Titles of Contention: Sociocultural Change and Conflict over Legalization of Indigenous Lands in Southeastern Ecuador

Abstract

Shuar communities in southeastern Ecuador are receiving collective property titles to their ancestral lands. This is being done as a way to guarantee their material and cultural survival, but the titling triggers sociocultural changes and conflict and its outcomes depend largely on the way it is implemented. The consequences of the titling process in communities in Nangaritza and El Pangui in which Shuar, Saraguro, and mestizos coexist include both tensions and informal arrangements to resolve the historically conflictive issue of access to the land.

Las comunidades Shuar en el sureste de Ecuador están recibiendo títulos de propiedad colectiva de sus tierras ancestrales. Esto se está haciendo como una forma de garantizar su supervivencia material y cultural, pero la titulación desencadena cambios y conflictos socioculturales y sus resultados dependen en gran medida de la forma en que se implemente. Las consecuencias del proceso de titulación en comunidades de Nangaritza y El Pangui en las que cohabitan Shuar, Saraguro y mestizos incluyen tensiones y arreglos informales para resolver el problema histórico del acceso a la tierra.

Keywords

Land titling Sociocultural conflicts Indigenous peoples Shuar Ecuadorian Amazon

The policy of legal recognition, or titling, of indigenous peoples’ territories has a long history. The relevant literature points to the 1989 adoption of the International Labor Organization’s Convention 169, which stressed ceding ancestral lands to indigenous peoples to foster their preservation, as a landmark event (Aylwin, 2011; Plant and Hvalkof, 2006; Stocks, 2005). However, Ecuador has been legalizing indigenous territories since the 1960s on an ad hoc basis through the Instituto Ecuatoriano de Reforma Agraria y Colonización (Ecuadorian Institute of Land Reform and Colonization—IERAC) and on a regular basis through a new constitutionalism enshrined in the Constitution of 1998—the year that Ecuador signed the ILO Convention—and through the efforts of various ministers (Erazo, 2013; Macdonald, 1997; Nagan and Hammer, 2014; Perreault, 2003).

Prominent among the various arguments advanced in support of the titling is the one above, which ties legal recognition to protection of their land and lifestyles—their ancestral culture (Erazo, 2013; Nagan and Hammer, 2014). This notion contains certain premises about cultural idiosyncrasies (of indigenous cultures, in particular), the need for territorial support, the link between territory and identity, and the security that comes from state recognition and issuance of deeds. But the results of titling around the world have been mixed (Aylwin, 2011; Finley-Brook, 2016). What has been confirmed by empirical cases is the complex dynamic created by any titling depending on the way it is carried out (Márquez, 2013; Payne, Durand-Lasserve, and Rakodi, 2009). In fact, situations may present themselves that defeat the theoretical objectives of the legalization (for example, new demands and disputes arising over particular properties). At the same time, the relationship between property and culture(s) seem to be more intricate than some titling theorists imagine. Indigenous peoples do not have a uniform and monolithic concept of property; titling itself can change the presumed traditional parameters (Erazo, 2013). In addition, titling sometimes creates relatively new power dynamics or modifies and reinforces existing ones, changing the rules of access and use of the lands, granting control to certain actors, etc. Thus, both material factors (interests and position of groups, power relations) and cultural ones (concepts and customs regarding the land or the title itself) must be taken into account to understand the outcome of any particular titling. The number of these factors is significant in regions such as the Ecuadorian Southeast, where indigenous groups and mestizos with different cultural traditions coexist in a framework of power relations created by the state and other actors.

This article reflects some of the research carried out in the area by the Observatorio de Conflictos Socioambientales, specifically in the cantons of El Pangui and Nangaritza since 2010, and some of the results of a Prometeo project led by Raúl Márquez from July to October 2016 focused on the study of Shuar communities. The Observatorio’s research detected conflicts related to titling of indigenous communities, access to and distribution of lands, and coexistence among neighbors of different ethnic groups (Shuar, Saraguro, and mestizos). We decided to study in depth a Nangaritza community, Shuarmaya, that possesses all the characteristics of interest: it is a Shuar center with a global title for some of its lands in which Saraguro families also reside.¹ A questionnaire completed by families in 2014 and 2016 confirmed that the land issue is problematic and affects relations among neighbors. Between July and October 2016 we conducted a dozen open-ended interviews with Shuar and Saraguro residents (chosen by ethnic origin, location, and type of ownership) and semistructured interviews with the community leader (síndico), the schoolteacher, and other key players outside the community: public officials in the Ministerio de Agricultura, Ganadería, Acuacultura y Pesca (Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock, Aquaculture, and Fishing—MAGAP), the president of the Federación Provincial de la Nacionalidad Shuar de Zamora Chinchipe (Provincial Federation of the Shuar Nationality of Zamora Chinchipe—FEPNASH-ZCH), the president of the Federación Provincial de la Nacionalidad Kichwa Saraguro (Provincial Federation of the Kichwa Saraguro Nationality—ZAMASKIJAT), and the representative in Zamora of the nongovernmental organization (NGO) Naturaleza y Cultura. Fieldwork in Shuarmaya was supplemented by work in the communities of Alto Nangaritza, where workshops on conflict resolution were held, and by regular visits to El Pangui to monitor socio-environmental conflicts.

