PATHWAYS TO SUSTAINABILITY

CONTESTED
AGRONOMY
Agricultural Research in
— a Changing World

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CONTESTED AGRONOMY

The dramatic increases in food prices experienced over the past four years, and their effects on
hunger and food insecurity, as well as human-induced climate change and its implications for
agriculture, food production, food security and poverty, are key topics within the field of
agronomy and agricultural research.
This is a subject that is yet again near the top of the development agenda, and is particularly
relevant in the face of population growth, climate-induced environmental change, land degradation
and the loss of agricultural biological diversity. Whether the focus is on small-scale or commercial,
agro-ecological or input-intensive agricultural systems, agronomic research is one of the keys to
a more sustainable and equitable future.
Contested Agronomy: Agricultural Research in a Changing World addresses this issue, exploring
the three key developments since the mid-1970s — the emergence of the neoliberal project, and the
rise of the participation and environmental agendas — and considering their profound impacts on
the practice of agronomic research in the developing world — especially over the past four decades.
‘Through a series of case studies, the book explores the basis for a much needed ‘political
agronomy’ analysis that highlights the impacts of problem framing and narratives, historical
disjunctures, epistemic communities and the increasing pressure to demonstrate ‘success’ on
both agricultural research and the farmers, processors and consumers it 1s meant to serve.
While a fascinating and thought-provoking read for professionals in agriculture and envir-
onmental sciences, it will also appeal to students and researchers wanting to understand more
about this essential topic in agronomy, agricultural science and agricultural policy.

James Sumberg completed his postgraduate training in crop improvement in 1978. Since
then, he has worked as a plant breeder, agronomist, natural resources specialist and research director,
with a particular focus on West Africa. Before joining the Knowledge, Technology and Society
Team of the Institute of Development Studies at the University of Sussex; UK as a Research
Fellow in 2009, he taught at the University of East Anglia and was Director of Programmes at
the New Economics Foundation. His research interests are the dynamics of change within
smallholder agriculture in Africa and agricultural research policy.

John Thompson has worked on agricultural science, sustainability and policy issues since
1982, with a particular focus on East Africa. A resource geographer with a BSc from Pennsylvania
State University and MA and PhD from Clark University, USA, he was Director of
Programmes and Director of the Sustainable Agriculture Programme at the International Institute
of Environment and Development, London. He joined the Institute of Development Studies
in 2006 as a Research Fellow in Knowledge, Technology and Society, where he serves as Joint
Coordinator of the DFID-funded Future Agricultures Consortium and Co-Convenor of the
ood and Agriculture Domain of the ESRC-funded Centre for Social Technological and
Environmental Pathways to Sustainability (STEPS) Centre.
Pathways to Sustainability

This book series addresses core challenges around linking science and technology and
environmental sustainability with poverty reduction and social justice. It is based on
the work of the Social, Technological and Environmental Pathways to Sustainability
(STEPS) Centre, a major investment of the UK Economic and Social Research
Council (ESRC). The STEPS Centre brings together researchers at the Institute of
Development Studies (IDS) and Science and Technology Policy Research (SPRU) at
the University of Sussex with a set of partner institutions in Africa, Asia and Latin
America.

Series Editors:
Melissa Leach, Ian Scoones and Andy Stirling
STEPS Centre at the University of Sussex
Editorial Advisory Board:
Steve Bass, Wiebe E. Biker, Victor Galaz, Wenzel Geissler, Katherine Homewood,
Sheila Jasanoff, Colin McInnes, Suman Sahai, Andrew Scott

Other titles include:

Dynamic Sustainabilities
Technology, Environment, Social Justice
Melissa Leach, Ian Scoones and Andy Stirling

Avian Influenza
Science, Policy and Politics
Edited by Ian Scoones

Rice Biofortification
Lessons for Global Science and Development
Saily Brooks

Epidemics
Science, Governance and Social Justice
Edited by Sarah Dry and Melissa Leach
 CONTESTED AGRONOMY

Agricultural Research in a
Changing World

"Edited by
James Sumberg and John Thompson

Routledge
Taylor& Francis Group

NEW YORK AND LONDON

First published 2012
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© 2012 James Sumberg and John Thompson, selection and editorial matter;
individual chapters, the contributors
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without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Contested agronomy : agricultural research in a changing world / [edited] by
James Sumberg and John Thompson.
p. cm.
1. Agriculture--Research--Political aspects. 2. Agronomy--Research--Political
aspects. 3. Agriculture--Research--Social aspects. 4. Agronomy--Research--
Social aspects. 5. Agriculture and state. I. Sumberg,J.E. II. Thompson, John,
1959 Feb. 4-
$540.A2C666 2012
630.72--de23
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 CONTENTS

List of abbreviations
List of contributors
Acknowledgements

1 Contested agronomy: agricultural research in a changing world

James Sumberg, John Thompson and Philip Woodhouse

-2 On heretics and God’s blanket salesmen: contested claims for

Conservation Agriculture and the politics of its promotion in
African smallholder farming 22
Jens A. Andersson and Ken E. Giller

3 Conservation agriculture-based technologies and the political

economy: lessons from South Asia 47
Olaf Erenstein

4 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa: a political agronomy of

research disjunctures 64
James Fairhead, Melissa Leach and Kojo Amanor

5 Contestation as continuity? Biofortification research

and the CGIAR 86
Sally Brooks and Sarah E. Johnson-Beebout

6 Water in African agronomy 102

Philip Woodhouse
vi Contents

Understanding agricultural intensification on a forest

frontier in Madagascar: elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian
synthesis 116
Jacques Pollini

Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 13h

Harro Maat and Dominic Glover

‘This field is our church’: the social and agronomic

challenges of knowledge generation in a participatory
soil fertility management project 146
Joshua Ramisch

10 Contesting agronomy through dissent: experiences from India 175

C. Shambu Prasad, T.M. Thiyagarjan, O.P. Rupela,
Amod Thakur and G.V. Ramanjaneyulu

11 Success-making and success stories: agronomic research

in the spotlight 186
James Sumberg, Robin Irving, Elisabeth Adams and
John Thompson

ie: Nullius in verba: contestation, pathways and political

agronomy 204
John Thompson and James Sumberg

Index
ABBREVIATIONS

ACIAR Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research

ADB Asian Development Bank
ADE anthropogenic dark earths
AGRA Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa
AHI African Highlands Initiative
AKST agricultural knowledge, science and technology
ARDAP appropriate rural development agricultural programme
‘ASB alternatives to slash-and-burn
BMGF Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation
BRE Biopesticides Research Consortium
CA Conservation Agriculture
CAADP Comprehensive Africa Agricultural Development Programme
CAWT Conservation Agriculture with trees
CBD Convention on Biodiversity
GEE Centre for Environment Education
CF conservation farming
CGIAR Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research
CLAT International Centre for Tropical Agriculture
CIMMYT International Centre for Maize and Wheat Research
CIRAD Centre de coopération internationale en recherche agronomique
pour le développement
CSA Centre for Sustainable Agriculture
CWS Centre for World Solidarity
DAP diammonium phosphate
DDT dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane
DRR Directorate of Rice Research
121) European Union
viii List of abbreviations

FAO Food and Agriculture Organization of the UN

Fel Folk Ecology Initiative
FES farmer field school
FIPS Farm Inputs Promotion Services
GxE genotype X environment interaction
GFAR Global Forum for Agricultural Research
GTZ Deutsche Gesellschaft fiir Technische Zusammenarbeit
IAASTD International Assessment of Agricultural Knowledge, Science and
Technology for Development
[AE Institute of Agricultural Engineering
IARI Indian Agricultural Research Institute
IBI International Biochar Initiative
ICAR Indian Council for Agricultural Research
ICRAF World Agroforestry Centre
ICRISAT International Crops Research Institute for the Semi-Anid tropics
ICT information and communication technology
IDRC International Development Research Centre
IFPRI International Food Policy Research Institute
IGP Indo-Gangetic Plains
IHNF Institute of Human Nutrition and Food, University of the Phi-
lippines Los Banos
INRA Institut national de la recherche agronomique
IPM integrated pest management
IPR intellectual property regime
IRRI International Rice Research Institute
ITPGRFA International Treaty on Plant Genetic Resources for Food and
Agriculture
KAPP Kenya Agricultural Productivity Project
KARI Kenya Agricultural Research institute
KEFRI Kenya Forestry Research institute
N nitrogen
NERICA New Rice for Africa
NGO non-governmental organisation
NPM Non-Pesticidal Management
OFSP orange-fleshed sweet potato
P phosphorus
PLSN US Federal Plant, Soil and Nutrition Laboratory
PM&E participatory monitoring and evaluation
PRP Protracted Relief Programme (DFID)
QPM quality protein maize
R&D research and development
RAWE rural agricultural work experience programme
Rs. Indian rupi
RWC Raice—Wheat Consortium
 List of abbreviations ix

SAP Structural Adjustment Programme

SCOBICS sustainable community-based input credit scheme
SER P: Society for the Elimination of Rural Poverty
SOG soil organic carbon
SOM soil organic matter
SRI System of Rice Intensification
SRISTI Society for Research and initiatives for Sustainable Technologies and
Institutions
SSA sub-Saharan Africa
SWC soil and water conservation
T&V training-and-visit extension system
OSB Tropical Soil Biology and Fertility Institute
TSP triple super-phosphate
UNICEF United Nations Children’s Fund
USAID US Agency for International Development
ZCATE Zimbabwe Conservation Agriculture Taskforce
ZT zero tillage
CONTRIBUTORS

Elisabeth Adams is Food and Agriculture Convenor, Knowledge Service Department,

Institute of Development Studies, UK

Kojo Amanor is a Professor in the Institute of African Studies, University of Ghana,

Legon, Ghana

Jens Andersson is a Senior Lecturer in the Plant Production Systems Group,

Wageningen University, the Netherlands

Sally Brooks is a Visiting Fellow at the Science and Technology Policy Research
Unit, University of Sussex, UK

Olaf Erenstein is a socio-economist at the International Maize and Wheat

Improvement Center, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

James Fairhead is a Professor of Anthropology, School of Global Studies, University

of Sussex, UK

Ken Giller is a Professor in the Plant Production Systems Group, Wageningen

University, the Netherlands

Dominic Glover is a Post-Doctoral Fellow in the Technology and Agrarian

Development Group, Wageningen University, the Netherlands

Robin Irving works at the Sail and Life Training Society, Victoria, Canada

Sarah Johnson-Beebout is Deputy Division Head and Soil Chemist, Crop and
Environmental Sciences Division, International Rice Research Institute, the Philippines
 List of contributors xi

Melissa Leach is a Professorial Fellow and Co-Director of the STEPS Centre,

Institute of Development Studies, UK

Harro Maat is a University Lecturer in the Technology and Agrarian Development

Group, Wageningen University, the Netherlands

Jacques Pollini works for the University of Hamburg as Scientific Coordinator of

the Sustainable Land Management Project, Toliara

G.V. Ramanjaneyulu is Executive Director at the Centre for Sustainable Agriculture,

Taranka, India

Joshua Ramisch is an Associate Professor in the School of International Development &

Global Studies, University of Ottawa, Canada

O.P. Rupela is an independent consultant and was a Principal Scientist at the

International Crops Research Institute for the Semi-Arid Tropics, India

C. Shambu Prasad is a Professor at the Xavier Institute of Management, India

James Sumberg is a Research Fellow at the Institute of Development Studies, UK

T.M. Thiyagarajan is an independent consultant and was Dean, Tamil Nadu

Agricultural University, Coimbatore, India

Amod Thakur is a Principal Scientist at the Directorate of Water Management,

Bhubaneswar, India

John Thompson is a Research Fellow at the Institute of Development Studies, UK

Philip Woodhouse is a Senior Lecturer in the School of Environment and

Development, University of Manchester, UK
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is the product of an international workshop organised by the STEPS

Centre at the University of Sussex. STEPS stands for Social, Technological and
Environmental Pathways to Sustainability, and the Centre acts as a hub for a wide
range of international research and engagement collaborations thanks to funding from
the Economic and Social Research Council. We are very grateful to our STEPS
colleagues and collaborators for their support and inputs to this book.
The STEPS Centre Directors, Melissa Leach, Ian Scoones and Andy Stirling, have
been supportive throughout and a helpful source of counsel and encouragement. We
also gratefully acknowledge the valuable assistance of Jas Vaghadia and Elisabeth
Adams.
 1
CONTESTED AGRONOMY
Agricultural research in a changing world

James Sumberg, John Thompson and Philip Woodhouse

Introduction

The ‘food crisis’ of 2007-08 and record food commodity prices in 2010-11 have
renewed interest in questions about agricultural productivity, and reinforce the recent
emphasis on agricultural development as a key to economic, social and environmental
improvement (e.g. World Bank 2007). This is particularly so in sub-Saharan Africa
(SSA), where poor agricultural performance is often seen as a driver of high and
_ persistent levels of rural poverty and food insecurity (Dorward et al 2004; Diao et al
2010; cf. Wiggins 2009) and environmental degradation (Abalu 1998; Mbow et al
2008). The renewed interest in agriculture is underlined by government commitments
through the African Union’s Comprehensive Africa Agriculture Development Pro-
gramme (CAADP), the emergence of new funders such as the Bill & Melinda Gates
Foundation, high-profile initiatives such as the Alliance for a Green Revolution in
Africa (AGRA) (Toenniessen et al 2008), and a rapid rise in commercial investment
in African farmland (Cotula et al 2009; Zoomers 2010).
This context brings to the fore the critical role of research in developing and sustaining
productive agricultural systems, regardless of whether those systems are described as
small-scale or commercial, agro-ecological or input-intensive (World Bank 2007;
McIntyre et al 2009; Poulton 2009; Barrett et al 2010). While there is much debate
about priorities, methods and the interplay of different knowledges, the need for
investment in research is recognised across the political and ideological divides that
inform different approaches to agriculture and rural development.
Agronomy is a core element of agricultural research. While there are different
currents and traditions within agronomy, it can be most broadly conceived of as a
scientific and intellectual endeavour that seeks to understand and affect the biological,
ecological, physical, socio-cultural and economic bases of crop production and
land management. More narrowly, and particularly within the anglophone tradition,
2 J. Sumberg et al

agronomy is usually understood to be the application of plant and soil science to crop
production.
Agronomic research is, by and large, an applied and practical undertaking, and research
agronomists are only occasionally in the political or media spotlight. Nevertheless, in
this chapter we call for a distinctly political analysis of present-day agronomic research
in the developing world, and sketch out the terrain that such an analysis should
occupy. Our argument is that ‘political agronomy’ analysis is particularly relevant
today because of three key developments since the mid-1970s — (1) the promotion of the
neoliberal project; (ii) the emergence of the environmental movement; and (iii) the
rise of the participation agenda in agricultural research. We contend that over the past
four decades these developments have radically transformed the context within which
agronomic research in the developing world takes place. This not only has profound
consequences for the practice of agronomic research, but also has opened up new
spaces for contestation over the goals and priorities for agricultural research.
The remainder of this chapter is divided into three parts. In the next section, we
develop the elements of the argument set out above on the changing context of
agronomic research. In the remaining two parts, we trace some of the main contours
of a political agronomy approach, and sketch the beginnings of a research agenda to
allow for a more systematic and in-depth examination of the clash of epistemologies,
priorities and approaches now emerging in the field and their consequences for policy
and practice.
Before proceeding, three caveats are required. First, as will become evident in the
next section, our identification of a disyuncture since the mid-1970s is not to suggest that
agronomic research existed outside the political arena prior to the rise of neoliberal,
environmental and participation agendas. Indeed, there is a significant body of scho-
larship focused on the political economy of agricultural research both before and after
the implementation of the neoliberal project (Busch 1981; Hadwiger 1982; Buttel
and Busch 1988). Rather, we argue that the 1970s saw the end of a half-century
dominated by state-led programmes of agricultural modernisation that had largely
defined the economic and institutional (political) relationships between science and
agricultural production in industrialised and developing economies alike. We argue
that these relationships have changed profoundly in the ensuing four decades, and the
present juncture is an opportune moment for systematic analysis of the politics of con-
temporary, everyday agronomic research in the developing world because such an analysis has
the potential to influence the emerging trajectories of agricultural development.
Second, this analysis is not driven by a desire to denigrate or dismiss agronomic
research or agronomists, whether they are working in the public sector, agro-industry,
the Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research (CGIAR) or anywhere
else. Rather, our objective is to understand better their responses to the changing
opportunities, challenges and incentives they face.
Finally, our focus on the politics of formal agronomic research should not be read
either as signalling acceptance of a simple linear model of agricultural technology
development, or as denial of the importance of farmer knowledge, experimentation
and agency. Our analysis is underpinned by a systems of innovation perspective
 Agricultural research in a changing world 3

(Hall et al 2001) that views formal agronomic research as but one (important) part of
a rich, interactive picture in which producers, service providers and others are intimately
involved in knowledge generation and innovation processes, and where technology
choice decisions are iterative, contingent and socially embedded (Scoones and Thompson
1994, 2009).

