*New paper* ‘Do our bodies know their ways?’ Villagization, food insecurity, and ill-being in Ethiopia’s lower Omo valley

Some results from my research in Ethiopia are now available, ahead of publication in African Studies Review. The paper, co-authored with Lucie Buffavand, is a product of several years work in the lower Omo valley, where a massive hydroelectric dam and sugar plantations are reshaping the landscape and people’s opportunities to live within it. We investigated the experience of people subjected to a campaign of ‘villagization’ – resettlement associated with the establishment of plantations on lands previously used for farming, herding, and foraging.

At the heart of the article is ethnographic work that Lucie carried out among the Bodi, who were the first people in the region to be displaced by plantations. These ethnographic data are juxtaposed with a survey of food insecurity that I coordinated in the villagization sites and in a community not yet subjected to villagization.

One of our main findings is that the food insecurity survey (which resembles the data that policy makers might use to evaluate the villagization scheme) fundamentally misrepresents the situation on the ground. In government-designed villages, people reported less intense food insecurity, but this was not because the techniques of irrigated agriculture they’d been introduced to were working, but rather because the government was giving them food aid to tide them over. The ethnographic data make it abundantly clear that food security in a broader sense – a sense of confidence about supporting oneself in the long term – was better in those communities still able to make a living from their herds, from rain-fed fields, and from river-bank cultivation.

Ethnography also sheds light on the texture of life in the villagization sites, including the disruption and the isolation that the move entailed. “Do our bodies know their ways?” is a question asked by a man who was struggling to make it in one of the new villages, and who chafed at the conditions imposed by the scheme’s architects. He lamented the loss of old routines. Small pleasures like drinking coffee with your friends take on new importance when the circumstances you live in make them impossible.

shelter from sun

During a break from weeding, workers rig up a makeshift shelter and drink local beer.

The paper illustrates something I stress when I teach anthropological research methods, namely the value of using mixed methods. By holding the household survey data up to the light of ethnography, we got a better sense of what each represented than we would have done had we used one or the other method alone.

Since we carried out our research, things have gotten even more difficult for people in the lower Omo valley. In 2016, completion of the Gibe III dam led to the end of the annual flood that was the lifeblood of the region. Deprived of a reliable source of water for growing their crops, the Bodi and their neighbours are paying the costs of development, while others of us reap the benefits.




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Living on a fault-line

Or, the challenge of thinking geologically.

Last week I attended the Oxford Desert Conference, to bang the drum about work my colleagues and I are doing in the Turkana basin (stay tuned for more on that). I came away reminded of some important ideas that I’d not thought about for a long time.

The stand-out paper for me was about geology and cities. Richard Walker, a geologist who’s carried out long-term research in Iran, showed that several of the country’s cities are located at points of seismic instability. The places where you find the most people, in other words, also tend to be places with the highest risk of earthquakes.

Why? Because that’s also where groundwater is most likely to seep up through fissures in rock. And in arid or semi-arid parts of the world, the major limiting factor for life is water.

This phenomenon – the coincidence of settlements, springs, and seismic instability – is something I’d encountered 20 years ago, during my days as an archaeologist. From a season working on a field survey in north-central Turkey, one of the things that I remember most clearly is that scatters of pottery (the remnants of long-buried settlements) were most common along geological fault-lines.

This stuck with me because I recognized that it was emblematic of an important dimension of human experience that lies beyond ordinary perception. The choice of where to live (one of the most important decisions we make) is rarely one we make independently. And these communal decisions often expose us to substantial risks – risks that are often difficult to quantify, but real ones nonetheless.

Here, as often, global warming comes to mind. Like the tempo of earthquakes, the time horizon on which climate change plays out is longer than the one we ordinarily think with. Perhaps our brains aren’t wired to deal with slow-burning problems like these, as George Marshall has argued. [1]

That we’re vulnerable and short-sighted isn’t news. But we’re better equipped to make decisions (choosing where to live, or how to mitigate the risks of climate change) if we recognize the constraints we operate under.

As Jerome Bruner has written, “We cannot adapt to everything, and in designing a way to the future, we would do well to examine what we are and what our limits are.” [2]


[1] Marshall, G. 2014. Don’t Even Think About It: Why Our Brains Are Wired to Ignore Climate Change. Bloomsbury.