We believe that this article contributes to the discussion on indigenous land titling by providing data on its effects on communities whose main feature is the coexistence of families of differing ethnic origin, a little-studied type of case.² Moreover, it contributes to the current characterization of the Shuar, a people that has undergone extensive ethnographic study in the past but whose more recent acculturation, especially in the Zamora Chinchipe region, has not received much attention (Rudel, Bates, and Machinguiashi, 2002; Rudel, Katan, and Horowitz, 2013). The essay is structured as follows: First, we expand on the description of the legal framework in which titling of indigenous lands in Ecuador is being carried out and the academic discussion on this policy. Next we contextualize the Ecuadorian Southeast, underlining the historical dilemma over the occupation of the territory. We then present some cases of conflict related to titling of the Shuar communities and offer some conclusions referring to the legalization of indigenous lands and the cases described.

The Policy of Titling Indigenous Lands: Assumptions and Findings

The right of indigenous peoples to have their ancestral lands titled—as a way of guaranteeing their protection—has been dealt with in the constitutions of countries such as Ecuador. Its 1998 Constitution (a product of pressure from the indigenous movement and the 1990 uprisings) included in Article 84 the collective right of indigenous peoples to the ownership and management of their ancestral lands, introducing the instrument of indigenous territorial districts. The 2008 Constitution ratified the right to “retain imprescriptible ownership of their communal lands,” specifying that they are “inalienable, unattachable, and indivisible” (Article 57 §4 and 5), and introduced the idea of indigenous territorial districts, a special administrative status whose regulation and authority were to be established by a later law (Articles 60 and 257)—a law that to this day does not exist.³

The Ecuadorian state has in fact acted in a contradictory manner. It has promoted the colonization of indigenous territories since 1964, with laws such as those on unused lands and the colonization and extraction of the natural resources therein (e.g., the 1991 Mining Act), and by declaring these resources as “of public interest” (as in Article 323 of the 2008 Constitution). At the same time, it has distributed property titles to some indigenous communities since the 1960s, sometimes through the same agencies that promoted mestizo settlement. This contradictory behavior and the failure to establish a constitutional framework reflect, according to most writers, the coexistence of differing ideological currents and projects: the construction of a truly intercultural and plurinational state, on one hand, and economic and political development based on extractivism and centralized management, on the other (Beltrán and Narváez, 2012; Martínez Novo, 2014; Plant and Hvalkof, 2006).⁴

Returning to the basic premises of the titling programs, it is true that each people establishes a special relationship to the land it occupies, in accordance with its productive system and technical capacity, organizing, to some extent, the relation of its members to that space. The cultural significance of the territories, their use and appropriation is undeniable (Bloch, 1977; Godelier, 1977; Márquez, 2015). Indigenous peoples may not all conceive of their relationship to the land in terms of a right to ownership. In fact, the land, as a place of reference, does not have to have boundaries or be constantly occupied (as with religious centers that are pilgrimage sites, for example). The titling policy, meanwhile, assumes that all peoples conceive of the territorial connection in terms of ownership, usually collective ownership (Arraiza, 2012; Beltrán and Narváez, 2012; Castro, 2000; Finley-Brook, 2016). Furthermore, it seems to retain the colonial assumption that indigenous peoples live in cohesive communities whose members have the same ideas about life, identity, or the use of the land.⁵

The reality is usually much more complex. In cases such as Macdonald’s ethnographic study (1997), for example, the Quijos Quichua demanded and obtained individual lots in the late 1960s (maintaining, influenced by the stance of settlers and the IERAC, certain communal practices in managing the land). In the community studied by Erazo (2013)—which received a global title in 1977—it was the titling itself (along with interference from state agencies, NGOs, and others) that promoted a collective way of handling the land, disregarding traditional concepts (especially the one that assigns properties to groups of relatives) (2013: 97–131; see also Perreault, 2003). Generally, this seems to ignore the fact that possession and property are power relations and potentially imply conflict. Establishing properties presumes authority and privileges in relation to the territory and affects existing relations of domination and subordination (Godelier, 1977; Márquez, 2015). This calls into question some naïve ideas about the effect of titling.