The contested agronomy argument

Agronomy and the state

The political economy of agricultural research per se is not our main focus here, but it
forms an important part of the backdrop to the contested agronomy argument. Until
the mid- to late twentieth century, formal agronomic research in both the developed and
developing worlds took place largely within state-funded institutions (universities,
ministries and research institutes) (Ruttan 1982). In this sense, agronomic research
was very much of the state, with a role of supporting the state’s economic, political and
social policy agendas through the generation of practical knowledge and applied
technology. It should not be surprising, therefore, that agronomy as an academic
discipline developed as a normative, applied and practically oriented field.
Agronomic research as ‘state intervention’ (Dale 1981) operated at a variety of
levels to support policy objectives, including state security, the consolidation of state
boundaries, colonial expansion and exploitation, ‘cheap food’ and agricultural mod-
ernisation. For example, agronomic research was critical to the industrialisation project of
the Japanese government from the start of the Meiji period in 1868. Following a
~ decade of failed attempts to introduce farm machinery from the USA and UK, the
Japanese state sought to expand food supply for the growing industrial workforce by
embarking on an entirely different technological trajectory. This was a programme of
cereal seed selection and improvement that, by the 1930s, had created the basis for
the technology known three decades later as the Green Revolution (cf. Hayami and
Ruttan 1985: 231-52).
In the USA, state-supported agricultural research fostered the development of capitalist
agriculture dominated by agribusiness (e.g. Hightower 1973; Busch 1981), as exemplified
by case studies of the Heinz and Campbell’s Soup corporations (Dale 1981; Kloppenburg
1988). While the outputs of this research disproportionately benefited better-capitalised
farmers — and made the survival of smaller-scale farms increasingly difficult — the
framework of state-funded research enabled researchers to cloak themselves in ‘prof-
essional neutrality’ and ‘scientific objectivity’ in the service of ‘progressive or inevitable’
agricultural modernisation.
From the work of Bonneuil (2000) and others, it is clear that science in the form
of agronomic research on experimental stations throughout colonial Africa, much of
which focused on export or industrial crops destined for Europe, was a critical com-
ponent of strategic colonial-era projects such as the Gezira Scheme in Sudan, the East
African Groundnut Scheme, the Niger Agricultural Project in Nigeria’s Middle Belt
(Baldwin 1957) and the Office du Niger. With the objective of producing raw
4 J. Sumberg et al

materials to fuel European industrial expansion (e.g. groundnuts) and to cut historical
inter-European dependencies (e.g. cotton) and European dependence on America (e.g.
for vegetable oil; Franke and Chasin 1980), these were political projects in every sense.
Agronomists also played a critical role in the development and promotion of
‘mixed farming’ as a model for agricultural development in SSA. Initially framed as a
response to soil erosion and deforestation, mixed farming soon became an overarching
framework for the spatial, social and economic reorganisation of the African coun-
tryside, including an explicit goal of creating and supporting a new class of ‘peasant
farmers’ (Sumberg 1998; Wolmer and Scoones 2000). It is true that, while adapting
the pieces of the mixed farming model that met their needs and rejecting others,
farmers both resisted the state’s advances and exercised their agency. Nevertheless, it
is impossible to escape the conclusion that agronomists and agronomic research were
at the heart of the colonial states’ political and social agendas (cf. Bonneuil 2000).
In the period after World War II (in Europe and the USA) and after independence
(in Africa and Asia), agronomic research operated within a policy context — including
national food security, modernisation, productivity enhancement and increased
competitiveness — framed by recent histories of wartime disruption of trade and
continuing tensions of the Cold War. This context provided agronomic research with
routine, uncontroversial justifications, such as the need to address hunger and the
supply of cheap food for a rapidly growing world population, but also with imperatives
to serve ideological and strategic geopolitical goals (Thompson and Scoones 2009).
Here our central contention is that, because of the historical context in which agronomy
developed as a field of academic study and a practical, problem-solving science — one
in which national governments unified both funding and priorities of research
according to public policy objectives — agronomic research experienced a long period
during which scope for contention about priorities, objectives, methods or the
meaning of success was narrowly circumscribed by norms of a largely apolitical,
professionalised ‘scientific’ discipline. As outlined in the following section, however,
the long-standing unity of purpose between government policy and agronomic
objectives, which dominated the politics of agricultural science for much of the past
century, has slowly been eroded, both in practice and in policy debates about the
priorities for agricultural research and development.

A changing context
Our argument focuses on three related developments that, over time, have radically
changed the context within which agronomic research takes place. The neoliberal,
environmental and participation agendas emerged as responses to growing criticisms
of state-led development as inefficient, environmentally damaging and undemocratic.
While each of these has influenced broader discourses in development, their effects
on contestation within agronomy have been particularly significant, sometimes in
unexpected ways. Although these struggles over the meaning, purpose and priorities of
agricultural research have been recognised in some quarters, until now the consequences
of these clashes have not been examined systematically.
 Agricultural research in a changing world 5

The neoliberal project

We use the term ‘neoliberal project’ to refer to the wave of economic liberalisation
and reform that emerged in the USA in the late 1970s and early 1980s and, as the
overtly hegemonic “Washington Consensus’, was subsequently imposed throughout
much of the developing world and post-Cold War Europe (Chang, 2009).
A guiding principle of the neoliberal agenda was that markets are the most efficient
way of allocating resources and hence of achieving the greatest public good. Efficient
markets required legally enforced property rights and elimination of barriers to trade.
The effects on state-funded agricultural research and development in many developing
countries came in the 1980s, when deficits in public budgets forced governments to
agree Structural Adjustment Programmes (SAPs) with the World Bank and International
Monetary Fund. In addition to exchange rate and fiscal reforms, the SAPs followed
the Berg Report’s (1981) analysis that state provision and/or subsidisation of agri-
cultural inputs and services — research, extension services, irrigation, fertilisers, seeds,
credit and so on — caused inefficiencies, distortions and corruption, while putting an
unsustainable burden on state finances. Consequently, state agencies providing these
were targeted for reform or privatisation and any subsidy elements eliminated or
radically reduced. State involvement in agricultural marketing (e.g. through marketing
boards that set minimum prices) and processing was also curtailed (Bates 1981; cf.
Sandbrook 1985).
In one important respect, the neoliberal project directly and significantly affected
agronomy research via changes to intellectual property rights. Beginning in the 1960s,
the laws in Europe and the USA governing crop variety protection were strengthened,
reflecting a more global evolution of the regimes governing intellectual property rights
. (Tansey and Rajotte 2008). These changes incentivised greater private-sector investment
in crop improvement. When combined with the revolution in cell biology and bio-
engineering, which were themselves stimulated by the new intellectual property
regimes (IPRs), the growing role of private-sector crop breeding set the stage for
restructuring and consolidation of the agro-inputs industry (Bijman 2001). The fact that
some of the most widely grown genetically modified crop varieties were engineered
to be used exclusively with one specific herbicide product illustrates the extent of this
consolidation (Wield et al 2010).

The environmental agenda

While there is considerable debate about the roots of the modern environmental
movement (Kuzmiak 1991; Barton 2001), in terms of its eventual focus on agriculture,
the publication of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring in 1962 was a significant landmark
that drew public attention to the ecological damage associated with widespread use
of the synthetic insecticide dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane or DDT (Carson 1962).
In so doing, Carson set the stage for a broader interrogation of the environmental and
health impacts of the chemical-intensive, large-scale farming operations that state-funded
research had supported in the pursuit of “cheap food’.
6 J. Sumberg et al

In the developing world, the Sahel droughts of the late 1960s and early 1970s — and
the spectre of the desert marching south to the Guinea coast — cast doubt on the ability
of these environments to support conventional models of agricultural intensification.
In response, there was renewed research and development interest in alternatives
involving indigenous soil and water conservation (Scoones et al 1996), agroforestry
(Nair 1991; Kessler and Breman 1991), local crop varieties (Rachards 1986) and imation
(Moris and Thom 1990).
In Asia, concerns were being raised about environmental and related health con-
sequences of the Green Revolution by the 1980s, including water pollution from
fertiliser use, waterlogging and soil salinisation, biodiversity loss and human poisoning
associated with pesticide use (Loevinsohn 1987; Pimentel and Pimentel 1990; Pingali
and Rosengrant 1994). These apprehensions, combined with a growing perception
that the Green Revolution had gained limited ground in marginal areas, fuelled
interest in a number of related alternatives including agro-ecology (Conway 1985) and
‘low external-input’ farming (Reijntes et al 1992; Tripp 2005). As with the organic
movement in developed countries, these alternatives were frequently shunned by
mainstream agronomists, but the promise of a more environmentally fnendly agn-
culture made them attractive to some NGOs and some funders (De Jager et al 2001;
Reij and Waters-Bayer 2001; cf. Low 1994).
The rapid spread of Green Revolution crop varieties in Asia, events such as the
1970 epidemic of southern corn leaf blight in the USA (Tatum 1971), and the signing
of the 1993 Convention on Biological Diversity drew attention to risks associated
with narrowing the crop genetic resource base (Pistorius 1997). Maintenance of
agro-biodiversity, particularly in marginal areas where crop genetic diversity was seen
to be a key to local adaptation strategies, soon became an important plank of the
environmental agenda. The International Treaty on Plant Genetic Resources for Food
and Agriculture (ITPGRFA) in 2004 established a system to facilitate access to seed of
over 64 major food crops and forages.’ In what may be seen as a response to the
use of IPRs to control access to seeds, the ITPGRFA recognises farmers’ role in
conservation and development of plant genetic resources in the form of ‘farmers’
rights’, which include the protection of traditional knowledge and the right to par-
ticipate equitably in benefit-sharing and in national decision-making about plant
genetic resources. These arguments about agro-biodiversity lie at the heart of legal
and economic relations between people and the crop genetic resources that they
develop and use (e.g. Pimbert 1999), and are likely to intensify as agriculture is forced
to adapt to climate change (Kotschi 2007).

The participation agenda

The role of the participation agenda in changing the context of agronomic research
had two distinct aspects. The first, rooted in populist calls for a shift in the relations
between state bureaucracy, elite social groups and the poor, was inspired by works
such as Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of theOppressed (2007) and framed in terms of social justice,
nights and empowerment (Chambers and Ghildyal 1985; Chambers 1993; Chambers
 Agricultural research in a changing world 7

1997; cf. Cornwall 2003). The second aspect marked a convergence with the neo-
liberal agenda to reduce ‘inefficient’ state power through promotion of administrative
decentralisation and the use of market mechanisms to deliver services to the poor
(Leal 2007). Here, people become ‘stakeholders’, and participation has much more to
do with efficient development management than with emancipation and justice
(Cooke 2003). This ambiguity, coupled with the rapid permeation of participatory
thetoric throughout development policy, led to questions about its emancipatory
potential (Gow and Vansant 1983; Weyland 1996; Cooke and Kothari 2001).
For agronomic research, the participation agenda has been highly significant. A view
that the Green Revolution had widened the gap between richer and poorer rural
people (Pearse 1980), and had provided few benefits for people in ‘low-potential’
areas, highlighted claims about the irrelevance of research-generated technologies and
a rising hostility to anything that smacked of technology transfer or so-called top-
down and blueprint approaches to development. This set the stage for a sustained
attack on agricultural research and researchers (Richards 1985), and the norms and
values of agronomists’ ‘normal professionalism’ as being those of elites, cut off from
rural realities, ill-informed and lacking interest in or respect for local people and their
indigenous knowledge (Chambers 1986, 1993, 1997). It is important to note, however,
the disjuncture between this critique and studies of the economic returns to invest-
ment in agricultural research in the developing world and farmers’ use of technologies
produced by formal research, even in SSA (e.g. Maredia et al 2000; Dalton and Guei
2003; Raitzer and Kelley 2008; Maredia and Raitzer 2010).
These critiques, and the earlier (somewhat disappointing) experience of trying to frame
research priorities from farmers’ perspectives through farming systems research (Biggs
- 1995; cf. Collinson 2000), helped fuel a new interest in ‘farmer participatory research’
(Okali et al 1994), ‘participatory technology development’ (Haverkort et al
1991), and many other ‘farmer-first’ approaches (Chambers et al 1989; Scoones and
Thompson 1994; Scoones and Thompson 2009). In practice, farmer participatory
research laboured under confused objectives (e.g. making research more effective;
co-producing knowledge; validating new technologies; empowering the rural poor).
Although there have been sustained efforts to develop more inclusive approaches to
crop improvement through ‘participatory plant breeding’ (Almekinders and Elings
2001; Sperling et al 2001), too often ‘participatory research’ simply reproduced con-
ventional on-farm trials prefaced by a ‘participatory rural appraisal’ exercise (Okali et al
1994; Thompson and Scoones 1994).
In Latin America, there was considerable emphasis on the development of
mechanisms that would give farmers more control over the agricultural research that
was supposed to be benefiting them (Ashby et al 2000). In SSA, the participation
agenda highlighted women’s role in agriculture and natural resource management,
the need for researchers to take better account of intra-household dynamics (Moock
1986), and the need to empower women vis-a-vis agricultural research (Sperling and
Berkowitz 1994). The neoliberal interest in participation was manifest in pressure on
agricultural research organisations to become more ‘client-oriented’. One hope was
that, if agricultural research was able to prove its worth to its ‘clients’, farmers would
8 |. Sumberg et al

be willing to carry more of the financial burden of research, thus opening the way for
farther state withdrawal and creation of a market for agricultural innovation. In the
event, there was little movement in this direction, at least as far as poor farmers and
staple food crops were concerned.
More recently, the participation agenda has been associated with the emergence in
Latin America, Asia and to a lesser extent in SSA of rural social movements cam-
paigning on issues such as landlessness, corporate control over agricultural technology
(e.g. 'anti-GM) and ‘food sovereignty’ (Akram-Lodhi 2007; McMichael 2008; Patel
2009; Teubal 2009). These movements’ demands on agricultural and rural policy
have extended to the orientation and oversight of agronomy and agricultural research.
The reach of the rural social movements has been greatly aided by the information,
technology and communication revolution, which is creating new opportunities and
spaces for debate and organising, including by some seeking to gain recognition as
legitimate stakeholders in relation to agronomic research (Shambu Prasad and Sen 2010).