[2] Bruner, J. 1972. The nature and uses of immaturity. American Psychologist, 27, 8, 687-708.

My thanks to Troy Sternberg for the invitation to attend the conference in Oxford.


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One of my favourite works of anthropology is a study of infancy among the Beng of Cote d’Ivoire. For people in this West African community, children are understood to come from the Afterlife. In their way of thinking, people’s spirits enter a sort of limbo when they die. When babies are born, they gain passage back into life.

Babies are welcomed home, cared for and venerated partly because they are recognized as the reincarnations of dead ancestors. [1]

There’s truth in the Beng way of thinking, because in a real (biological) sense children are the reincarnations of ancestors.

Michael Jackson (of Harvard’s Divinity School) used this as an example of alternative ways of conceiving of time, in a lecture at the ASA conference in Durham last year.

I cast my mind back to it recently in a reflection on the relationship between an aunt of mine who died six years ago and my daughter, who’s not yet six months old.


[1] Alma Gottlieb.The Afterlife Is Where We Come From.  University of Chicago Press (2004).

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Maps and the twentieth century

There is no internationally agreed map of the world. This is one of the more memorable things I took away from a recent exhibition at the British Library.

The exhibition, entitled “Maps and the Twentieth Century: Drawing the Line,” reviewed   landmarks in cartography over the course of the century, from schematic mapping of the New York subway system to the challenges of mapping glaciers that are melting faster  than we print atlases.

A project proposing an internationally agreed map of the world (based on a standard set of universally recognized coordinates) “was proposed by German geographer Albrecht Penck in 1981, and taken over by the United Nations after the Second World War.” “To date,” the exhibition suggested, “about 40% of planned world coverage has been produced.”

Interestingly, a parallel initiative was undertaken in the USSR using “Sistem 42,” “a geodetic system enabling standard grid reference system across all Soviet maps.”One of the maps on display at the BL was a remarkably detailed (1: 10,000) map of Brighton and Hove produced as part of this Soviet project in the late 1980s.

Maps and theory

In teaching anthropology, I use maps as a metaphor for theory. Like a map, theories  reveal something of interest to us at the expense of leaving other things out. A 1:1 representation of reality is rarely useful.



The exhibition at the British Library closed last week, but much of the content remains available through the BL’s website.

Maps and the Twentieth Century: Drawing the Line ran at the British Library from November 2016 to March 2017

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Books of 2016

These are the books that have made the greatest impression on me this year.

1. The idealist, by Justin Peters

Aaron Swartz was an IT prodigy who hacked the scholarly literature database J-Stor.  Brought to trial for doing so, he killed himself before the lawsuit was over. Much of this book is actually a primer of intellectual copyright law, a subject that sounds dry as can be, but which comes to life in relation to Swartz’s story. His idealism centred on a (fairly commonplace) belief in the power of technology and ideas to improve humanity, and a (more radical) conviction that “information should be free”. The lawsuit that serves as the hinge of the plotline opens up important questions about ownership. Who owns ideas? Writing? (Authors? Publishers?) Questions on which a lot hangs.

2. Cadillac desert, by Marc Reisner

Have you seen Chinatown? That classic movie is an allegory for the history of the American west, which rests in large part on the heroic measures taken with the region’s great rivers, variously dammed, rerouted, stolen, resold, and sucked dry. It’s an epic and tragic story of grand visions and wild successes, but also of profligacy and ruin. Despite the cautions that might be drawn from the experience, it’s also a history that’s being energetically emulated and repeated the world over, notably in Ethiopia. A good TV documentary based on the book was made in the 1990s.

3. Ecological imperialism, by Alfred Crosby

This could be read as a prequel to Cadillac Desert: it’s about the making of what Crosby calls the Neo-Europes, a process that included genocides in the Americas, Australia, and elsewhere. This is the original sin of Western civilization. Acknowledging it reframes what justice looks like in the present, for example at Standing Rock.

4. Writing for social scientists, by Howard Becker

This book is useful. Thanks to it, I’ve gotten more writing done this year than I would have done otherwise. Becker advises not just how to get published but how to write well — or at least, how not to write in the standard, turgid way. His advice, in a nutshell, is: Draft, and redraft. Avoid unnecessary citations. Don’t use five words where two would do. Write in your own voice.