In any case, the problems detected regarding the legalization of indigenous lands in Latin American countries are recurring issues. Summarizing them, we have, first, errors in implementation. Either the constitutional provisions on the legal recognition of indigenous territories are not translated into concrete measures or they are deficient (slow and disorganized delivery of deeds), because of poor administrative practice or the lack of political will to implement them (Martínez Novo, 2014: 122; Stocks, 2005: 88–89). In the case of Ecuador, the problems have been particularly serious in the Amazon region. Land reform and titlings were performed haphazardly during the 1960s and 1970s and worse in the 1990s, with the issuance of ad hoc titles lacking any legal framework or clear procedures. In the early 2000s the government tried to “straighten out land rights,” but once again the lack of administrative control destroyed the attempt (Plant and Hvalkof, 2006: 173–199).

Second, there were negative sociocultural changes. The legalization nullified or substantially changed the previous customary ownership systems, which were generally more flexible (Márquez, 2013; Scott, 1998). Management of the titled property was carried out in terms of categories and procedures that were not traditional but state-imposed (census taking, territorial divisions, uniform definition of rights, etc.) and often accomplished by fledgling leaders whose qualifications had (primarily) to do with their ability to understand the bureaucracy or communicate with the representatives of the state (Arraiza, 2012; Finley-Brook, 2016; Jamieson, 2011; Larson, 2010).

Finally, there were disputes created by the demarcation process itself. As we have pointed out, titling entails distributing rights and powers, at times altering existing power configurations. Opposition by those who cannot benefit from it and find themselves subordinated to those who legally control the lands is commonplace (Arraiza, 2012; Stocks, 2005). In Nicaragua—a pioneer in legalization of indigenous lands—opposition has persisted from mestizo sectors lacking access to deeds, in addition to the conflicts related to demarcation of indigenous territories (Arraiza, 2012; Finley-Brook, 2016). At times the titling disrupts informal agreements that up to then had governed the use of the territory and fostered peaceful coexistence: the indigenous group empowered by the titling may become less disposed to tolerate situations considered undesirable or unjust (Jamieson, 2011). Furthermore, conflict may erupt within the beneficiary group if its members hold different ideas regarding property or compete among themselves for title to specific areas (Stocks, 2005).

Thus titling may foster certain dynamics of acculturation and conflict, contradicting some of its goals.

Historical Land Problems in the Ecuadorian Southeast

For the Shuar as for the rest of the peoples of southeastern Ecuador, conflicts around appropriation of lands are nothing new. Aside from the most remote phase following the arrival of the Spaniards, conflicts intensified in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries with the missionary and settler intrusions. At that time, the Shuar were a band of hunter-gatherers dispersed throughout the territory in small family units with itinerant hunting areas (that is, without regarding territory as absolute and fixed property). What was important economically and politically was the reciprocal relationships between relatives and associates.⁶ The settlers—fundamentally mestizos and Kichwa Saraguro—in contrast, devoted to agriculture and cattle raising, did carry out restrictive appropriation of territory. The Shuar would also do so when colonization advanced and they began to live in centers (Chávez and García, 2004; Rubenstein, 2005).

Conflicts continually arose around the appropriation of land. Rationales and interests collided. For example, the settlers provided clothing and other manufactured items in exchange for land, believing that they “were ‘buying’ them. However, the Shuar felt that they were establishing a society of exchanges with the settlers in return for something that they would do anyway some years later: move to another location” (Rubenstein, 2005: 31). And these were not the only disparities. Harner (1972: 213) commented in the late 1960s:

The Jívaro,⁷ with a free land tradition, have a difficult time adjusting to the concept of land ownership . . . ; the Indian lands appear to be unexploited by white standards, although the Jívaro feel that, in fact, their lands are overexploited in terms of hunting. Thus, while the Jívaro believe that they lack adequate land, the whites feel that the Indians are not using all the territory at their disposal.

