the Australian

Heritage Commission's pamphlet (1998) Wilderness, we call it home, are indications of attempts from the Aboriginal side of the recognition space to express a new myth. In

NPWS. one senior manager is using the expression reconciliation with the land in a similar attempt. Each of these statements is recognition of the importance of the role of the defining myth.

In these processes, key individuals outside conservation agencies have created foundations tor change at different scales. For my work, individuals in Aboriginal organisations and other positions have provided information on trends or pending changes which might articulate with my proposals so a coherent collaborative framework could be presented.

These relationships were strictly informal networks of contacts, as the formal description of m\ job essentially only has me in oppositional relationships with Aboriginal organisations.

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At a larger scale, decades of work by committed individuals has built the policy environment and practical knowledge where Aboriginal participation in, or control of, conservation issues has the potential for acceptance or is already the reality. The dominance of the 'Uluru model' both within Australia and internationally is a reflection of this (and also an example of newly configured myths). In the specific research for this thesis, two people stand out. The most significant for me is Ross Johnston, who is probably the most experienced and knowledgeable person in Australia on these issues, and who supported my work on Cape York and then gave me much background on issues in NSW, including the

Mutawintji handback. Johnston is the architect of many critical policy innovations, working all over Australia on these issues and moving through the roles of activist, wise integrator,

(senior) rebel bureaucrat and visionary. In parallel to Johnston's work, and often in collaboration with him, is the work of Philip Toyne. Toyne's career has had a much higher profile, and he also has moved through the same complement of roles. Neither of these people have published extensively, but their work is embedded in law, policy, practice and ideology across Australia. Both have collaborated with key Aboriginal people extensively, including Marcia Langton and Noel Pearson, as well as 'unknown' senior Aboriginal people in numerous communities across Australia.

These people and others have been redefining the relationships between Aboriginal people and conservation agencies over many years. My work seeks to identify critical barriers to this ongoing process and suggest ways to overcome them. While a significant part of the ongoing challenge is the translation from 'remote' lands and communities to ones much

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closer to the realities of daily life for most Australians, even in the remote places contestation and negotiation continue.

CONCLUSIONS

Solutions to the pathology of consistent policy inadequacy in this area will need to be applied at multiple scales. While political will is obviously important, political cycles are short and volatile. Institutional change at organisational and policy levels exerts pressure both upwards, influencing ministers and government, and downwards, influencing practice.

Conservation agencies can and do influence politics and politicians. They also clearly influence relationships with other parties, and on-ground outcomes. They have a high level of control over management of their own 'estate', significant control over acquisition of new land, and some control over plants and animals ('biodiversity') on all land. They have

(Western) legal responsibility for protecting and managing Aboriginal cultural heritage

(albeit narrowly defined).

Aboriginal people have an interest in all national park lands, partly for the same reasons that all Australians do, and partly for quite different reasons: it was once all their land, and they have particular historic, social, economic, ecological and religious connections to it.

The advantage of the level of policy inadequacy in this area is that it sets conditions for learning: if policies appear to be working, there is no incentive to learn. However, if successful assessment of the situation is followed merely by cumbersome process and a

Ibrmalisation of relationships, good results are unlikely. These issues are complex, highly

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related to other issues, span long time frames and involve contesting, or at least, negotiating, values: policy macro-problems.

I am not suggesting that it is possible to achieve 'certainty' or 'closure' on these issues: instead, redefined relationships offer the possibility of new connections between people as the basis for jointly working through continuing and inevitable uncertainties.

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CONCLUSION

The map's pretence to stable, uniform and smoothly mobile knowledge depends upon inherently unstable, uneven, fragmentary, specifically positioned and haphazardly transferred information. (Cosgrove 1999, pp 11-12)

When the Lamalama people on Cape York made the joke about QPWS staff watching them from Global Positioning System satellites, they humorously encapsulated a key issue. The

Aboriginal relationship to country is on the ground, situated and engaged. The conservation agency relationship to land is separated, abstract and remotely-sensed. In the context of conservation, this thesis is about the relationships between these two sets of people, and their various relationships to country, and about rethinking these relationships.