Impacts on agronomic research

The changes in context outlined above have had important direct and indirect
impacts on everyday agronomic research. The nature and extent of these impacts
have varied tremendously across regions, countries and commodities, depending on
agronomic traditions, the policy environment and the size and coherence (and level
of dependency on development assistance) of the agricultural research system. Structural
Adjustment Programmes — a key instrument of the neoliberal project in the developing
world — couched efforts to ‘reform’ and ‘strengthen’ public-sector agricultural
research in terms of improving efficiency and accountability (to both funders and
clients), translating to rationalisation of objectives and programmes, reduced numbers
of experimental stations, reduced staffing levels and new incentive structures, and
strengthened management (Berg 1981; Byerlee 1998; Byerlee and Alex 1998).
In those developing countries where there has been increasing private-sector
investment in agricultural research (Naseem et al 2010), the public sector has been forced
to rethink its role, commonly seeking justification in terms of the provision of ‘public
goods’ in the face of market failure. The geographical scale of this language of public
goods ranges from ‘local’ through to CGIAR’s ambitions to create ‘global public goods’
(Anderson 1998; Gardner and Lesser 2003; Lele and Gerrard 2003; Harwood et al 2006).
The new context highlights questions about partnerships and alliances. Increasing
prominence of the language of‘public-private partnerships’ — as seen for example within
the CGIAR — clearly reflects shifting institutional, funding and political landscapes
(Spielman et al 2010). There has been heightened emphasis on the creation and
management of research partnerships, platforms and networks, and new divisions of
labour, resources and recognition. The CGIAR Challenge Programmes, for example,
were conceived and presented as new models of partnership and co-production
(Woolley et al 2009). Where the interests of agribusiness are opposed by populist social
movements, however, such public-private partnerships may be highly contentious,
since it may be difficult to demonstrate whether or not partnerships are actually
 Agricultural research in a changing world 9

pro-poor; exclusive licensing agreements may emerge that appear to benefit private-
sector players disproportionately; and there may be a diversion of international public
resources, staff and facilities towards high-value commodities and away from staple crops.
These shifts have important implications, not only for what research areas or ques-
tions are prioritised by the public sector, but also for the choice of methods, research
sites and partnership arrangements. Associated changes in funding, and the new
emphasis on accountability and impact, favour downstream over upstream and short-
term over long-term research, and play themselves out through the thousands of
everyday decisions made by those who fund, manage and do agronomic research.
In summary, agronomic research is embedded in global processes of transformation
framed by ideology, fuelled by the search for advantage, pursued in markets, policy
and academic arenas, and that result in new winners and losers. Associated with these
changes has been a proliferation of new actors doing, hyping, assessing and debating
the nature, scope and results of agronomic research.

New spaces for contestation

The dynamics highlighted above have created new spaces in which agronomic research
can be contested. On one hand, unity of purpose between agricultural research and state
policy has been undermined by public budget deficits, the arrival of new research
actors and funders, calls for greater accountability, participation and client orientation,
and the mass availability of information and communication technologies (ICTs).
On the other hand, those opposing increasing corporate control of the global food
system have sought to open up science and technology policy processes to greater
popular participation and to promote alternative forms of agricultural research and
development.
Three distinct spaces for contestation can be identified. The first is associated largely
with peer-reviewed journals, the traditional channel for the communication of
agronomic research findings. In recent years, well respected journals such as Field
Crops Research, Agricultural Systems and Experimental Agriculture have seen vigorous and
extended exchanges around the value of the System of Rice Intensification (SRI)
(Dobermann 2004; Uphoff et al 2008; Latif et al 2009) and Conservation Agriculture
(Giller et al 2009; Kassam et al 2009). Other examples include the potential con-
tribution of integrated pest management (Van Huis and Meerman 1997; Orr and
Ritchie 2004) and of agro-ecological approaches to crop improvement and management
(Altieri 2002; Van Bueren et al 2002; cf. Woodhouse 2010). Unlike many debates
among agronomists — typically focusing on the performance of a technology, the choice
of experimental methods or the interpretation of statistical analyses — contemporary
argument lays bare major epistemological and ontological divisions, not least in
relation to the value of different kinds of knowledge and the nature of innovation
processes. In this respect, these debates are qualitatively different from those in the
1970s about the Green Revolution in Asia, which saw parallel discussions: one con-
ducted by economists and social scientists in journals not normally associated with
agronomic research (Falcon 1970; Cleaver 1972; Ruttan 1977); and a second, more
10 J. Sumberg et al

technically focused debate among agronomists (e.g. the relative value of open-pollinated
versus hybrid maize varieties; improving crop protection; the potential role of compost in
soil fertility management).
A second space has given rise to new contestations around agricultural research in the
developing world more broadly. This has seen public critique of agricultural research
policy move beyond its established academic arena (see Buttel 2005) with increasing
engagement by NGOs and other civil society organisations. Combined with the huge
mass-communication potential of the internet and ICTs, this has fundamentally
changed the scope and dynamic of debate. The World Wide Web is replete with sites
advocating or criticising specific technologies such as Bt cotton, Conservation Agriculture,
drought-tolerant maize for Africa, Golden Rice, NERICA (New Rice for Africa)
and SRI. These include websites drawing from the journal-based debates cited above;
others collating information and experiences from a broader range of sources in order
to serve specific communities of interest; and still others that are public relations
efforts by research organisations, funders, development organisations and private firms
promoting their scientific achievements and innovations. The lack of independent
peer review or quality assurance mechanisms for many such internet sites underlines the
extent to which the quality of information may be subordinated to broader political
goals. Such use of science as a tool of political struggle or corporate promotion means
that unsupported evidence and dubious conclusions can be widely propagated, and
claims and counterclaims about the impacts, outcomes and potentials of agronomic
research, technologies and practices may be partial and ill-informed.
A third set of spaces for contestation arose when agricultural research organisations
sought greater engagement with their clients and prospective collaborators and opened
themselves up to greater public scrutiny. In many countries, national and sub-national
committees were established to help set priorities and monitor progress.. These pres-
sures for stakeholder involvement were also evident at the international level, and in
1995 the CGIAR established the CGIAR-NGO Partnership Committee to bring
together a diverse set of actors and interests to debate research practice and policy.
The Committee experienced deep divisions, which were described as ‘irreconcilable’
by the time of the CGIAR’s Annual General Meeting in 2003 (CGIAR 2003).
During the recent CGIAR reorganisation exercise, there was renewed pressure for
stakeholder engagement, although the preferred mechanism changed to the Global
Forum on Agricultural Research (also see CGIAR 2006).

Impacts on policy processes

The opening up of these new spaces of contestation has complicated agricultural
policy processes at a moment when the global food system and the policy-makers
who seek to guide it confront many new challenges. Some argue that an ‘opening up’ to
new methods and practices that enhance flexibility, diversity, adaptation and reflexivity is
a logical response to the incomplete knowledge available about the nature and
dynamics of these challenges (Leach et al 2010). Yet, in the spaces we identified
above, prioritisation and framing of these challenges are highly contested and so, too,
 Agricultural research in a changing world 11

are the quality, significance and relevance of the results of agronomic research gen-
erated in both formal and (increasingly) less traditional research settings. Rather than
opening up, there is a tendency — supported by professional, institutional and political
pressures — for powerful actors and institutions to ‘close down’ discussion in favour of
particular research agendas and development pathways. A result of this dynamic is
the promotion of universal approaches to policy that obscure alternative framings and
development pathways (Thompson and Scoones 2009).
Within the new spaces of contestation, the results of agronomic research are often used
to support both sides of an argument, for example about the value and environmental
implications of GM crops, the technical feasibility of a Green Revolution in Africa,
or the potential contribution of ‘agro-ecological approaches’ to crop production.
Along these lines, Scoones (2009) used the recent International Assessment of Agricultural
Knowledge, Science and Technology for Development ([AASTD) process (McIntyre
et al 2009) to explore the politics of divergent appreciations of agronomic knowledge.
Over three years, from 2005 to 2007, the IAASTD evaluated the relevance, quality
and effectiveness of agricultural knowledge, science and technology, as well as associated
policies and institutional arrangements. It adopted an expert-led scenario approach to
explore uncertain scientific, technological and policy futures, drawing on experiences
from Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change and the Millennium Ecosystem
Assessment, and solicited suggestions from over 900 stakeholders representing scientific
and agriculture-related public, private and civil society organisations around the world.
In theory, such an inclusive approach can confer political legitimacy and credibility
on a complex assessment process; but in practice it led to logjams and divisions within
the agricultural research community, reflecting competing worldviews of agriculture.

The contours of a political agronomy analysis

We see political agronomy analysis focusing principally on the practice of everyday
agronomic research. It also highlights the dynamics of epistemic communities within
agronomy, and the politics of collaboration, partnership and stakeholder engagement.
Finally, it includes a concern for how the legitimacy of research is determined, and how
the presentation and interpretation of results supports or counters particular narratives
and policy framings, or promotes particular political projects and agendas. We explore
these points in more detail below, highlighting the kinds of research questions that
would underpin the development of a political agronomy analysis and indicating how
the various chapters in the volume relate to this agenda.

Framing and narratives

The importance and politics of problem framing is now widely recognised (Bardwell
1991). Here, framing refers to the particular contextual assumptions, methods, forms
of interpretation and values that different groups bring to a problem, shaping how it
is bounded and understood. Framing determines to a significant degree how much
attention the problem receives, the approach taken to address it, and the eventual
12 J. Sumberg et al

solution(s) that are proposed and adopted. Framing sets the stage for narratives or
storylines about a given problem: how it has arisen, why it matters, and what can be
done about it (Leach et al 2010). A focus on multiple framings and their associated
narratives can help advance debate about both innovation in agronomic science and
its contribution to agricultural development.
The pertinence of framing to a political agronomy analysis is illustrated by effects
of a change in how the objective of a cropping system is framed, for example from
‘yield maximisation’ to ‘yield stability’, which focuses attention on different strategies,
indicators and experimental methods (Piepho 1998; Van Bueren et al 2002). Another
example is the reframing of soil organic matter management as ‘carbon sequestration’
(Perez et al 2007; Lal 2009), which foregrounds new questions relating to monitoring
and markets that were of little interest when soil organic matter management was
primarily about soil condition and crop response. Finally, recent work shows how
GM crops have been actively framed by some biotechnology companies as ‘technology
for the poor’ (Jansen and Gupta 2009; Glover 2010). While this may have been
intended to provide a moral counterweight to the resistance to GM technology still seen
in some quarters, it may also shift research agendas toward some areas (e.g. perfor-
mance under less than optimal conditions; quantification of benefits to poor farmers)
and away from other potentially more sensitive questions (e.g. corporate control;
environmental impacts).
From a political agronomy perspective, the questions of interest relate to the drivers of
processes of framing and reframing; the actors and relationships involved; and the
impacts of different framings and narratives on the conception, practice and presentation
of agronomic research. Brooks and Johnson-Beebout (Chapter 5) show how the
framing and reframing of biofortification of rice within the CGIAR had significant
consequences for the research approach, methods and networks. In Chapter 6,
Woodhouse argues that the impasse in the development of formal irrigation in SSA is
due in part to the fact that agronomists have left agricultural water management either to
engineers (who frame the challenge in terms of modernisation of infrastructure), or to
environmentalists (who frame it in terms of resource conservation). In neither case
have they engaged with the current social dynamics of African agriculture. Along
similar lines, Pollini (Chapter 7) uses case-study material from Madagascar to explore
the epistemological underpinnings and practical relevance of technological approaches
framed as providing alternatives to slash-and-burn cultivation.

Agenda-setting
Closely related to framing is the question of how agronomic research priorities are
determined. While a large literature assumes that prioritisation is (or should be) a
rational, technical process (Raitzer and Norton 2009), an alternative view sees it as a
process in which power and politics are of utmost importance. This latter perspective
is useful in analysing why some challenging ideas and innovations are successfully
integrated into the agronomic research agenda while others are not. For example,
Vanloqueren and Baret (2009) ask, “Why were GM crops brought quickly within
 Agricultural research in a changing world 13

mainstream agricultural research while, in contrast, there has been relatively little
funding for research on agroecology?? McGuire (2008) uses notions of path dependency
and ‘technology lock-in’ to explain the persistent focus (since 1977) on F; hybrids
within the Ethiopian lowland sorghum breeding programme, despite the fact that to
date no hybrid varieties have been released. Among many other examples from SSA
are the decades of research on fodder legumes and mixed farming, despite limited use by
farmers (see Sumberg 1998; Wolmer and Scoones 2000; Sumberg 2002; cf. Starkey
1988).
These examples raise a series of fundamental questions about the direction of
agricultural research and who benefits from these investments. What evidence was used
to justify the objectives set for particular agronomic research projects or programmes?
To what extent are they rooted in analysis of farmers’ practice and priorities? Through
what processes are these decisions made? How is influence and power brought to
bear on these processes, and who gains and who loses as a result?
Political agronomy research along these lines would directly address the interactions
amongst and between national and regional actors on the one hand and bilateral and
multilateral funders on the other, and how these dynamics affect decision-making. As
in Fairhead et al’s discussion of the emergence of interest in anthropogenic dark earth
soils and biochar in SSA (Chapter 4), political agronomy research would also explore
historical and regional differences and disjunctures in the setting of research agendas.
Andersson and Giller, in their analysis of the dynamics around the promotion of
Conservation Agriculture in Zimbabwe (Chapter 2), also focus on the importance of
historical disjunctures in agronomic knowledge. The story of Conservation Agriculture
in Zimbabwe and Shambu Prasad et al’s discussion of the role of ‘dissenting agronomists’
‘in the development and promotion of SRI and non-pesticidal management in
India (Chapter 10) both illustrate the value of a focus on the influence of epistemic
communities within agronomic research.

Partnership
A strong narrative in agricultural science maintains that collaborative research is nearly
always desirable. This narrative is couched in terms such as learning, multidisciplinarity,
institution-strengthening, capacity-building, coalition-building and comparative advan-
tage. It both supports, and is in turn strengthened by, donor investments in research
networks and innovation platforms (Plucknett and Smith 1984; Greenland et al
1987). Indeed, it is not uncommon for funders to insist that research programmes and
projects be designed and implemented collaboratively. Collaboration and partnership
are also central to the language of innovation systems that has increasingly permeated
agricultural research over the past decade (Hall et al 2001; Sumberg 2005).
Collaborative research ranges in scale and complexity, from individuals in different
departments or disciplines collaborating on a project within an institute to multifarious
linkages across a wide array of institutions, universities, NGOs and firms, such as the
CGIAR’s Challenge Programmes (Spielman et al 2010) and its new Consortium
Research Programs (CGIAR 2011). Partners may bring different ideas and skills,
14 J. Sumberg et al

access to financial resources, or the local knowledge, language skills and legitimacy
that facilitate access to field sites and target populations. The division of labour created by
these partnerships should, in principle, allow each party to go some way in achieving
its mandated or self-declared purposes. However, the workings of partnerships and
networks relating to agricultural research, in terms of capacity-strengthening, new
innovations and delivery of public goods, have as yet received scant critical attention
(Plucknett and Smith 1984; de Lattre-Gasquet and Merlet 1996; Goldberger 2008;
cf. Shrum and Campion 2000).
A political agronomy analysis would explore the motivations and incentives driving
research partnerships. Whose agendas do these arrangements serve? Do they play a role
in establishing and legitimating certain normative framings, and hence delegitimising
others? Who benefits from partnership, and how? Can collaboration and partnering
be empowering, transformative experiences, in what situations, and for whom? To
what degree are collaborative arrangements delivering innovation that meets the needs of
poor producers? Maat and Glover (Chapter 8) use the example of SRI to reflect on
the ‘partnership’ that is arguably at the centre of all agricultural development — that
between agronomic research and extension. Specifically, they focus on different
approaches to field activities characterised as ‘experiments’ and ‘demonstrations’, and
argue that they result in radically different configurations of the relationship between
science and farming practice. In Chapter 9, Ramisch explores some of these questions
around partnership through the experience of a participatory soil fertility management
project in Kenya. Brooks and Johnson-Beebout (Chapter 5) also reflect on the
dynamics of partnership within the CGIAR HarvestPlus Challenge Programme.