The establishment of centers meant, in internal Shuar code, the institution of new hierarchies and power relations. The Shuar who helped the missionaries establish themselves in the territory—generally youth formed in the missions, with greater fluency in Spanish—would obtain distinguished positions in the new centers, resulting in “a true revolution in leadership” (Rubenstein, 2005: 39). It was traditionally older men who occupied the sociopolitical hierarchy. In addition, being a member of a center would provide access to a first title that accredited residency and (collective) possession of a plot of land, a sign of distinction in a setting marked by the rules of mestizo society. Property titles began to be valued as tools for defending their territory as well (2005: 28–41). The struggle to obtain them would, in fact, be one of the drivers of their organizational effort throughout the second half of the twentieth century, an effort that translated into the appearance of associations and federations.⁸ The Shuar of Morona Santiago Federation would manage to endow some centers with global titles. In 1973 “a title could only be purchased, sold, and inherited [by each family] within the community” (Rubenstein, 2005: 44).

Nevertheless, conflict over the appropriation of Shuar territory did not stop; it increased during the 1960s with the massive arrival of Saraguro settlers.⁹ The Saraguro, using small properties devoted to agricultural subsistence and commercial cattle-raising, quickly sought to title the lands somehow (Belote, 1998 [1984]: 163–179). Relations with the Shuar were ambivalent, at the very least, precisely because of the property conflicts. A Saraguro man from Yacuambi (in Zamora Province) explained: “The jíbaros . . . resented the Saraguros’ clearing the land and ruining the hunting. Sometimes they stole things or beat people up, but they never killed anyone who was not jíbaro. Actually, most of them were friendly with the Saraguros. But they never married one of us” (288). Belote also recounted that “while the Shuar seemingly did not resist the intrusion, they did try to control the location of the Saraguro settlements” (328–329). Nevertheless, the Saraguro went on establishing themselves throughout southeastern Shuar territory (in groups of between two and five families) with the support of Franciscan missionaries (329–338).

In the 1980s the Shuar intensified their demand for titles that would formalize their ancestral properties, and this created “a new ambiguity in Saraguro-Shuar relations” (Belote, 1998 [1984]: 340). Belote predicted at the time that “the conflicts—and potential conflicts—for the land may have some negative effects on relations between members of these two groups,” (1998: 340), and he was not mistaken. The problem of appropriation and recognition of Shuar territory is still a heated topic in an era marked by the allocation to the Shuar of new constitutional rights that have not materialized. This, along with other factors, seems to muddy the relationship, in some contexts, between the Shuar, the Saraguro, and other resident groups.

Current Cases in Nangaritza and El Pangui

The cantons of Nangaritza and El Pangui are located in the province of Zamora Chinchipe (Figure 1). Their populations—approximately 5,000 in Nangaritza and a little more than 8,500 in El Pangui—are made up of families registered in the census as mestizos (more than 60 percent in Nangaritza and 70 percent in El Pangui) and indigenous (35 percent and 22 percent, respectively). Shuar is the majority indigenous nationality in both, with Saraguro a distant second. Many communities are pluriethnic (El Pangui, 2015; Nangaritza, 2015). The Shuar of Nangaritza and El Pangui have managed to get part of the territories they consider ancestral legally allotted to them. According to FEPNASH-ZCH (2014) figures, approximately 70 percent of the Shuar centers of both cantons hold global deeds, titling granted to one of the associations that includes the centers.¹⁰ The assembly or governing council of each center controls and manages the titled plots, whose ownership is indivisible and that are available only to members of the center.

Figure 1.

Zamora Chinchipe Province, showing the areas studied.

This titling process of Shuar communities in the Southeast reproduces some of the historical dynamics described above and suffers from the same flaws as other titling programs. First of all, there are some administrative disorganization and problems in implementation. Various state agencies have titled Shuar territories using different laws and rationales: the Ministerio del Ambiente (Ministry of the Environment—MAE) uses environmental protection, the MAGAP property security. Registration of the titles by the associations and centers—in theory, an essential step—has not been accomplished in many cases, and MAE and MAGAP officials themselves do not know which Shuar territories are correctly titled, nor have they identified entities or mechanisms for settling disputes. In addition, some of the staff have negative views on the titling of indigenous lands and on the Shuar in particular. At the MAGAP headquarters in Zamora, in fact, they questioned the legitimacy of the Shuar’s demands, saying that they wanted “to appropriate everything they say they use” (interview, Zamora, September 6, 2016).