5. The Faber book of children’s verse, edited by Janet Adam Smith

At bedtime my son likes to hear poems. This book contains some great ones. Although it’s compiled with children in mind, the anthologist made her choices on the assumption that children shouldn’t be condescended to, and that they can handle profound themes like love and death. (I’m increasingly led to think that children deal better with these aspects of life than many of us adults do.)

I leave you with a poem that’s helped me this past year, when despair has sometimes felt inescapable.

Everything changes. We plant
trees for those born later
but what’s happened has happened
and poisons poured into the seas
cannot be drained out again.

What’s happened has happened.
Poisons poured into the seas
cannot be drained out again, but
everything changes. We plant
trees for those born later.

— Cicely Herbert

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Evidence for zombies

Last Friday I came home from Edinburgh, head buzzing with ideas after a 2-day meeting on evidence in development and global health. ‘How is evidence defined?’ the speakers from universities and NGOs asked. ‘How is it generated and used?’

Or should we say, ‘How is it fabricated and abused?’ On the face of it, gathering evidence that development programmes have achieved what they set out to do is a good thing – keeping systems functioning, keeping people honest. But, as presenters at the conference showed, it can look quite different from the perspectives of the people actually engaged in the evidence-gathering, or those from whom evidence is being extracted. Development is big business, and the money involved, together with the remoteness of many projects’ aims from local concerns, sets up perverse incentives.

Did you know, for instance, that there are twenty-five thousand NGOs in Nepal alone – almost one for every thousand people? That’s a nice factoid, and now it’s out here on the internet it may go and take on a life of its own. Deepak Thapa of Social Science Baha, from whom I got it, was actually careful to point out that the 25,000 figure includes all registered community-based organizations, from chess clubs to major charities. Stripped of the caveat, though, it makes a nice talking point. It resonates with preconceived ideas we may have about NGOs gone wild, the aid gravy train, etc. This is the fate of many statistics that, relieved of such niceties as standard errors or confidence intervals, colonize our brains. Zombie statistics, some people call them.

Or is it we who are the Zombies? Normative ideals (also called schemas, frames, or cultural models) are part of our make-up; and it’s these that make dispassionate evaluation of evidence in development so difficult. If you feel about anything, “Wouldn’t it be nice if…?” then you have them. We all have them. What varies (what determines our degree of zombiness) is how accessible they are to conscious reflection. If you really think about it – if you’re honest – encounters with “facts” are always partial. As George Lakoff has written: “If the facts don’t fit the frames in your brain, the frames in your brain stay and the facts are ignored or challenged or belittled.” [1]

The topic of evidence in the context of development is especially thorny because international development is a moral as well as a technical project: It involves imposing values and ideals on people whose sense of what matters is often different. A case in point: Tim Allen told the story of how, in the early 2000s, deworming went viral in the Economics and Development communities. Within a few years, giving deworming pills to children had come to be seen as the most effective development intervention out there. This was despite a paucity of evidence; the single academic paper in which the case was made was an anomaly (and, it turns out, based on a flawed analysis). But it fit a frame – the idea that getting rid of parasites in early life should have long-lasting effects – so it stayed. Thousands of children were given deworming pills without their parents’ permission, and without clear understanding of what it was supposed to achieve. [2]

One response to this state of affairs is to say we’d be better off without all this so-called evidence. Another is to ask how evidence gathering could be done smarter and better. One obvious way is to involve the presumed beneficiaries in deciding what to measure, and take account of their priorities are in terms of problems to address. This is not a new idea; it’s the central idea behind so-called participatory approaches that go back to the 1960s. [3] Unfortunately, it runs counter to much global health and development practice these days.

Turning the juggernaut around

My feeling is that meetings like the one in Edinburgh are vitally important. I’m grateful to the organisers for making it happen, and including me. But the voices that were so clearly audible at this conference are hard to hear over the din outside from so many organizations and vested interests. To have impact, people concerned about these issues need to find allies, not only with established NGOs and governments, but with movements – with organized labour, with opposition parties, with students – with allies of all shapes and sizes.

This is easier said than done, of course. Ethiopia can serve as an example: a place where, under adverse circumstances, a movement has emerged in the last few years to address inequity in access to the benefits of development. But how do advocates work with movements like this – without leaders, without clear organizational structure? Given the violent response of the Ethiopian authorities to demonstrators and to critics in general, solidarity is risky. Perhaps these risks come with the territory, wherever an established system of power is challenged.