The relationship between Aboriginal people and the settlers of Australia is constantly problematic. Some conservationists have suggested that Aboriginal people were (and are) the 'original conservationists', and have made alliances with Aboriginal people, but also co- opted them to particular causes. I agree with Rose (1996) in thinking that whether or not

Aboriginal people are conservationists is not a particularly useful line of inquiry.

Conservation landscapes are excellent potential sites for rethinking the relationship between settler/indigenous, and nature/society, through recognition spaces. Mapping the elements of these recognition spaces is central to my thesis. An epistemological challenge is presented in mapping a territory employing the concepts of 'counter-mapping', 'anti-cadastral' and

'betweenness'. It is a challenge of even greater magnitude in conservation agencies. The necessity and appropriateness of taking up this epistemological challenge is demonstrated in the politics of conservation. Native title, land rights and joint-management regimes are

413 Redefining Relationships - Conclusion

increasing the number of these geographically-placed recognition spaces. Successful meetings between settler and Aboriginal societies require casting off a relationship based on a hierarchy of difference. Instead, recognition spaces create an opportinuty to explore sites of complementarity between world views. Complementarity is expressed through beliefs, in knowledge, in geographic scale, and in capacity.

Using complementarity in the physical recognition space operationalises theory in particular places. Negotiations about the meanings and control of conservation landscapes can proceed past hegemonic assumptions and policy inadequacies. Agreed on-ground outcomes can respond to both sets of worldviews: values and beliefs can be different but respected. Valuing place, and people's relationship to place, is a key element.

Contrary to recent critiques, cultural geography is a useful structure from which to engage with the ambiguity and uncertainty of change. My research participates in the 'strategic conversations' (and the discursive ones) in academic and organisational spheres. This thesis continues and extends recent debates in cultural geography and other disciplines, and actively engages with strategic conversations in conservation organisations.

Applications and outcomes have emerged, at least in part from my engagement with these ideas. The final year of my research (2001) has seen significant changes at the NSW state conservation agency, some of them stimulated by my input. Central Directorate no longer objects to Aboriginal land claims, and is sharing spatial and conservation data with land councils On Cape York, nearly 200.000 hectares of land were handed back to the

Aboriginal owners in December 2000. the outcome of negotiations since before 1998.

414 Redefining Relationships - Conclusion

These are concrete on-ground outcomes. I do not think that they yet reflect the theoretical and attitudinal changes that are necessary, but they help enable those changes. The on- ground outcomes create new recognition spaces where there is significant opportunity for complementarity in new approaches.

Helping to achieve these outcomes has taught me several things. One is that in working in these sorts of situations, which have the potential to effect other people's lives, it is crucial that you stay alert to the standards and implications of your work. Another is that there are always many people involved in creating such successes, and it is the complementarity in skills, knowledge, ideas, position and timing that synergises into a result. Supporting your partners in this work is very important. Rose (2000, p 69), says,

If you choose to work at the edges your strength rests with the people who are also at the edge. If you are working on the edge, you know that it is the most interesting place to be.

Cherishing the people with whom you share this cutting edge zone is a very important way of affirming your commitment to certain kinds of disruptive and enabling knowledge.

This thesis was possible becaused of the generosity and involvement, and ideas, of many people, in both the 'work' and the 'research' aspects. The theory of the adaptive cycle shows how their various roles, with mine, coalesce into change. This change is not, however, closure: the uncertainties, the changes, the cycle, will continue. What I hope my contribution to the research has done, is give us all new theoretical and practical tools and understandings to continue to effectively respond.