Validation and use

In earlier sections of this chapter, we argued that changes in the context within which
agronomic research takes place have made it a more pluralist and contested arena. As
a result, some of agronomy’s defining assumptions about the objectives, methods,
practices and meanings that define it as a discipline are being transformed.
At issue here is how the knowledge that is generated through agronomic research
is produced, validated, communicated and used. The attacks on the normal pro-
fessionalism of agricultural research referred to earlier, and the subsequent interest in
new, more participatory modes of research, posed major challenges to the agronomic
research establishment. Unable to articulate a coherent response that identified the
potential and limitations of different kinds ofparticipation in different research situations,
many researchers were swept along by the participation imperative (Sumberg et al
2003). This could be seen as agronomists escaping from the shackles of a normal
science that was no longer fit for purpose. However, a political agronomy perspective
demands critical assessment of whether the use of alternative methods was linked to
clearly articulated research goals, and in turn, whether they enabled progress towards
those goals.
Increasing pressure to demonstrate impact has fostered new and innovative politics
around impact claims and their validation, exemplified by recent efforts to identify,
 Agricultural research in a changing world 15

document and disseminate ‘success stories’ about agriculture and agricultural develop-
ment in Africa (e.g. Spielman and Pandya-Lorch 2009). More critical analysis includes
that by Orr et al (2008) on the institutional dynamics behind success claims for
NERICA nice; and by Orr (2003) and Orr and Ritchie (2004) on the success story
that has been constructed around IPM in Malawi. In these cases and others, scientists’
claims about the characteristics and potential of the technologies were amplified through
the media by the organisations they worked for and funders who supported them,
leading to increased public profile, international accolades and, crucially, continued
funding. The importance of claiming impact and celebrating success is only likely to
increase in a time of resource scarcity.
A political agronomy analysis must explore how the changing context is affecting
views of the relative value of different research and analytical methods, data sources
and dissemination channels. It would also focus on the range of factors associated
with the use (or otherwise) of the results of agronomic research. Here, Erenstein’s
analysis of the history and spread of Conservation Agriculture on the Indo-Gangetic
Plain (Chapter 3) is particularly valuable: he argues that, despite its promise, differential
and above all partial use of Conservation Agriculture can be explained by a combi-
nation of political economy factors and the complexity of the technology itself. As
illustrated by Sumberg et al’s discussion of success stories about agricultural research
on SSA (Chapter 11), analysis of the making and use of claims about the impact of
agronomic research should offer rich insights into the new world of contested agronomy.

Conclusion

‘In this chapter, we identified three developments since the mid-1970s — the neoliberal
project, and the rise of the environmental and participation movements — that
have opened new spaces for contestation within and around agronomic research. We
argued that analysis of the impact of these changes on agronomic research in the
developing world is of particular importance in the light of recent global food crises
and renewed interest in the links between agricultural development, food security and
poverty alleviation (Foresight 2011). It is also timely, given the increasing pressure
being applied to agricultural research at all levels, to demonstrate impact and value for
money.
We have outlined the main thrusts of political agronomy analysis and some of the
issues and questions that such an analysis could most beneficially address. Focusing on the
practice of everyday agronomic research, we suggested that larger political agronomy
questions may be illuminated by analysis of contestation around framing and narratives,
agenda setting, partnerships, and the validation and use of the results of agronomic research.
We fully expect the dynamics of change and contestation within and around
agronomic research in the developing world will continue to manifest themselves in
the coming decades. An important element of political agronomy analysis will be to map
these dynamics, the factors affecting them, and their effects on agronomic research
and agricultural change. The contributions to this volume represent a first step in
establishing the foundations of the new political agronomy.
16 J. Sumberg et al

Note
1 [Link]/content/texts-treaty-official-versions

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2
ON HERETICS AND GOD’S BLANKET
SALESMEN
Contested claims for Conservation Agriculture
and the politics of its promotion in African
smallholder farming

Jens A. Andersson and Ken E. Giller

Erosion > natural soil formation = NOT sustainable.

Tillage is incompatible with sustainable agriculture!
Further promotion of tillage-based agriculture in Africa is irresponsible.
... research questions are NOT WHEN and WHERE Conservation Agriculture
is applicable, but ‘HOW?’ it can be best made work and upscaled.
(Fnedrich and Kassam 2011)

Introduction

Conservation Agriculture (CA) has captured the imagination of an impressive array

of organisations, including the FAO, DFID, the EU, international research and
development organisations (CIMMYT, CIRAD, ICRAF and ICRISAT) and
numerous NGOs. Defined by FAO (2008a) as having three essential components —
zero or minimal soil disturbance; a permanent soil cover provided by a growing crop
or a mulch of organic residues; and crop rotation’ — CA is now promoted widely to
smallholder farmers in sub-Saharan Africa.* Next to international agricultural research
and policy institutes, the faith-based organisations, international donors and NGOs
have been at the forefront in such promotional efforts. Often building on the Judeo-
Christian notion of environmental stewardship, which follows from the belief that it
is the responsibility of man to look after the Earth (Passmore 1974), some of these
organisations equate CA with ‘farming God’s way’.?
This chapter investigates the development of this conglomerate of faith-based,
science-based and policy organisations as a distinct epistemic community. Following
Haas (1992), an epistemic community is understood as a network of professionals
with recognised expertise in a particular domain, who help decision-makers to define
problems, identify policy solutions and assess policy outcomes.* An epistemic com-
munity thus pushes a particular policy enterprise, excluding or silencing alternative
 On heretics and God's blanket salesmen 23

policy options and expertise. This chapter shows how CA became a policy success
sanctioned by religion, despite earlier agronomic research suggesting the value of other
options, evidence of dis-adoption, and contestation over the suitability of particular
CA technologies. The focus is on this epistemic community’s particular institutional
manifestation and its related agronomic narrative.
As illustrated by the opening quotes, the agronomic narrative around CA stresses
sustainability and the universal applicability of its three main principles. Sometimes
adopting an idiosyncratic definition of sustainability’ — which disregards the fact that
soil erosion is also a natural process — this narrative portrays the plough as the major
cause of soil degradation (Marongwe et al 2011; Thierfelder and Wall undated) and
as ‘an enemy of sustainability’. Adopting CA principles thus becomes a universal
prerequisite for sustainable agriculture or, in the narrative of its Christian proponents,
the only way to farm that is faithful to God. In such a narrative, the socio-economic
and agro-ecological environments cease to be structuring forces of agronomic practice.
Instead, practising CA becomes a righteous act, an act of faith, where agronomic
practices also have religious meanings, such as mulch cover being understood as
‘God’s blanket’ (Oldreive 2009: 52).
Thus we may understand the apparent tension between the blanket, or perhaps
more aptly, ‘God’s blanket’ recommendations for CA and the recent trend toward
more adaptive, on-farm and farmer-led agronomic research. The focus here is largely
on Zimbabwe, where both agronomic research on CA technologies targeting African
smallholder farmers and faith-based promotion of CA to African smallholders have
their origins.
We first explore the history of research on conservation tillage in Zimbabwe,
and show how the current drive to promote CA is largely disconnected from earlier
on-station and on-farm experimentation. We argue: (1) that this disconnect relates to
growing attention to CA in international policy discourse in the late 1990s and early
2000s (Benites and Steiner 1998; Vaneph and Benites 2001) and a shift in donor
support from government-linked agricultural research to the (faith-based) NGO
sector following Zimbabwe’s political and economic crisis in the early 2000s; and
(2) that these two developments gave rise to a distinct epistemic community of faith-
based NGOs, international agricultural research institutes and policy organisations
(such as the FAO). Subsequently, CA was turned into a successful policy model for
smallholder farming in southern Africa, following positive reports on smallholder
CA farming in Zambia. This was done by bringing together different technologies
promoted by various research and development organisations into a standardised CA
package. In many areas, practising a form of CA based on planting basins became a
requirement if resource-poor smallholder farmers were to receive inputs. The wide-
spread extension of this planting basin-based CA package was the impetus for current
attempts to mainstream CA in the sub-region through national agricultural policy.
Although there are now different CA packages, the suitability and applicability of CA
in highly diverse smallholder farming systems remains contested. It is suggested that
actual adoption of CA will be patchy at best as it is suited to the circumstances of
only a limited number of faimers and farming systems.
24 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

Experimentation with CA technology in Zimbabwe

Reduced tillage practices were developed following the dust bowl in North America
in the 1930s. These practices were seen as a means to reduce soil erosion and thus
conserve the soil. Agronomic research has subsequently developed practices involving
what have become the three principles of CA: reduced or zero-tillage; permanent soil
cover; and crop rotation. In mechanised agriculture where herbicides are used, CA
practices offer huge advantages for farmers with sufficient capital (Bolliger et al 2006).
Apart from being effective in controlling soil erosion and increasing soil moisture,
direct planting into the residue of a previous crop can reduce energy costs (for
ploughing), increase the area that can be managed by a given labour force, and
reduce or eliminate the fallow time between crops. In some areas, reduced fallow
time allows for an extra crop being grown within a year. It is thus a means of
intensification that increases the efficiency of land, energy, water and nutrient use
and prevents soil erosion. Such practices have been adopted on a massive scale on
large-scale farms in North and South America, Australia, South Asia and southern
Africa.
The spread of CA has not been restricted to very large, mechanised farms.
Researchers have developed animal-drawn zero-till planters suitable for use by Brazilian
‘smallholders’ on farms typically less than 50 ha in size (Bolliger et al 2006).
Although the American dust bowl also inspired a preoccupation with soil con-
servation among colonial officers in southern Africa (Beinart 1984; Bolding 2004: 60),
here reduced tillage systems were introduced primarily in response to escalating fuel,
machinery and maintenance costs (Smith. 1988). Such cost considerations were
probably most acute in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) following the economic
sanctions imposed on the white minority regime after 1965. Testing of various
reduced tillage techniques, including ripping’ and conservation tillage, took place at
Henderson Research Station, the Institute of Agricultural Engineering (IAE), and the
Cotton Research Institute (Figure 2.1). Findings were evaluated in terms of their
effects on maize and cotton yields, and were geared towards the large-scale commercial
farming sector (Smith 1988). Results indicated that conservation tillage practices
could have a marked influence on soil properties, moisture conservation and yield,
but ‘that seasonal climatic variations have more direct influence on crop yields than
any tillage treatment’ (Smith 1988: 207). The erosion-reducing effects of conservation
tillage practices were considered to be most relevant for smallholder farming in the
Communal Areas, but were not systematically tested under smallholder conditions.
Following Zimbabwe’s independence in 1980, agricultural research was re-oriented
towards the smallholder sector (Taonezvi 1994). Often supported by international
donors, government research institutes now focused on conservation tillage techniques
that were more suitable for smallholder farmers (Mupangwa et al 2006; Twomlow
et al 2006). Practices such as no-till tied ridging (Norton 1987; Elwell and Norton
1988; McClymont and Winkfield 1989) and no-till with tied furrows (see note 7)
now began to be systematically investigated and recommended to smallholders
(Nyamudeza and Nyakatawa 1995). Because mulch is not a requirement for either
 On heretics and God's blanket salesmen 25

Chiredzi Research station

A
Rainfall: <450 mm (NR VY)
Soil: 4PE — Sialittic red clay

Domboshava
Rainfall: 750-1000 mm (NR Il),
0 45 90 180 km Soils: 5G — Coarse grained sandy soils
(derived from granite)
SE —Fersiallitic red clay

Henderson
Rainfall: 750-1000 mm (NR I!)
Soil: Sandy and red soils

Hinton estates (Oldreive)

Rainfall: 750-1000 mm (NR II)
Soil: 2E — Lithosol soil derived from
maffic rocks (red)

JAE (Hatcliffe), Harare:

Rainfall: 750-1000 mm (NR Il)
Natural Regions Soil: SE ~ Fersiallitic red clay
(annual rainfall)
Kadoma, Cotton Research
jt: §>1000 mm institute
[J i: 750-1000 mm Rainfall: 650-800 mm (NR fil)
Soil: 4PE — Sialittic red clay
[J it: 650-800 mm
Makoholi
[239 wv: 450-650 mm Rainfall: 450-650 mm (NR IV)
V: <450 mm Soil: SG — Coarse grained sandy soils
(derived from granite)

FIGURE 2.1 Agro-ecological circumstances (rainfall and soil characteristics) at different

research stations in Zimbabwe (Vincent and Thomas 1961), soil classification
taken from Nyamapfene (1991).

practice, they were seen as better adapted to the smallholder sector, where crop
~ residues are scarce as they are normally fed to livestock during the dry season.

The Contill project

In 1988, the governmental research and extension service (Agritex) and the German
Technical Agency (GTZ) initiated a collaborative research project on conservation
tillage (Contill) on the granite-derived sandy soils at Domboshava and Makoholi
research stations (Figure 2.1). Aiming to test and develop sustainable conservation
tillage practices for smallholders farming on similar soils, four conservation tillage
practices were compared with conventional mouldboard tillage: (1) no-till tied ridging;
(2) mulch ripping; (3) clean ripping into bare ground; and (4) hand hoeing into bare
soil before the onset of the rains (Munyati 1997). To complement the on-station
trials looking at yield, soil loss and run-off, the project introduced adaptive on-farm
research in 1990, seeking to test socio-economic, technical and environmental feasi-
bility in farmers’ situations (Hagmann 1993; Nyagumbo 1999). Although the on-farm
trials suggested that ‘from a soil and water conservation point of view, [both] mulch
ripping and no-till tied ridging [showed] high potential’, only the latter technique
was taken for testing and further development with farmers as ‘stover mulch is nor-
mally fed to cattle’ (Chuma and Hagmann 1995: 48). Yet, as crop emergence proved
a problem in no-till tied ridging, it was recommended that farmers delay planting
until the ridges were fully moist, a practice that may reduce yields (Munyati 1997: 31).
Other techniques, such as clean ripping and hand hoeing in bare ground, were con-
sidered unsustainable as ‘surface run-off and erosion rates ... were still above tolerable
26 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

levels’, albeit lower than with conventional tillage. In addition, at the drier Makoholi
site ‘hand-hoeing appeared to reduce yields’ (Chuma and Hagmann 1995: 54, 56), while
at Domboshava ‘high weed infestation prevent these systems from being sustainable’
(Munyati 1997: 32; see also Vogel 1994).
The results from the on-station trials at Domboshava and Makoholi (Tables 2.1
and 2.2) show that both ripping and no-till tied ridging were effective at keeping soil
loss and runoff below what was considered the tolerable rate of 5 t ha’ year' (Elwell
1980). However, only mulch ripping was found to be a ‘truly [ecologically] sustainable
tillage technique’ as it ‘was able to maintain high organic matter levels, reduce soil
erosion to a minimum and to achieve the highest water use efficiency ... [T]he
organic matter status of the soibcould not be sustained at the desired level’ with no-tll
tied ridging (Chuma and Hagmann 1995: 54).
Yields showed more diverse trends in comparison with conventional tillage. At
Domboshava planting on ridges produced significantly better yields than all other
treatments in seasons with above average rainfall (Munyati 1997: 29), but at Mako-
holi mulch ripping generally outperformed no-till tied ndging. Yet, in contrast to the
on-station trials, no-till tied ridging performed generally better than conventional
ploughing in the on-farm trials, albeit that there was much variability from farmer to
farmer. Treatment effects appeared ‘to be extremely site, soil and farmer specific’
(Chuma and Hagmann 1995).
Conservation tillage trials were also established at the Institute of Agricultural
Engineering in 1991. Among the tillage treatments tested were conventional
ploughing, mulch ripping and no-till tied ridging, as in the Contill project. Results
over five seasons revealed no clear trends or significant differences between different
tillage treatments in terms of crop yields, but average yields tended to be larger in
no-till treatments (Nehanda 1999). As the Contill and Institute of Agricultural
Engineering experiments were conducted on contrasting soils (Figure 2.1), they
provide insights into the effects of tillage on soil organic matter. The physical pro-
tection afforded by (1) the binding of organic matter to clay particles (the textural
effect); and (2) aggregation (the structural effect) in clay soils means that the negative
effect of tillage on soil organic matter can. be significant in clay-rich soils (Chivenge et al
2007). By comparison, in sandy soils — which predominate in Zimbabwe’s Communal
Areas — there is little physical protection and thus tillage does not have a strong effect
on organic matter. Sandy and clay soils thus require different management in order to
maintain soil organic carbon (see also Grant 1995).