Some movements may be easier to work with than others, though. In the last session of the workshop, Marlee Tichenor told the story of health workers in Senegal who imposed a boycott on data-collection in their clinics. Between 2010 and 2013, clinicians refused to record routine patient data, which they saw as a distraction from their core responsibility to care for people. Because international donor funds were in jeopardy, the government of Senegal was forced to pay attention. [4] In this case the boycott was organized by health workers’ unions, which have a structure of the sort that that researchers and NGO workers are familiar with.

On the train home to London I reflected on the lessons of the conference: To ask, when examining any development project: who set its goals, and who’s benefitting? To bear in mind that we think in terms of frames, and we evaluate evidence in relation to them, on the fly. And to remember that not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.


The conference on ‘Evidence and Organisations in Development’ was part of the Spaces of Evidence project.

[1] George Lakoff (2014). The ALL NEW don’t think of an elephant! Know your values and frame the debate. White River Junction: Chelsea Green. P. xiv.

[2] The story is told at greater length by Duncan Green & Mohga Kamal-Yanni in  ‘Deworming delusions’.

[3] Participatory Learning and Action is a good source on these approaches. Sadly it’s no longer published.

[4] See Marlee Tichenor. (2016). The power of data: Global malaria governance and the Senegalese data retention strike. In V. Adams (Ed.), Metrics: What counts in global health (pp. 105–124). Durham: Duke University Press.

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A tribute to Clive Hart

What sense can we make of a life? Granted, there may not be any single meaning. But is it possible we might find something robust to hold on to? Perhaps a family of meanings?

These questions grip me as I reflect on the life of my step-father, Clive Hart, who died last week. He had one of the most searching minds of anyone I’ve known, and about the widest interests.

The parts of our lives that intersected were Clive’s middle and old age, and my childhood and early adulthood. A scholar, much of his energy was directed to research and writing. Until recently, I’d never read any of his books. What I picked up was something about his habits of mind, his way of being in the world.

It’s only now that I find myself – for want of any other way to communicate with him – looking through things he wrote. And asking my mother questions that I wish I could ask him.… This is what I’ve got so far.

‘the first riddle … when is a man not a man?’ [1]

In his youth, Clive was torn between interests in science and literature. Although he was recognized in his first year at the University of Western Australia as the most promising Physics student of his class, he ended up majoring in French. A scholarship took him to Paris in 1956-7. There he became interested in James Joyce, and this led to doctoral research on Finnegans Wake. But throughout this time, he sustained an interest in flying machines, and his first books on flight appeared around the same time as his first books on Joyce.

Hart 1962-67_Structure+Kites

Structure & motif appeared in 1962, and Kites: an historical survey in 1967.

In looking for clues to how Clive’s interests fit together, Joyce is not a bad place to start. In the attempt to understand Joyce’s work – especially his most experimental book, Finnegans Wake – one needed to know almost everything (at least, everything that Joyce knew). Allusive, playful, riffing on homologies in multiple languages, making inventive and subversive use of other ‘public texts’ such as the Bible, Shakespeare, and Dante; in describing this one captures a lot of Clive’s spirit.

But – to anyone who’s opened it, this hardly needs to be said – Finnegans Wake is hard to understand. Written in words that the author derived from some 20 languages; without stable characters or plot; with neither beginning nor end; it is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery. After decades of work, even tentative answers to the questions of how the book was structured, or what its central themes were, were elusive. “The student of Finnegans Wake needs to be a humble person,” Clive wrote in the introduction to his concordance to the book. [2] Those who claimed truly to understand it he viewed sceptically. In the mid-1980’s, he withdrew from Joyce studies for a while. As he confessed, “[I had a] general sense that Joycean studies, along with much recent criticism, had begun to lose sight of the artistic goals that mattered (to me).” [3]

Levitation and love

Around this time Clive’s research on art and flight entered a new phase. By paths I have not yet charted, he was drawn particularly to Baroque-cum-Rococo central Europe, where billowing clouds and levitating figures make up a large part of the repertoire. Several summers during my childhood were spent being dragged around Germany and Austria as he and my mum documented paintings on church ceilings in places like Würzburg and Melk. In his earlier works on flight, he’d ranged widely through space and time – through Chinese kites, Biblical representations of the creation of birds and fishes, and the escapades of eighteenth century balloonists [4, 5] – but now he was digging deep into the art and worldview of a particular historical moment. In another way too, it represented a sharpening of focus, as he came to concentrate most of all on flight as a metaphor for love. [6]