Moreover, the titling of Shuar territories has brought serious sociocultural changes and, on occasion, open conflict. The relationship between resident groups of differing ethnic origin has changed, setting up some power dynamics based on access and control of the properties. As we have seen, Saraguro, Shuar, and mestizos have coexisted in the Southeast for a long time in more or less harmonious and egalitarian relationships, depending on the time and on the context. The Shuar have not been passive in the face of the colonization of their territory; in some areas they have tried to control the arrival of Saraguro and mestizos, and their authority has been strengthened by the titling. In some Nangaritza and El Pangui communities, for example, they have imposed their own conditions for achieving access to the communal plots, rules that are not reflected in law. Mestizos and Saraguro who wish to use those plots must first perform community tasks (clearing roads, fixing up the center’s buildings, etc.). In turn, the Saraguro and mestizos have adopted their own informal strategy for obtaining rights to the communal lands—marrying Shuar women who live in the centers, for instance.¹¹ Notwithstanding these arrangements, conflict has also arisen, especially in cases where the boundaries of ancestral Shuar territory were not clear or participants in the process questioned the de facto distribution, or complained that the process took too long. All of this was aggravated by inaction on the part of the authorities and the absence of mechanisms for resolving disputes. In one community in El Pangui, for example, the Shuar expelled some families that had been living for some time on land recently declared ancestral Shuar. In the words of one official familiar with the case, “They decided to carry out their own remediation process” (interview, MAGAP technician, Zamora, September 6, 2016).

Shuarmaya, a community in Alto Nangaritza, provides a good illustration of the problem of titling in the Southeast. It came into being around 1962 when some Shuar families from Morona Santiago established themselves in the territory. Later, especially in connection with the drought in Loja Province, mestizo and Saraguro families arrived. There are 40 families (approximately 200 people) living there, with the main grouping made up of some 10 Shuar families who, along with some mestizo couples, live near a sports field with a wooded area on one side and a ravine on the other. A group of houses inhabited by Saraguro and mestizos are nicknamed “the individuals” by their neighbors, in reference to their not being included in the global deed. Most of the residents are small farmers, growing naranjillas for sale and products for family consumption in gardens outside the residential area.

As part of a project promoted by Naturaleza y Cultura in 2006, the MAE titled 1,100 hectares to the association to which the community belongs, using an environmental rationale as the legal basis. The parcels included a protected forest. The title was a global one, indivisible and controlled by the center’s assembly. Conflicts soon arose. Some members of the center sold lots to newly arrived Saraguro settlers who later demanded individual deeds to them. These are impossible to grant where the title is global, and the community leader and the council have refused to do so. However, they have allowed new Saraguro families to settle beyond the boundaries of what they believe is titled, and have even organized a sale of lots adjacent to the community at US$5,000 per developed plot and US$2,000 per undeveloped one.¹² Questions remain about the area executed by the deed. According to one of the technicians from Naturaleza y Cultura who participated in the titling, the deed covered only the forest parcels on the edge of the community. Contrary to what the residents believed, this area belonged to several absentee owners (apparently residents of the city of Zamora). Significantly, one of them had filed suit to recover his lot, arguing the illegal removal of some trees, and put up a shack on it in the meantime (interview, spokesperson for Naturaleza y Cultura, October 1, 2016). All of this, if confirmed, forecasts a future marked by disputes in defense of the center’s ownership.¹³

The leaders of Shuarmaya condemn the irregular sale of lots by some Shuar, attributing the problem to individual ignorance or misunderstandings that have been corrected. According to the community leader, “Today everyone understands the global title” (interview, Shuarmaya, August 26, 2016). Likewise, one of the Shuar leaders in the region, speaking of the Saraguro’s demand for individual titles, said (interview, FEPNASH-ZCH president, Zamora, May 26, 2016),

[The Shuarmaya neighbors] didn’t stay on it, they forgot about it, and then our friends started renting and selling, selling, and so on. At that time there was some lack of coordination. There were [Saraguro] who didn’t contribute to the collective work; they had another system. Before, they were not welcome, but now that they’re there, they have their right of ownership and everything. . . . I am not in favor of their being in the territory. What they’ve done is like an invasion.