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LEGISLATION AND COURT DECISIONS

NEW SOUTH WALES Aboriginal Land Rights Act 1983 Forestry and National Park Estate Act 1998 National Parks and Wildlife Act 1967 (superseded) National Parks and Wildlife Act 1974 National Parks and Wildlife Amendment (Aboriginal Ownership) Act 1996 Native Title Act 1994 Marine Parks Act 1997 Rural Land Protection Act 1998 Threatened Species Conservation Act 1995 Wilderness Act 1987 QUEENSLAND Aboriginal Land Act 1992 Aboriginals Protection and Restriction of the Sale of Opium Acts 1897 Fauna Conservation Act 1974 Land Act 1962,1967,1994 National Parks and Wildlife Act 1975 (superseded) Nature Conservation Act 1992 Rural Lands Protection Act 1985 COMMONWEALTH Aboriginal Councils and Associations Act 1976 Native Title Act 1993 HIGH COURT DECISIONS Milirrpum v Nabalco Pty Ltd (1971) Mabo v Queensland (No 2) (1992) Wik Peoples v Commonwealth (1996) Yanner v Eaton (1999) FEDERAL COURT DECISIONS Yorta Yorta Aboriginal Community v Victoria (1996) Ward on behalf of the Miriuwung and Gajerrong People v Western Australia (1998) NSW LAND AND ENVIRONMENT COURT Deerubbin Local Aboriginal Land Council v Minister Administering the Crown Lands Act (1997) : (Castlereagh) Deerubbin Local Aboriginal Land Council v Minister Administering the Crown Lands Act (1999) : (Maroota) NSW COURT OF APPEAL Minister Administering the Crown Lands Act v Deerubbin Local Aboriginal Land Council (1998) : (Castlereagh) Minister Administering the Crown Lands Act v Deerubbin Local Aboriginal Land Council (2001) : (Maroota)

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APPENDIX 1 PRIMARY SOURCES

NSW Aboriginal Land Council (NSWALC): documents on file

Jervis Bay

NSWALCa) Minutes of Plan of Management Committee meeting 16 April 1997, Nowra

NSWALCb) Letter from National Parks and Wildlife Service Nowra Office to Jerrinja LALC, 24 April 1997.

NSWALCe) McLaughlin, S 1998, Towards a Strategy for the Aboriginal Ownership of Jervis Bay National Park, confidential draft report 16 December 1998.

NSWALCd) McLaughlin, S 1998, Towards a Strategy for the Aboriginal Ownership of Jervis Bay National Park, confidential report 26 January 1999.

NSWALCe) Minutes of a meeting held at Jerrinja LALC on 10 February 1999.

NSWALCf) Docker, S 1999, Draft Options Paper for Jerrinja LALC Sub-Committee: land claims at Jervis Bay and Jervis Bay National Park, 23 February 1999.

NSWALCg) Various correspondence between NSWALC and Minister for Land and Water Conservation, 1997.

NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS): documents on file

Maroota and Castlereagh

NPWSa) Affidavits filed for Maroota and Castlereagh cases.

NPWSb) 'A Proposal for a Maroota National Park', National Parks Association of NSW, September 1990.

NPWSc) Crown Land Assessment: Former Maroota State Forest and Environs, Department of Land and Water Conservation 1993.

NPWSd) Various correspondence between NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service and Department of Land and Water Conservation, 1990 - 2001.

NPWSe) Crown Solicitor's Advice re Maroota - proposed High Court Appeal, 19 March 2001.

NPWSf) Crown Solicitor's Advice re Maroota Judgement, 9 April 2001.

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INTERVIEWS

Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service

Manager, Cape York Tenure Resolution Group

Advisor, Minister for the Environment

Director, Parks and Wildlife

Officer, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy Unit

Officer, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy Unit

NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service

Divisional Manager, Central CPPD

Divisional Manager, Strategic Policy

Divisional Manager, Cultural Heritage Division

Acting Divisional Manager, Central CPPD

Manager, Cultural Heritage Research Unit

Archaeologist, Cultural Heritage Research Unit

Archaeologist, Central Cultural Heritage Unit

Principal Legal Officer, Policy and Law

Senior Rangers, Western Sydney

Manager, Reserves Section, Koscziusko

Rangers, Roads Unit, Koscziusko

Manager, Roads Unit, Koscziusko

443