Tiepolo, Allegory with Venus and Time (c.1754)

After his formal retirement from Essex University in 1998, Clive continued to write, but from this time onward the majority of his intellectual effort went into translating or commenting on medieval and early modern tracts about women. [7, 8] A crude summary of his research interests might go something like, “kites > flying ships > imagery of flight > love > women” – with Joyce a more or less perennial concern. But rather than being a series of infatuations, his various interests were layered on top of one another. None of the new topics he fell in love with diminished his interest in those that had gone before.

Looking for patterns

In 2003 Cabinet magazine reprinted a compendium of ancient attempts at heavier-than-air flight that Clive had once compiled. [9] The issue, devoted to the theme of flight, was accompanied by an audio CD – music and recordings that reflect some of the romance of the topic: An audio recording of Yuri Gagarin broadcasting from near-earth orbit; a piece of choral music from Papua New Guinea, by a rainforest people invoking the spirits of birds….

Although I don’t think he had a hand in compiling the CD, the disc helps me think about how Clive’s interests in flight, visual art, literature, and women might be related to his other great passion – music. In his final years, as his eyesight was failing, and speaking and writing became more difficult, Clive spent more and more time listening to music. His tastes were broad, but the things he listened to most were (to my ears) challenging.

“It’s strange,” he’d sometimes say after listening to a piece by CPE Bach. “I don’t understand it.”

What stands out for me about Clive is his extraordinary curiosity about the world; and – what is, perhaps, almost the same thing – the tolerance he had for confusion, in expectation of eventually discerning some pattern.

But in trying to make sense of his life through his work, I wonder whether I’m looking in the wrong place – or looking (as in the story about the the drunk who lost his car keys) only where the light’s best. After all, life doesn’t necessarily obey the same rules as art; and making sense of it need not involve the same processes. Life is somewhat like text, somewhat like imagery; but that’s not all there is to it.

Clive’s first wife, Helen, died before him; he is survived by his second wife, Kay, and by three sons, a step-son, and four grand-children. As the messages that have poured in from colleagues and students in the past week attest, there were many others – some of whom never met him – who admired him, to whom he was meaningful.

“What were we looking for?” Clive once wrote of the years he’d spent analysing Finnegans Wake. “Were we looking for the wrong thing?” [10]

In trying to make sense of his life, I wonder as well.



Clive and Jed. Paris, 1987.



[1] Joyce, J. (1939). Finnegans wake. New York: The Viking Press, p. 170.

[2] Hart, C. (1963). A concordance to Finnegans wake. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, p. i.

[3] Hart, C. (1998). Fritz in the early awning. In R. Frehner & U. Zeller (eds.), A collideorscape of Joyce: festschrift for Fritz Senn. Dublin: Lilliput Press, p. 9.

[4] Hart, C. (1972). The dream of flight; aeronautics from classical times to the Renaissance. London: Faber.

[5] Hart, C. (1985). The prehistory of flight. Berkeley: University of California Press.

[6] Hart, C., & Stevenson, K. G. (1995). Heaven and the flesh: imagery of desire from the Renaissance to the Rococo. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

[7] Hart, C. (2001). Genitalia: rhetoric and reticence in the early modern period. Clacton-on-Sea: Gilliland Press.

[8] Hart, C. (2002). A new argument against women, in which it is demonstrated that they are not human beings: the anonymous tract Disputatio nova contra mulieres, qua probatur eas homines non esse (1595): a critical edition with translation and commentary. Clacton-on-Sea: Gilliland Press.

[9] Hart, C. (2003 [1983]). An abridged directory of heavier-than-air flying machines in western Europe, 850 BC-AD 1783. Cabinet 11: 70-71.

[10] Hart, C. (1998). Fritz in the early awning. In R. Frehner & U. Zeller (eds.), A collideorscape of Joyce: festschrift for Fritz Senn. Dublin: Lilliput Press, p. 8.


The family invites donations in Clive’s honour to the following charities:



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