Conservation tillage experimentation: what determines success?

This brief history of experimentation with conservation tillage in Zimbabwe reveals
three marked institutional changes. First, initial interest in conservation tillage was
motivated primarily by escalating costs — for fuel and imported farm machinery —
rather than conservation concerns. The experimentation served the large-scale farming
sector. Second, following independence, agricultural research was re-oriented towards
the smallholder sector, and experimentation on conservation tillage followed suit (Prestt
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 On heretics and God’s blanket salesmen 29

1986; Norton 1988; Shumba et al 1992). With this re-orientation, soil conservation
and coping with climate variability became more prominent in the narrative around
conservation tillage (e.g. Chikowo 2011). Soil conservation was a well established
theme even during the colonial period in Zimbabwe, as smallholder farmers were
historically concentrated on degradation-prone soils with highly variable rainfall
(Andersson 2007). Third, as the development and promotion of conservation tillage
practices for the smallholder sector intensified in the 1990s, research increasingly
shifted from formal trials on research stations to adaptive on-farm experimentation
with farmers. This latter approach sought not only to adjust emerging technology to
the socio-economic circumstances of resource-poor farmers in agro-ecologically
marginal areas, but also to ‘empower’ farmers (Hagmann et al 1995; cf. Okali et al
1994). Experimentation with farmers in the Contill project not only revealed con-
tradictory yield results from on-farm and on-station trials, but the performance of
different tillage techniques proved to be highly variable depending on soil, site and
farmer-specific conditions. Hence researchers concluded that, given the diversity in
agro-ecological and socio-economic conditions, ‘different techniques and systems
should be promoted as options’ (Nyagumbo 1999: 114) as ‘it is impossible to develop
blanket recommendations’ (Chuma and Hagmann 1995: 56).
The results further suggest that the most appropriate technologies from a technical
point of view, such as mulch ripping, may not suit the circumstances of the majority
of resource-poor smallholders who lack both sufficient mulch and the animal draught
~ power required to pull nppers.

Faith-based CA: the emergence of planting basins and

God’s blanket
Unlike the conservation tillage technologies discussed above, the current drive to extend
CA to African smallholder farmers is not well rooted in scientific experimentation.
Rather, it has its origins in a different epistemological tradition, building on the
experience of one large-scale commercial farmer in Zimbabwe, Brian Oldreive, who
developed a minimum-tillage technology in the early 1980s (Oldreive 2009, 1993).
Oldreive was a tobacco grower, but as a newly converted Christian he considered
tobacco cultivation unethical and switched to maize. Following two years of drought
and poor harvests, the banks made the next loan conditional on Oldreive returning to
tobacco. However, he refused, and as a result had to sell his farm. He then went
to manage a farm in northern Zimbabwe where yields were declining. His experi-
mentation with conservation tillage in the early 1980s was motivated by both costs
and conservationist concerns:

On this [large-scale, mechanized] farm the common practice was to plough

very deeply after having burnt off all the stover from the previous crop. This
caused the soil structure to break down and large clods, the size of footballs,
were being ploughed up, which then had to be broken down with two har-
rowings and two rollings, which was very expensive. The soil structure had
30 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

collapsed resulting in water running off the surface and the topsoil washing
away. Our costs were rising steeply, while our yields were going down ...
(Oldreive 2009: 7; emphasis added)

Although Oldreive knew about zero-tillage and the American dust bowl, his
inspiration came from elsewhere:

I would go into the virgin bush for times of prayer, and one day God began to
reveal me His ways in nature (Romans 1: 19-22). There I saw that there is no
mechanism in nature in which the soil is inverted and there is a thick blanket
of fallen leaves and grass which covers the surface of the soil. I realized that
these two factors in nature prevented the soil from being washed away.
(Oldreive 2009: 7)

As his mechanised no-till experiments with mulch gave positive results, he increased
the no-till area and reversed the downward trend in production. Oldreive won sev-
eral agricultural prizes, and approached the research community for advice on con-
servation tillage. Apparently, he was told it would not work in the region where he
farmed (Oldreive 2009: 7). He nevertheless continued, and saw it as his Christian
duty to extend the principles of conservation tillage to smallholder farmers, convinced
that ‘the same principles may be applied to any scale of operation’ (Oldreive 1993:
xi). Without mechanisation or draught power, farmers could simply dig planting
basins in the period before the onset of the season when there was little demand for
labour. Whereas his handbook on conservation farming initially targeted farmers in
the higher-rainfall areas (Natural Regions II and III) (Winkfield 1993: v), the training
and extension programmes Oldreive set up — such as the ‘Hinton Estate Outreach
Programme’ and ‘Operation Joseph’ (Twomlow et al 2008b: 3) — extended the
principles of conservation farming throughout Zimbabwe through demonstration
plots, training and extension leaflets. Without scientific testing under various agro-
ecological circumstances, Oldreive’s faith-based approach to CA, also known as
Conservation Farming (CF; see Box 2.1), focused on planting basins or shallow
planting furrows in conjunction with mulch (‘God’s blanket’), seeds, fertiliser and a
cereal-legume rotation (Twomlow et al 2008b). Its promoters claim that CF is scale-
neutral and suitable across different agro-ecological circumstances, yet dependent on
good management (Oldreive 1993; see also IRR/ACT 2005: ix) (Figure 2.2).

Box 2.1 Definitions and descriptions

‘Conservation Agriculture (CA) is a broader term that encompasses activities
such as minimum tillage and zero tillage, tractor powered, animal powered and
manual methods, integrated pest management, integrated soil and water
management, and includes CF. ... it is any tillage sequence that minimises or
reduces the loss of soil and water; operationally a tillage or tillage and planting
 On heretics and God’s blanket salesmen 31

combination which leaves 30% or more mulch or crop cover on the surface,
equivalent to more than 3 t ha™! of crop residues’ (ZCATF 2008: 3).
, ‘Conservation Farming (CF) refers to the particular technology of using
planting basins and mulch cover which was developed by Brian Oldreive. This
is a modification of the traditional pit systems once common in southern Africa
and is a variation on the Zai pit system from West Africa, which may also be
considered as a CF technology’ (ZCATF 2008: 3).
Precision Conservation Agriculture (PCA) was initially used by ICRISAT to
refer to the hand-hoe, basins-based CA package as promoted through relief and
recovery programmes in Zimbabwe. It is a modification of the CF planting
basin approach that includes the precision application of small doses of nitro-
gen fertiliser (Twomlow et al 2008b: 3), ‘irrespective of the quantity of surface
residues retained as mulch’ (Twomlow et al 2008a: 41). As mulch is not
required, it is not always considered CA.
The Sahelian Zai pit system, described as an indigenous strategy for soil
rehabilitation, originating from Burkina Faso (Roose et al 1999), combines water
harvesting and targeted application of organic amendments by the use of shallow
pits (diameter 20-30 cm, 10-15 cm deep) dug into the hardened soil (Fatondji
et al 2001; Mando et al 2006). As no mulch is used, it is generally not considered CA.
Planting basins, as promoted as part of CF and PCA in Zimbabwe, are
smaller than Zaj pits. Recommended dimensions are 15 x 15 x 15 cm, spaced
at either 75 x 60 cm for Natural Region II and either 75 x 75 or 90 x 60 cm
for Natural Regions Ili, IV and V (Twomlow et al 2008a, 2008b; ZCATE 2009:
37). In Zambia, farmers adapted Oldreive’s planting basins by making them
wider (30-40 cm) and deeper, breaking plough or hoe pans that may form at a
depth of 15-20 cm. As planting basins involves a degree of soil inversion, some
do not consider it proper CA.

FIGURE 2.2 Foundations for Farming (formerly Farming God’s Way) demonstration
plot in Harare, 2010 (photo: J.A. Andersson).

Combining the promotion of the gospel and CF (Oldreive 2009), Oldreive’s

Foundations for Farming (formerly Farming God’s Way) organisation became a hub
in a regional network of faith-based NGOs extending CF to smallholder farmers.®
The inclusion of an adapted version of his CA approach in donor-funded relief and
32. J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

recovery programmes in Zimbabwe in 2004 (Twomlow et al 2008b) provided further

legitimisation, as it resulted in close collaboration with donors, NGOs and international
research institutes. Participation in this emergent epistemic community arguably
contributed to the profile and success of Oldreive’s organisations.

From adaptive research to faith in blanket recommendations

The apparent epistemological contradiction between scientific experimentation and
Oldreive’s faith-based approach to CA can only be understood through an appreciation
of Zimbabwe’s political and economic crisis and the politics of humanitarian relief
and development aid. While Zimbabwe’s government had isolated itself internationally
through a violent land redistribution programme and the controversial 2002 presidential
elections, the pace of the country’s economic decline increased rapidly. In response to
this and drought conditions in 2001/02 and 2002/03 (Andersson 2007), donors used
NGOs to distribute food aid and seed for planting (Rohrbach et al 2004b). These
initial responses lacked coordination, but staff from the donors, NGOs, government
and international agricultural research institutes soon began to work together through an
Agriculture Coordinating Committee. Coordination of short-term relief programmes
was vested in the FAO emergency office. Donors such as the EU and USAID were
only willing to fund short-term relief programmes that assisted people in re-establishing
their livelihoods; they would not provide development assistance or collaborate actively
with the government. Other donors, such as the UK’s DFID, were more concerned with
the longer-term impacts of relief programmes (Rohrbach et al 2004a: 3, 35). In 2003 they
began to add technical advice to fertiliser support aimed at poor and vulnerable
farmers, including testing of ICRISAT’s micro-dose fertiliser technology (Twomlow et
al 2010). Subsequently, relief programmes became more encompassing and of longer
duration, and the distinction between short-term relief and development became blurred,
as reflected in the DFID-initiated Protracted Relief Programme of 2004 (PRP 2010).
This programme, which channelled donor funding to crisis-ridden Zimbabwe while
minimising direct collaboration with the country’s government, evolved into a col-
laborative multi-donor and NGO initiative. Its main aim is to ‘reduce extreme poverty
in Zimbabwe’. In this way, new agricultural interventions were added to the relief
agenda, including improving seed markets, the introduction of new open-pollinated
varieties, improving extension advice, and enhancing farming and land-use systems
through CA. The FAO had become more involved in CA promotion a few years before,
co-organizing the first world congress on CA in Spain in 2001 (Vaneph and Benites 2001).
Meanwhile, ICRISAT’s monitoring of the seed relief programmes revealed that
yields improved where fertiliser and technical support were provided alongside the seed.
It was also found that access to draught power, rather than the availability of
seed, determined the area that poorer households could cultivate (Rohrbach et al 2004b).
Such findings resonated well with ICRISAT’s interest in the fertiliser micro-dose
technology and planting basins (with or without mulching) for water harvesting in
semi-arid areas (Mazvimavi et al 2008). The basin technology was attractive because it
appeared to enable farmers without draught power to plant early.
 On heretics and God's blanket salesmen 33

Within DFID and the FAO, both key organisations within the concerted relief
effort for Zimbabwe, there was excitement about work being done on CA in
Zambia.'° Inspired by Oldreive’s planting basins in Zimbabwe, the Zambia National
Farmers Union had formed a Conservation Farming Unit (CFU) in 1995 ‘to adapt
the hand hoe basin system to Zambian conditions and to actively promote it among
smallholders’ (Haggblade and Tembo 2007: 14-15). DFID and FAO initiated the
Zimbabwe Conservation Agriculture Taskforce (ZCATF), a broad-based partnership
in which the FAO, CGIAR institutes such as CIMMYT and ICRISAT, and
Oldreive’s River of Life Church play prominent roles (Twomlow et al 2008a,
2008b). Members of these different policy, scientific and religious institutions may
thus be seen as institutionalising an epistemic community on CA. Funded by the EU
and DFID, the ZCATF monitors and disseminates information on CA to NGOs and
government agencies, advocates for and coordinates research and training in CA, and has
developed standardised CA packages for extension to smallholder farmers (Twomlow
et al 2008b; ZCATF 2008). The River of Life Church, through its subsidiary Foun-
dations for Farming, became an important training centre for NGO extension staff
implementing the combined relief and CA efforts. Wide-scale CA promotion was
further supported by demonstration plots, monitoring and evaluation, and research
undertaken by CGIAR institutes.
The specific CA package that was developed and promoted by this epistemic
community — Conservation Farming (CF) — targeted vulnerable households with limited
. access to draught power. It encompassed four major principles: (1) a high management
standard (for instance, frequent weeding and timely operations); (2) minimum-tillage
planting basins dug with a hand hoe to concentrate limited water and nutrient
resources; (3) fertiliser micro-dosing to achieve higher nutrient efficiency (especially
in areas where ICRISAT operated); and (4) improved seed for higher productivity
(Twomlow et al 2008b). Notably, mulching (God’s blanket), a major element in
Oldreive’s original CF work is not stressed in ZCATF or ICRISAT publications, but
is often actively promoted in the field by NGO staff trained by the River of Life
Church. Labour-saving technologies such as herbicides and farm implements are not
included in these combined food security/CA extension programmes, while input
support is often conditional on the use of planting basins (Figure 2.3). In local
vernacular, CF is sometimes referred to as ‘hondavation agriculture’ (kuhonda means ‘to
slim’) or diga-ufe (dig-and-die) (Andersson et al 2011).