He showed a kind of resignation in the face of an error committed (the establishment of Saraguro settlers) and conflict over both the property issue and the cultural discrepancies. The FEPNASH-ZCH leadership is requesting the creation of a register of the Shuar territory and regulations on boundaries specifically to avoid cases such as that of Shuarmaya (FEPNASH-ZCH, 2013; 2014).

The Saraguro families of Shuarmaya say that they get along with the rest, although some residents—the schoolteacher, for example—say that those excluded from the global title are not called on to participate in community activities. The leaders of Saraguro organizations in the region emphatically state that the “brothers and sisters” who live in Shuar centers like Shuarmaya “are going to stay” (interview, President of ZAMASKIJAT, Zamora, September 27, 2016):

It’s not just in Nangaritza. It exists, for example, here in Curintza, in the Kiim . . . in all those sectors [of Zamora Chinchipe] there are problems with the territory; that’s nothing new. But we’ve already approached the Shuar federation to resolve some issues, because, in any case, our Saraguro brothers and sisters are there. At any rate, our Saraguro brothers and sisters are going to live there. . . . What does affect the Saraguro friends is the fact that they don’t have property, but they keep producing. They keep working as usual.

In the face of the passivity of government officials, they plan to take advantage of the possibilities that the new constitutional instruments grant them to resolve the conflicts on their own:

Remember that Saraguro and Shuar brothers and sisters have a justice system based on Article 171 of the Constitution that [says that] internal problems are resolved by one’s own and customary law. Given this, we are not going to make use of the regular institutions. On the contrary, once our problems are solved, we will send [the decision] to the Department of Lands or the corresponding authority. . . . And this issue of “not having ownership” will not exist. We are going to agree on the way to resolve the problems with them [the Shuar].

The government authorities, for their part, are ignorant of the legal situation in Shuarmaya—whether it has a global title or not (“We’d like to have that information,” those in charge of the MAGAP Land Section said [interview, Zamora, September 6, 2016])—and of the disputes among Shuar, Saraguro, and mestizo residents about land and ownership.

Final Remarks

Titling of Shuar ancestral lands in southeastern Ecuador seeks to protect the territory and culture of this people. The process has, however, been marked by a lack of administrative clarity and has provoked conflict and changes that were not always positive in terms of preserving Shuar culture. Conflict over land is not new in the Southeast, where it is related to the entry of settlers in Shuar territory and—at a more abstract and secondary level—to the clash between different ways of conceiving of and using the land. The institution of property ownership in itself implies conflict (differences in access to and control of an asset), and distributing ownership rights (titles) entails allocating powers and privileges. The relationships established between groups are thereby affected, creating, modifying, or reinforcing certain inequalities.

The principal change in the Southeast is the relatively new position of strength of Shuar centers and the situation of dependency produced for nontitled groups. The new power dynamics do not, however, always lead to open conflict. As we have pointed out, in some communities informal rules have been established and agreements have been reached allowing nontitled residents to use communal property. In others, the nontitled (mostly Saraguro) have developed their own strategies for obtaining access (e.g., marrying Shuar women who are members of the centers). In the case we have described, that of Shuarmaya, we found both individual and contentious actions and more or less consensual collective agreements that include the irregular sale of individual lots (under the council’s control) and the relocation of Saraguro on lots outside the community. Shuarmaya is in a phase of strengthening the communal order after the 2006 titling, during which there has been some disorganization. This seems to be a recurring dynamic; in longer-standing titled communities, the idea of community (property, territory) is tending to change, sometimes creating collective projects and sometimes individual ones (Erazo, 2011; 2013).

Overall, a desire for mutual understanding seems to exist among the Shuar, Saraguro, and other groups living in the Southeast. Ultimately, they have lived together for some time in many communities and share an interest in peaceful coexistence. Contention seems to be fueled primarily by administrative disorganization and government inaction. These are, however, tentative conclusions that must be corroborated with new observations and more case studies.

Footnotes

Notes

Raúl Márquez Porras teaches social anthropology at the Universitat de Barcelona and coordinates the Grup de Recerca en Antropologia Jurídica. María Beatriz Eguiguren Riofrío is director of the Observatorio de Conflictos Socioambientales at the Universidad Técnica Particular de Loja. Ana Vera Vera is a researcher at the Observatorio. Research for this article was carried out with the support of Ecuador’s Secretaría Nacional de Educación Superior, Ciencia, Tecnología e Innovación through a Prometeo grant awarded to Raúl Márquez. Victoria J. Furio is a translator living in New York City.

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