Understanding policy success: CA as the only way to go

The previous sections have described the institutional development of a distinct
epistemic community around CA and the emergence of a particular CA policy
package based on basins and mulching. While evidence-based policy is nowadays the
watchword in development policy discourse, this standardised package (promoted by
all but a few organisations) was a result of negotiations between research, faith-based
and policy organisations. The basin/mulch package thus represents a disconnect with
earlier science-based experimentation with minimum tillage, which had revealed
34 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

FIGURE 2.3 ‘Have you come to bring me fertiliser?’ asked this farmer on arrival of visitors.
Fertiliser support is often conditional on farmers’ digging of planting
basins. Murehwa district, Zimbabwe, November 2010 (photo: Jens A.
Andersson).

problems with mulching and the need for a diversified, farmer-oriented approach.
This section focuses on the successful diffusion of the CF policy model in southern Africa,
acknowledging that this success may not be driven by empirical evidence of CF
‘working in practice’ (Latour 1987) — for example, that CA works in smallholder farming
systems. As Rap (2006: 1304) has argued, policies and their success ‘are subject to a
continuing process of production and promotion aiming to mobilise and maintain
political consent among the epistemic community to which they are directed and
which they shape’ (see also Haas 1992). In addition, there is a material component, as the
production ofpolicy success requires the mobilisation of substantial financial resources.
 On heretics and God’s blanket salesmen 35

The concurrence of both processes — the promotion of policy and resource

mobilisation — is central for our understanding of the policy success of CA in southern
Africa. Powerful international donors and agencies, including DFID and FAO, were
critical in the formation of this epistemic community. First, they provided the resources
that allowed its institutionalisation in the ZCATF. Second, their strategic position in
the coordination of humanitarian relief enabled them to link CA promotion to the
humanitarian relief effort. Third, in the process they extended and reformulated the
aims of these humanitarian programmes, which in turn increased the resource base for
CA promotion through them. Fourth, the engagement of international research
organisations in the formulation, implementation and evaluation of combined input
support and CA programmes had a significant, if unintended, legitimising effect. While
building on scientific work by international agricultural research institutes, the large-scale
promotion of CF provided scientific legitimation for Oldreive’s faith-based approach.
At the level of policy implementation, monitoring and evaluation, the CF model
has proven equally powerful. First, the input-supported extension practices have
affected CF adoption rates among resource-poor farmers, and confounded the effects
of fertiliser application and CF (Mazvimavi and Nyamangara 2010). Claims of rapid
yield increases thus feature prominently in the promotion of CA in southern Africa,
while in capital-intensive systems elsewhere in the world (where fertiliser rates used
are often higher), the benefits of CA mostly revolve around cost reductions and the
possibility of an additional crop in the season. Second, the fact that CA is promoted
as a package obscures the effects of individual practices and technologies. It also
allows disappointing results to be explained away because of ‘not implementing all
components’. Third, and closely related to the latter point, is the inclusive nature of the
CA policy discourse. While CA involves only three main principles, other agronomic
practices and technologies are often claimed as CA practices. Examples are the FAO’s
and Oldreive’s emphasis on a high level of agronomic management (Figure 2.2;
ZCATF 2009), and the adding-on of technologies such as micro-dosing (‘precision
CA’, Twomlow et al 2008a), agroforestry and biofuel crops, as in the Zambian
Conservation Farming Unit’s definition of CA.'' Thus many different interventions
can be sold to donors as CA. Fourth, to understand the policy success of CA for
African smallholders requires an appreciation of the ways in which this epistemic
_ community creates consensus. Festinger et al’s seminal work on cognitive dissonance —
an uncomfortable feeling caused by holding conflicting ideas simultaneously —
provides useful insights. In When Prophecy Fails, Festinger et al (1956) analysed the
responses of a cult group to the failure of their prediction that the world would end
ona certain date. Instead of disintegrating, the group expanded as members started to share
their beliefs with others. Thus they gained wider acceptance and, in doing so, reduced
their own dissonance. Observations made by the first author during one of the meetings
of Zimbabwe’s CA Taskforce suggest that a similar mechanism may be at work.

Some weeks after the first rains of the 2010/11 season the ZCATF met in
Harare. Among those gathering was Brian Oldreive as well as representatives of
the FAO, CIMMYT, ICRISAT, USAID and Agritex (the national research
36 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

and extension service). The meeting commenced with an update on the CA

strategy document as formulated by the taskforce. It was reported that it was
with the Ministry of Agriculture, and that a CA strategy was expected to be
officially launched in 2011.
Then, an ICRISAT scientist presented results of an ongoing panel study of
Conservation Farming uptake in Zimbabwe. Started in 2004/05, this study of
over 200 vulnerable households covered 15 districts across Natural Regions II
to V (Mazvimavi and Dimes 2009; Mazvimavi and Twomlow 2009). The
presentation focused on the uptake of eight CA components during the 2005/
06 to 2009/10 seasons: more than 20 per cent of households in the study had
quit CF altogether, and with the exception of crop rotation, the uptake of
seven other practices associated with CF showed a strong downward trend.
Since 2005/06, the sharpest declines had been for winter weeding (from 87 to
46 per cent); mulch application (from 75 to 30 per cent); timely weeding
(from 98 to 54 per cent); application of basal fertiliser (from 75 to 42 per cent);
and application of top dressing fertiliser (from 92 to 60 per cent). The percentage
of households digging planting basins reduced only marginally, from 99 per cent
in 2005/06 to 86 per cent in 2009/10. A university professor at the meeting
suggested that this was because farmers may get, or hope for, input support on the
basis of having prepared basins. The meeting agreed with this interpretation.
In the ensuing discussion, a representative of the River of Life Church
wondered whether the study was not misleading. He suggested that it dilutes
uptake ‘if you keep the same denominator when the numbers are decreasing’.
Another taskforce member wanted to know how uptake is measured, for
instance in relation to mulching. Is it yes/no adoption, or on a scale? An FAO
representative suggested that since the relief efforts started, there had been a
shift in the category of farmers targeted. By stressing that the emphasis of the
CA extension effort is no longer on the poorest of the poor, he seemed to
suggest that this panel study was not (or was no longer) representative for CA
adoption in the country. ‘These people are not even farmers!’ he exclaimed, and
the meeting agreed. Another member seemed more concerned with moving
forward: ‘Let’s accept that mulch is a problem, but let’s look at ways to create
mulch.” Concern was also raised about the distribution of the presentation. It was
felt that the data may be misinterpreted as outsiders would ‘not have the
background info you give us here’.
Then the meeting left the discomforting findings of the panel study and
continued with the next agenda items: the institutionalisation of CA in a gov-
ernmental CA unit instead of the ZCATF; a new publication for a CA training
module in agricultural colleges (Nyamangara and Matizha, 2010); and an
update on imported CA equipment that was to be tested during the 2010/11
season.

Obviously, these observations are not representative for the whole epistemic com-
munity on CA, however defined. Yet the dynamic that emerges from them illustrates
 On heretics and God’s blanket salesmen 37

how people with shared vested interests may respond to incongruent information and
gravitate towards a (new) public consensus. Confronted with evidence of farmers
abandoning CA, the group did not question the value of particular technologies, but
rather the commitment or ‘mindset’ of smallholder farmers.

Stewardship and changing mindsets: the legitimisation of CA by

higher powers
Although the use of chemical inputs such as fertilisers and herbicides has been central
to the success of CA in large-scale agriculture, the positive ring of ‘conservation’ is a
strong mobilising force within both environmental and development circles. Soil
conservation and better husbandry also resonate with the concept of sustainability.
Further, the idea of conservation speaks to the religious psyche as stewardship is a
central tenet in the Judeo-Christian tradition: people are the custodians of God’s
Earth and should not despoil it (Passmore, 1974).
Several evangelical churches promote CA with what can only be described as
missionary zeal, referring to the misguided ways of non-believers. Arguably, the
convergence of religious discourse, environmentalism and development is most visible in
the widespread call to change farmers’ ‘mindsets’ (FAO 2008a, 2008b), as if those
promoting and practising CA are the chosen ones, the pioneers who are breaking
from the mould into new territory. Thus the less innocent aspects of the CA epistemic
community come to the fore as the (scientific) professionals who legitimise CA policy
portray ‘non-believers’ as unqualified, ignorant and intransigent, stuck in the ‘mindset
of the plough’ and in need of ‘conversion’. Such evangelical language is common in
the literature promoting CA. The ACT Network website reports “Currently more
than 100,000 small-scale farmers in Zambia have converted to conservation agriculture’
(emphasis added).!?

Contesting the suitability of CA in African smallholder

farming systems
So why should CA not work in Africa? The simple answer is that it does, as evidenced
by the uptake of CA on large-scale commercial farms in southern Africa during the
1990s (Giller et al 2009). The arguments concerning the potential benefits of CA for
smallholder farmers have been rehearsed by Giller et al (2009), and in a subsequent
electronic debate.!* Here we address the question: Is CA suited to the circumstances
of smallholder farmers in Africa? However, we are acutely aware that, in addressing
this question in general terms, we run the risk of being trapped by our own argu-
ments. Africa has a huge diversity of smallholder farms and farming systems (Giller et al
2011), in terms of soils, climate, crops, livestock and grazing areas, which makes any
generalisations dangerous and potentially misleading. But having acknowledged this,
poor productivity and a dominance of cereal crops, notably maize, typify smallholder
farming systems where CA is being promoted actively. The discussion that follows
therefore focuses on these.
38 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

God's blanket is rather thin ... the problems of mulching

In CA, successful erosion control requires the soil to be covered with a mulch of
organic matter. Mulching has a number of advantages: the erosive energy of rainfall is
reduced as it is intercepted by the mulch; the mulch protects soil particles from being
dislodged; and soil porosity tends to increase due to old root channels and the activity
of earthworms and termites, so runoff is reduced as most rainfall infiltrates directly
into the soil. A thick layer of mulch can also help to suppress weeds. The retention of
crop residues leads to increased soil organic matter that, in tum, enhances soil structure,
infiltration and the supply of nitrogen for crop growth through mineralisation.
In mechanised CA where fertiliser is used, it is largely crop residue that provides
the mulch, although sometimes green manure crops are grown specifically to provide
soil cover. But in African smallholder farming, this is not so straightforward. The poor
productivity of many smallholder farming systems means that the amount of crop
residue produced is limited. Cereals such as maize often yield only 0.52 t ha"! of
grain and 1.5-3 t ha! of stover. A rule of thumb often used with CA is that 30 per
cent of the soil should be covered at the beginning of the cropping season (FAO
2008a), which requires roughly 2-3 t ha! of plant material (Giller et al 2009). Thus,
to ensure adequate soil cover, all available crop residues would need to be returned to
the soil, but in many situations this is impossible because of competing uses, most
notably as livestock feed. For instance, farmers with cattle remove crop residue from
the field at harvest and store it at their homesteads for use as feed.
Given the long dry season in southern Africa, any crop residue left in the field
disappears between crop harvest and the start of the next season due to the action of
termites (Baudron et al 2012). Termites can have positive benefits — in West Africa it was
found that particular soil-dwelling termites (Odontotermes and Macrotermes) improve
nutrient release and crop performance on crusted soils (Mando 1998). These species
are responsible for the formation of macropores in Zai pits (Mando et al 2006: 393),
which improves infiltration and capture of rainfall into the soil. However, farmers in
Zimbabwe complain that leaving maize residue as mulch attracts termites that, especially
in drier areas or during dry spells, feed on the next crop causing lodging and yield loss.
The practice and benefits of reduced tillage and mulching are interdependent.
Tillage helps to control weeds. In the absence of mulch, runoff and erosion can be
exacerbated by not tilling the soil. Tillage increases surface roughness and infiltration,
particularly if soils are poor in organic matter. Tillage also has other benefits: the soil
disturbance stimulates a flush of mineralisation, releasing nitrogen from the soil
organic matter, which is then available for crop growth (Chikowo et al 2004). Thus
not tilling can translate into yield penalties on poor soils (Guto et al 2012). Without a
thick mulch cover, not tilling also leads to increased weed pressure.

Weeds — the Achilles’ heel of CA

Smallholder farming is labour-constrained due to seasonal peaks in labour demand.

Inversion tillage with a mould-board plough is effective in burying and controlling
 On heretics and God's blanket salesmen 39

weeds. Although reduced tillage may alleviate the peak labour demand for land
preparation and planting, if herbicides are not available, it increases the peak in labour
demand at weeding. Especially on more fertile soils in hot areas, weed pressure can
lead farmers to abandon up to a third of the area planted (Baudron et al 2012).
Where weeding is done primarily by women, their labour burden may increase with
reduced tillage (Giller et al 2009). Thus the benefits of CA for smallholders are
restricted by the expense and availability of herbicides and knapsack sprayers. Even in
high-input, large-scale agriculture, weed control in CA is not without problems.
In Australia, over-dependence on the herbicide glyphosate has led to build-up of
herbicide-resistant weeds, so that occasional cultivation is recognised as a better
management option than no cultivation at all (Kirkegaard 1995).

CA-rbon sequestrated or overrated?

It is claimed that CA leads to increased soil carbon, but the scientific evidence is
ambiguous. Two detailed meta-analyses failed to find consistent increases in soil
organic carbon (SOC) with reduced or zero-tillage (Govaerts et al 2009; Luo et al
2010). It is well known that increasing the amount of organic residue returned to the
soil increases SOC. This is why crop fertilisation that results in greater residue pro-
duction can increase SOC (Vanlauwe and Giller 2006). The effect of tillage on soil
C is less clear, however. Although soil disturbance causes a flush of microbial
. activity and mineralisation of C and N, this effect is short-lived and the rate of
decomposition falls back to that of undisturbed soil within a matter of days. This
means that the stimulation of decomposition rates has a relatively small effect on
SOC. As physical protection of soil organic matter depends on binding to clay par-
ticles or entrapment in aggregates, the effect of tillage on SOC 1s greater in clay soils,
but there is little effect on the sandy soils that predominate in Zimbabwe (Chivenge
et al 2007).
So why is it so commonly claimed that CA increases soil organic matter? On the face
of it, simply measuring the effect of CA on soil C stocks appears to be a trivial problem:
take before-and-after soil samples and measure SOC. In many cases, observers say
they can see the difference — the top layer of soil is darker. But, unfortunately, the
situation is more complex than this. The lack of tillage leads to increased soil C in
the surface horizons, whereas ploughing mixes organic matter into the surface 15-25
cm of soil. Thus the concentration of SOC is diluted. Further, untilled soil tends to
become compacted and the bulk density increases. This means that sampling to the
same depth in tilled and untilled soils may actually sample a different mass of soil,
leading to the artefact that there is more SOC with CA. Thus sampling on a soil-mass
basis appears to be the only way of ensuring valid comparisons of soil C stocks under
different tillage treatments (Ellert and Bettany 1995).
There also seems to be a sweeping assumption with regard to soil organic matter
that ‘the more the better’. But increasing the amount of organic matter inputs, particu-
larly via legume green manures, can lead to crop loss due to infestation with
cutworms (Chikowo et al 2004). These white insect grubs thrive when large inputs
40 |.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

of readily decomposable material — either as mulch or incorporated — are added to

soil. As the name suggests, they cut the roots and can wipe out the following crop
completely.

Crop rotations: an old problem resurfaces

A clear example of the mismatch between CA and smallholder agriculture relates to
the third principle of CA — crop rotation, preferably with legumes. The technical
benefits of growing legumes in rotation with cereals or root crops to break a mono-
culture are well known (Giller 2001). As early as the late 1920s, the colonial
Department of Agriculture promoted crop rotation in Zimbabwe’s African farming
areas (Kramer 1997), but uptake has proved problematic ever since (Baudron et al
2012). A standard recommendation is for one season of a grain legume to be followed by
two seasons of cereals, which would require a third of the land area to be cropped to
legumes. Yet the labour requirement for the cultivation of common legumes such as
groundnuts and Bambara nuts (Vigna subterranea) is higher than for cereals, and farming
households need only a small area of grain legumes to meet their food needs. Unless
there is a market for the extra produce, there is little incentive to grow more legume
grain than the household will consume.

CAWT by one’s own petard

Recently, the World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF) has joined the push for what it is
calling ‘CAWT — Conservation Agriculture with Trees’, or “Evergreen Agriculture’
(Garrity et al 2010). It proposes various approaches for integration of mainly nitrogen-
fixing trees into CA. Some approaches, notably in parklands, where trees such
as Faidherbia albida are maintained within cropped fields and managed for firewood
and fodder, are common in West Africa and a few parts of East and southern Africa.
Learning from the Conservation Farming Unit in Zambia, ICRAF now proposes to
extend CA under F. albida, and is providing tree seedlings to NGOs. Little regard
seems to be paid to the ecology of F. albida — its reverse phenology means that crops
under it are not shaded, but the tree has a full canopy during the long dry season
when growth depends on its roots being able to reach a permanent water table. It is
therefore unlikely that it will grow well in many of the areas where it is being promoted,
where shallow soils predominate.

Conclusion

One of the most prolific authors on reduced tillage agriculture in Africa, Rattan Lal,
once bemoaned the lack of organic residues and manure available in smallholder
systems. In an editorial, he concluded:

Under these conditions, loosening of soil by any tillage (manual by a hoe,

animal drawn traditional and/or tractor driven mouldboard plow or sub-soiler)
 On heretics and God's blanket salesmen 41

improves porosity and structural characteristics of a compacted soil, albeit

temporarily. In addition, plowing also enhances mineralisation of whatever
little soil organic matter still remains in the soil. The enhanced mineralisation
releases essential nutrients (N, P, K), which also improves plant growth especially
in traditional agriculture where chemical fertilizers are rarely or minimally used. ...
resource-poor farmers will have to continue practicing plow tillage while fully realizing
that it is not a sustainable practice.
(Lal 2007; emphasis added)

Other authors have also highlighted how little consideration is given to what Sumberg
(2005) calls ‘adoption constraints that are endogenous to the fit between the innovation
and the target group’, or whether CA ‘actually fulfils a concrete need from the point
of view of targeted smallholders’ (Bolliger 2007). Yet others continue to propose the
best approaches to promote and extend CA (e.g. Kassam et al 2009) without ques-
tioning if (where and for whom) modified tillage systems and the CA ‘package’ are
indeed appropriate.
The aim of this chapter is neither to add to nor resolve contestation around the
agronomic basis of CA. Rather, the focus is on the ways in which science, development
policy and religion have become intertwined. One result is that questions about the
workings and appropriateness of CA have been labelled ‘irrelevant’, and farmers’ tillage
practices labelled as ‘ignorance’. This chapter illustrates the silencing effects of a
- powerful epistemic community as it pursues a specific policy enterprise. This represents a
rupture in the trend towards more farmer-oriented, participatory approaches to
technology development.
Although CA promotion in southern Africa may be regarded as an extreme case,
the analysis demonstrates that agronomic knowledge is produced within a particular
political arena. Agronomy and agronomic research are not apolitical. This case of CA
promotion in southern Africa demonstrates the power of an epistemic community when
it becomes institutionalised. With its policy enterprise financed by development-
oriented donors and policy organisations, and producing knowledge that is sanctioned by
higher powers (God), such an epistemic community may operate largely independently
of state institutions, yet may strongly influence national policy. The widespread
endorsement of CA by governments in southern Africa evidences this dynamic (FAO
2009).
While CA increasingly dominates debates about agricultural development in Africa,
we wonder whether international organisations should be so active and univocal in
their promotion of CA. Although supported by committed and sincere scientists and
development practitioners, only time will tell whether the missionary zeal of the
‘blanket salesmen’ warrants the disregarding of farmers’ practices.

Acknowledgment
The authors gratefully acknowledge the very useful comments and suggestions made
by Steve Twomlow and Jankees van Donge on an earlier draft of this chapter.
42 J.A. Andersson and K.E. Giller

Notes
— This is the most widely accepted definition, although there is considerable confusion,
and many different approaches and practices are referred to as CA (Giller et al 2009).
2 For instance, in Zimbabwe alone the FAO channelled some $US20 million to smallholder
CA projects during the period 2008-12 (FAO 2010: 49-50). This figure is an underestimate
as it excludes natural resource management and food security projects that also promote CA.
3 See [Link] [Link], [Link]
[Link]. The notion of Man’s Responsibility for Nature (Passmore 1974), or envir-
onmental stewardship, is a particular interpretation of the statement in Genesis (1: 26)
that God gives man dominion over all creatures. Proponents of this view, including
faith-based organisations promoting CA, differ from ‘deep ecologists’ (Naess, 1973), who
reject the inherent anthropocentrism of this perspective.
4 Although their academic and professional backgrounds may vary, members of an epistemic
community have shared sets of normative, principled and causal beliefs, shared notions of
validity, and a common policy enterprise (Haas 1992: 3). Members of an epistemic
community may thus be regarded as sharing a particular mindset.
5 As the opening quote suggests, Friedrich and Kassam (2011) appear to define as sustainable those
situations in which natural soil formation rates are equal to or higher than soil erosion rates.
6 ‘The plough is an enemy of sustainability ... [To] suggest its adoption as a possibility seems
to be based on the fact that ploughs gain adoption easily. So does Fast Food, but it’s not
necessarily a good thing.’ (Robert M. Boddey, Embrapa Agrobiologia, Brazil, email, 23/09/08)
7 Unlike ploughing, ripping does not involve soil inversion, merely the opening of the
soil. Mulch ripping involves npping mulch-covered soil. The no-till tied ridging tech-
nology makes use of ridges that are cross-tied at regular intervals with small dams. The
basins formed between the ties and ridges prevent water from flowing off the field. Once
the ridges are established, the land is not ploughed for a number of years.
[o/e) See [Link] and [Link], which incorporates
activities of the South African Bountiful Grains Trust. Other examples include the “Growing
Nations’ organisation in Lesotho ([Link]/en/focus/[Link]?a=485).
9 [Link]
10 Steve Twomlow, former ICRISAT scientist, email, 06/03/11.
11 [Link]/CFU
12 [Link]
13 [Link]
agriculture

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and Fertilizer in Zimbabwe: Lessons Derived from the 2003/04 Season, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe.
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 3
CONSERVATION AGRICULTURE-BASED
TECHNOLOGIES AND THE POLITICAL
ECONOMY
Lessons from South Asia

Olaf Erenstein

Introduction

There has been an increasing global interest in Conservation Agriculture (CA) to rebuild
soil health and make agricultural systems in the developing world more sustainable
_(FAO 2007; Hobbs et al 2008; Giller et al 2009). But the suitability of CA and reported
impacts have been contested by research and development (R&D) stakeholders.
The contested agronomy argument (see Chapter 1 in this volume) posits that
neoliberalism, participation and the environmental agenda have radically changed
the context of agronomic research in the developing world since the mid-1970s. In the
case of South Asia, liberalisation drastically reconfigured economies and accelerated
growth — but perhaps had less far-reaching effects on agronomic research per se. There
has been increasing private-sector investment in agro-dealer networks (e.g. Bell et al
2007), but private-sector investment in agronomic R&D remains limited — particularly
when contrasted with the increasing investments in breeding proprietary crops such as
hybrid maize. In part, this also reflects the inconsistent way in which liberalisation was
implemented. In India, for example, strategic commodities such as wheat and rice
continued to receive particular protection and emphasis by the public sector. This helped
create the intensive rice-wheat systems, but also thwarted private-sector investment
in related R&D. In the late 1990s, Monsanto did support no-till research at public
universities in India and Pakistan, but subsequently discontinued this as the potential
market for its herbicide glyphosate was considered too limited.
Participatory approaches in South Asia have become mainstream in the NGO/
development community but have had less transforming effects on the agricultural research
establishment. Indeed, the latter still adheres to plot- and animal-level research and
would benefit from a shift towards ‘more people-centered, participatory and holistic
methods and to interdisciplinary and multi-institutional approaches which link
people, innovations and policy’ (Erenstein and Thorpe 2011). Liberalisation and the
48 O. Erenstein

associated retrenchment of the public sector also set the stage for new partnerships
between major private and public stakeholders, but so far progress has been limited,
not least because of persistent mutual distrust.
The developing world’s changing context is expected to have changed agronomic
research practice and opened new spaces for contestation, with subsequent impacts
on tural development policy and practice and livelihoods and the environment (see
Chapter 1). This chapter contributes to the debate by focusing on the contestation
and impact part of the contested agronomy argument using the case of CA-based
technologies in South Asia’s Indo-Gangetic Plains (IGP). There are three intertwined
levels of contestation in this case study: farm, science, and politics. At the farm level,
debates revolve mainly around _the operationalisation of CA — the numerous technical
challenges of applying it within the prevailing rice-wheat systems. At the scientific
level, the debate is about the evidence in support of CA. At the policy level, debate
revolves around the prospects and contribution of CA vis-a-vis the political economy,
some promoting it as a technological fix whereby more painful political adjustments
can be avoided, whereas others perceive it as an insignificant drop in the ocean.
Innovation is not a neutral process. Past, current and future stakeholders at the
various levels have diverging interests in how a specific system has evolved and will —
or will not — evolve in the future. The introduction of CA practices into South Asia’s
IGP is no exception. A political economy perspective can thereby help to understand
and disentangle some of the associated blockages and implications for agricultural
R&D. This chapter does not seek to delve into the vast political economy literature.
Instead, we use the term here to refer to interdisciplinary study of the dynamics
between politics, institutions and CA, and particularly how the former has shaped and
influenced CA development and uptake.
The chapter reviews the development and promotion of CA-based practices in
South Asia’s IGP and how these have fed into the multi-tiered contestation of suitability
and impact. It first sets the scene by introducing the case of CA in the study area.
It subsequently reviews the agronomic challenges, including nomenclature and the
issues associated with each of the CA principles. This is followed by a review of the
impact challenges in terms of measurement, profitability, equity and environment.
The argument is that both the complexity of the innovation and the political economy
go a long way in terms of explaining the associated contestation. The chapter ends
with a discussion of lessons and implications.

The case study: CA-based technologies in the Indo-Gangetic Plains

The Green Revolution transformed the IGP — spreading from Pakistan through
northern India and the Nepal Terai region to Bangladesh — into South Asia’s granary.
The combination of improved seed, chemical fertiliser and irrigation with a supportive
environment for agricultural transformation led to rapid productivity growth, and
resulted in rice-wheat systems covering an estimated 14 million ha in the region,
with the bulk (10 million ha) in India (Timsina and Connor 2001). Productivity
growth in these intensive systems started to stagnate towards the end of the twentieth
 Lessons from South Asia 49

century, thereby re-igniting concerns over national food security. This stagnation is
widely attributed to soil and water degradation induced by the prevailing crop man-
agement practices, and this narrative has contributed to strong advocacy for CA-based
technologies to rebuild soil health and enhance sustainability and profitability (Hobbs
et al 2003; Abrol et al 2005; Gupta and Sayre 2007; Hobbs et al 2008; PACA 2008;
WCCA 2009).
The Rice-Wheat Consortium (RWC) of the IGP has been one of the more vocal
and influential advocates of CA. It was established in 1994 as an eco-regional program of
the Consultative Group for International Agricultural Research (CGIAR). This con-
sortium is a research network of national and international agricultural researchers that
seeks to enhance agricultural productivity and environmental sustainability. The
RWC was commended in its latest external review as a successful institutional
innovation (Seth et al 2003). It is credited as being nationally led and facilitating
agronomic research through new partnerships, new resources and new interests at the
time the Indian economy started liberalising. The consortium was thereby able to
bypass some initial institutional resistance to CA and collaborate with farmers and the
private sector (particularly agricultural machinery manufacturers) to create interest and
momentum.
The RWC was instrumental in the adaptation, promotion and diffusion of zero-tillage
(ZT) wheat in South Asia, the most successful CA-based component technology in
the IGP to date (Gupta and Sayre 2007; Erenstein and Laxmi 2008; Hobbs et al 2008).
‘The RWC is thus widely perceived as a success story (Ekboir 2002; Seth et al 2003;
Erenstein and Laxmi 2008; Harrington and Hobbs 2009; Erenstein 2010d).
Progress has, however, not been uniform. Conservation Agriculture has been taken
up most markedly in India, and within India in the north-west IGP. This differential
pattern of adoption can be explained by the presence of the RWC, but also by
divergent political and economic factors (e.g. Erenstein 2010a; Erenstein and Thorpe
2011). There are also critical differences between the two crops. Advances with CA
have largely been limited to wheat, with the adaptation to rice still problematic.
From a CA perspective, a number of potential benefits are thwarted as tillage is
reduced only for wheat — with subsequent intensive (wet) tillage for rice — and crop
residues may not be retained as mulch. What is more, progress has been limited
where it is most needed, as from a sustainability perspective it is primarily the envir-
onmental footprint of rice — in terms of soil and water management — that most
threatens the sustainability of South Asia’s cereal basket.
In the aftermath of the Green Revolution, there was a paradigm shift from
commodity-centric towards more multidisciplinary and systems agricultural research.
The initial interest in ZIT wheat thereby originated from diagnostic studies that
highlighted time conflicts between rice harvesting and wheat planting (Byerlee et al
1984; Fujisaka et al 1994). As ZT R&D progressed, the agenda also evolved to
include resource-conserving technologies and eventually CA. The evolution reflected
an increased emphasis on soil health and broader concerns over agriculture’s envir-
onmental impacts. The research agenda was further broadened by increasing calls for
more holistic and poverty-fecused agricultural R&D (e.g. Seth et al 2003). The
50 O. Erenstein

technological entry point of ZT evolved — ‘conservation agriculture is probably

one of the best ways to increase production, increase food security, improve farmer
livelihoods and create environmental benefits while undertaking efficient natural
resource use’ (Hobbs et al 2003). The changing scope, in turn, broadened the array of
stakeholders, from the agronomists and engineers working on ZT wheat to an array
of scientists and development agents concerned with rice, other crops, crop breeding,
livestock and social science.
Champions play a critical role in the successful deployment of innovations. Yet RWC’s
interest in and advocacy of CA was also influenced by its evolving institutional set up.
The RWC was initially convened by ICRISAT but, because of the nature and extent
of ICRISAT’s mandate, it was never likely to give priority to supporting irrigated
rice-wheat systems (Harrington and Hobbs 2009). CIMMYT convened RWC from
1999 to 2007, after which IRRI stepped in. CIMMYT had long been interested in and
an advocate of ZT/CA, and its staff have contributed to its development. Although no
longer the convening centre, CIMMYT continues to promote CA in the IGP and beyond
(Lumpkin and Sayre 2009). IRRI has been a somewhat less enthusiastic CA advocate.
As with all disciplines, agronomists are, to a large extent, shaped by their professional
training. There is strong continuity in approaches to both research and practice.
Paradigm shifts require conclusive evidence against the zero hypothesis that current
practice is best. CA challenges the agronomic establishment (for example, ‘the
mindset of the plough’) and needs to be substantially superior to existing practices to
win over sceptics. The problem with CA is that providing such conclusive evidence
can be challenging due to a number of potentially confounding factors. Costly, long-
term trials are needed, and are instrumental in documenting degradation processes
and of the rebuilding of soil health. Until recently, a challenge to CA in South Asia
was the absence of such long-term trials (CSISA 2009). A particular problem for CA is
that its benefits become visible and substantial only after a number of years, especially
in irrigated systems. Thus, because of the lack of conclusive evidence, opinion
remains divided.
This chapter does not aim to settle the scientific disputes around CA or to take sides
in those debates. Instead, given the strong CA advocacy in South Asia’s IGP, the chapter
highlights some of the blockages or constraints that advocates would need to address
if their calls for widespread CA use are to be heeded. The subsequent sections review the
agrononuc challenges of CA in rice-wheat systems, and then move on to the impact
challenges.

Agronomic challenges of CA-based technologies

Nomenclature

The technical principles of CA — minimal soil disturbance; retention of crop residue

as mulch; and the use of crop rotations — are increasingly recognised as essential for
sustainable agriculture (FAO 2007; Hobbs et al 2008). However, the operationalisation
of CA has proven problematic.
 Lessons from South Asia 51

A major problem is nomenclature: when we use the term CA, what are we talking
about? CA means different things to different people and thereby provides a fertile
ground for misunderstanding and contestation. In fact, CA is best conceived of as a
basket of cultural practices around a common concept.
Nomenclature issues are exacerbated by the coexistence of various definitions that
have evolved over time, leading to disputes as to whether reported results can actually
be attributable to CA. This, in turn, leads to evolving nomenclature as terms are
discredited and discarded. Nomenclature has been a challenge for some time, with
CA emerging as the preferred label [for example, over ‘conservation tillage’ (Erenstein
2002), or the RWC’s recent evolution from ‘resource-conserving technologies’ to
‘CA-based technologies’ (Gupta and Sayre 2007)].
The nomenclatural issue is particularly problematic for CA because it has three
principles that typically translate into different and variously named technological
components. This makes CA complex and calls for adaptive R&D, but also makes it
highly site-specific as potential trade/pay-offs are dependent on specific biophysical
and socio-economic conditions (Erenstein 2002). The several required changes in
farmers’ cultural practices also make it knowledge-intensive (Erenstein 2002; Wall
2007).
This inherent complexity is a major handicap. A simple innovation is easier to
convey and explain to stakeholders, including farmers, R&D practitioners, policy-makers
and the media, particularly where there are language barriers, limited human capital
-and other resource constraints (Erenstein 2002). An additional problem is over-
simplification: in a quest to keep it simple, the complexity and nuances of the technology
can be lost.

Reduced tillage
Minimal soil disturbance is a central CA tenet and typically implies the need to
reduce physical tillage. Pioneering calls to this effect were made by Faulkner (1943)
and have led to over half a century of R&D. Uptake of reduced tillage systems in the
USA was enabled by the development of both herbicides and suitable planting
equipment, and driven by favourable market developments (Erenstein 2002). The interest
in reduced tillage is reflected in the portfolio of tillage-associated names — including
conservation tillage, no-till(age), minimum till(age) and direct sowing.
In South Asia, ZT has been on the research agenda for over three decades. In
wheat-rice systems, ZT wheat has a number of advantages: it permits earlier wheat
planting, helps control obnoxious weeds such as Phalaris minor, reduces costs and saves
water (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). Pivotal to the success of ZT in the IGP was the
development of delivery pathways for ZT seed drills, including the creation of a local
manufacturing capacity. Concerted efforts by an array of public- and private-sector
stakeholders were championed by key individuals (Erenstein 2010d).
The initial ZT R&D efforts were met with disdain at all levels, from farmers to
policy-makers. This reaction was associated with a long-standing tradition of intensive
tillage. Pioneering farmers faced numerous challenges and social pressures (Malik et al
52 O. Erenstein

2005). Agricultural R&D in the region remains largely funded through public
resources, and some research institutions and university departments maintain a strong
emphasis on station research and an inherent scepticism of innovation. Despite the
research establishment not being very supportive, there were some initial champions
who persevered with RWC support. Indeed, the reliance on local champions and the
different levels of resistance they met helps explain the substantial differences in diffusion
within and between countries (Erenstein 2010b). For instance, in India, the renowned
Punjab Agricultural University was never very supportive of ZT, which contrasts
with active promotion by the Haryana Agricultural University (the latter also being a
member of the Professional Alliance for Conservation Agriculture; PACA 2008). In
the case of the Pakistan Punjab, there were two government departments with one
advocating and the other opposing ZT (Iqbal et al 2002). This had unfortunate
consequences for farmers and the technology alike.
Despite increasing evidence of the potential of ZT wheat, the perceived need to till
still persists among many farmers and extension agents, who believe there is a positive
association between tillage intensity and yield. Indeed, even in north-west India,
extension agents often still recommend reversion to tillage after some years of ZT wheat.
A further confounding factor is the development and promotion of rotavator tillage
(Erenstein 2010c). Perhaps somewhat unexpectedly, ZT has opened up prospects for
this single-pass technology, but the associated soil pulverisation goes against CA
principles. Paradoxically, the Indian Government provides an investment subsidy for
both ZT drills and rotavators — that is, for implements that respectively reduce and
increase tillage intensity. In part, this reflects the confusion associated with the com-
plexity and nomenclature highlighted above. It also reflects a subsidy syndrome that
has thwarted innovation as farmers wait and see if a subsidy materialises.
From a CA perspective, tillage reduction in the IGP has only been partially successful,
as ZT is typically only applied to wheat, whereas for the subsequent rice, intensive
wet-land preparation followed by transplantation still prevails. Reducing rice tillage
intensity presents major challenges, particularly in terms of water, weed management
and available germplasm. Ongoing research is addressing these challenges to viable
‘double no-till’ rice-wheat systems (Ladha et al 2009).

Crop residue management

The maintenance of soil cover is another CA principle, and relies primarily on the
retention of crop residue as mulch. However, in the mechanised production systems
of the USA, where much of the pioneering R&D was undertaken, reduced tillage
typically meant that substantial quantities of residues remained as mulch. In situations
where crop residues have alternative uses, such as in much of the developing world,
crop residue management is less straightforward and implies additional trade-off
(Erenstein 2002, 2003).
Zero-tillage wheat in the IGP does not necessarily retain crop residues as mulch. In
fact, the prevailing ZT seed drills do not work well in the presence of mulch, but for
better or worse, this has not been a major issue in view of the limited biomass
 Lessons from South Asia 53

remaining after rice (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). Leaving more crop residue as mulch
would require adaptation of ZT drills. Ongoing R&D has already generated some
second-generation drills that are able to handle significant residues, but their cost is
still relatively high.
Moving rice-wheat systems towards CA will require new approaches to crop
residue management so as to ensure adequate soil cover and address potential trade-offs
with alternative residue uses. The ex-situ use of crop residues as livestock feed is near
universal (Erenstein and Thorpe 2010): wheat is the traditional food crop in the
north-west IGP, and wheat residues are the basal feed for ruminant livestock.
Proceeding to the eastern plains, rice becomes the staple food and rice straw the
preferred feed for ruminant livestock. In the north west, this implies significant
imbalances in terms of seasonal residue extraction, with surplus rice straw being
burned in situ (Erenstein 2011). The widespread use of crop residues as feed shows
they have significant value, and markets and institutional arrangements have developed
accordingly (Erenstein and Thorpe 2010). There are also important regional variations in
non-feed residue uses (e.g. as fuel and construction material). The increasing
mechanisation of cereal harvesting creates new trade-offs in terms of residue use
and management, and has led to the development and rapid uptake of a tractor-pulled
straw reaper that chops the loose wheat straw and standing stubble into the preferred
length for feeding (bhusa) and collects this in an enclosed trailer (Erenstein 2011).
In theory, the retention of crop residue as soil cover is imperative in continuous ZT
systems (Erenstein 2003; Govaerts et al 2005). However, to date cultivation of
ZT wheat in the IGP in the absence of some soil cover has resulted in limited
perceivable negative consequences (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). This is probably a
consequence of the seasonal nature of ZT use, with plots still being seasonally tilled
for the subsequent rice. However, with year-round or double no-till, residue retention
will probably become critical.
Any recommendation to retain crop residue as mulch also confronts the ‘clean-fields’
mindset that still persists in the IGP farming community. The long-standing tradition
of intensive tillage is associated with a preference not only for pulverised soils, but
also for homogeneous, residue-free fields. Standing rice stubble that remains visible in
the emerging wheat field is considered an eyesore, and early ZT adopters were
labelled as lazy and faced social pressure (e.g. Malik et al 2005). Crop residue retention is
also an important part of the ZT controversy in Pakistan Punjab. Basmati rice is a
major export crop there, and the extension service fears that without ploughing, ZT
wheat may encourage overwintering of stem borers in the rice stubble, undermining
productivity and competitiveness, However, there is no scientific evidence of such
risk (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008).
Another major issue affecting crop residue retention is that there are no immediate
pay-offs in rice-wheat systems. Positive short-term yield effects associated with mulch
often reflect improved water-holding capacity and reduced drought stress (Erenstein
2002). This is of particular interest in less intensive and rainfed systems, and could
induce more stable and higher yields (Erenstein 2003; Govaerts et al 2005). But rice—
wheat systems are typically irrigated, and drought stress is correspondingly limited.
54 O. Erenstein

Failing a short-term water-conservation pay-off, a longer term is typically needed for

mulching to translate into soil improvements and tangible medium- to long-term
yield effects.

Crop rotation
Diversified crop rotation, particularly the inclusion of legumes, is widely acknowledged
as a central tenet of good agronomy. However, in developing countries, crop rotation
can be more challenging, particularly if production is to a large extent for home
consumption or undeveloped agricultural markets. Diversified crop rotation is not
widely practised in the IGP’s rice-wheat systems. Granted, the system itself is already
a seasonal rotation of two crops, but both are cereal grains and are continuously
cultivated on the same plot. These systems reflect a public incentive structure geared
towards these two staple grains, including widespread public intervention with
assured produce prices and state-controlled marketing channels. This is so particularly
in India (Erenstein 2010a). The combination of secure produce markets and irrigation
makes rice and wheat production a low-risk venture that has proven difficult to displace.
Underlying the political economy of rice and wheat is the long-standing concern
over food security in the sub-region and the reluctance to return to dependence on
cereal imports. These concerns helped spark the Green Revolution, but were raised
again during the recent world food price crisis. There have been some R&D initiatives
to diversify rice-wheat systems but, in face of the prevailing political economy, these
provide prime examples of the limitations of technological solutions without an
enabling environment. Still, there is an increasing scope for diversifying rice-wheat
systems, particularly in the north-west IGP, whether in response to technological
developments (Jat et al 2006), rapidly evolving domestic markets (due. to economic
growth, urbanisation and emerging marketing chains), or increasing water scarcity
(Erenstein 2009a).

Impact challenges of CA-based technologies

The above-mentioned agronomic challenges to CA-based technologies in the IGP
suggest that there is no substantial area under year-round CA. Instead, the CA-based
technologies have made partial inroads in the rice-wheat system: ZT wheat is the
most highly developed and its impacts are most widely documented.

Profitability
A review of the impacts of ZT wheat in India’s rice-wheat systems has shown that it
generates substantial benefits at the farm level by enhancing income from wheat
cultivation (US$97 ha™') through the combined result of a yield effect and a cost-
saving effect (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). The cost saving is robust and largely
undisputed, with numerous studies reporting substantial fuel and time savings for
land
preparation and seeding (see Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). An average saving
of
 Lessons from South Asia 55

US$52 ha“ primarily reflects the drastic reduction in tractor time as the number of
passes over the land is reduced from eight to one. This implies a significant,
immediate and recurring cost saving, corresponding to a 15-16 per cent saving on
operational costs (Erenstein et al 2008).
The potential yield enhancement is more ambiguous. A review of ZT in India
found an average yield effect of only 5-7 per cent for wheat across on-station trials,
on-farm trials and surveys (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). A short-term yield effect, if
any, is closely associated with enhanced timeliness of wheat establishment. Heat stress
at the end of the wheat season can mean that the potential wheat yield is reduced by
1-1.5 per cent per day if planting occurs after mid-November. Hence a positive yield
effect of ZT hinges on the ability to translate the time savings at land preparation into
an earlier seeding. Failing that, the potential yield enhancement is largely forfeited. In
some early agronomic trials, planting dates of conventional and ZT were purposively
aligned, thereby undermining ZT’s relative performance. Some surveys also found
that farmers sometimes failed to turn the time saving into earlier wheat establishment
(Erenstein et al 2008). A better understanding of why farmers do not capitalise on
ZT’s potential to sow wheat earlier merits follow-up research.
The cost-saving effect alone makes ZT profitable, but profitability is greatly
enhanced by a positive yield eftect, which markedly reduces adoption risk (Erenstein
and Laxmi 2008). The lack of a positive yield response was a major contributor to the
slower adoption in Pakistan Punjab, and also merits follow-up research. A further
‘confounding factor and inherent challenge is the ‘yield paradigm’ that still pervades in
the agricultural R&D establishment and the farming community. Producing the
same with less can still be a very attractive proposition for enhancing farmers’ bottom
line (although it may not alleviate concerns about food security), but it implies a shift
in the mindset that has traditionally focused on producing more per unit of area. So far,
the economic incentives for a shift to dry direct rice seeding have been relatively
weak, but the recent oscillations in international prices of oil, fertiliser, rice and wheat
have only increased the relevance of resource-conserving technologies such as ZT.
The ability to minimise tilling and fuel use has been attractive for wheat: increasing
rural wage rates and increasing regional water scarcity may make dry direct seeding of
rice more attractive.
If CA is to spread, new germplasm will be required. Most crop-breeding efforts
have selected germplasm under intensive tillage conditions. As a result, the wheat and
rice varieties currently available are not particularly well suited to ZT conditions.
Varieties specifically selected under and for CA conditions — including direct seeding
and aerobic conditions for rice — are likely to boost both productivity and profitability
(Joshi et al 2007; Rajaram et al 2007).
Survey results show that ZT wheat had limited spillover effects on the productivity
and management of the subsequent rice crop (Erenstein et al 2008). However, from a
CA perspective, this partial adoption means that the system benefits are largely for-
feited. At the same time, shifting rice towards CA is likely to result in significant
positive spillovers for wheat productivity and profitability, in terms particularly of
improved soil structure, but also of enhanced timeliness. Double no-till would also
56 O. Erenstein

increase returns to investment in ZT drills. Indeed, currently some farmers refrain

from investing in a ZT drill as it can only be used in the winter season.

Measuring adoption
The importance of reliable indicators of agricultural technology uptake is generally
acknowledged, yet there is a relative lack of adoption studies, in part reflecting the
level of resources they require. Without evidence-based adoption estimates, there is a
tendency for initial technology promoters to put out their own estimates. Overly
positive assessments of the extent of adoption can backfire by undermining the
credibility of actual achievements. It has been argued that the research funding cycle
contributes to this dynamic (Orr et al 2008).
Measuring adoption has long been a particular challenge for agronomic practices,
particularly where these practices vary across farmers’ fields. This complexity adds to
the difficulty of measurement and interpretation, further compounded by the spatial
and dynamic dimensions of technology use (Erenstein 2010b). The objective assessment
of the adoption of agronomic packages such as CA is exacerbated when the package
and/or its component technologies can be variously used, measured and interpreted
(Erenstein 2010b).
The ZT case adequately illustrates some of the problems of reliably estimating, let alone
measuring, adoption. It is a cultural practice that is sparsely reported in agricultural
statistics and studies. It is also ambiguously interpreted, with the term often used
interchangeably for the cultural practice and the seeding implement. Yet, whereas
most ZT depends on the use of a ZT seed drill, the practice is not simply embodied
in this machinery, as the drills are also used on fields that have had reduced or
intensive tilling. Furthermore, ZT is also variously used, including over seasons and
within farms, with some farmers using it for one part of their farm while adhering to
more intensive tillage elsewhere (Erenstein 2010d).
Adoption of ZT wheat in South Asia started in the second half of the 1990s and
accelerated in the early years of the twenty-first century. Experts estimated that the
combined zero/reduced tillage wheat area in the IGP amounted to some 2 million ha
in 2004/05. But the actual extent of ZT diffusion is not known precisely, and the
initial estimates were based in part on the sales of ZT drills. Research studies on ZT,
and the associated data collection and reporting, have both increased and improved in
the past several years. However, most studies report primarily on the technical aspects
of ZT at the plot level, and often are based on trial data (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008).
Many farm surveys are not based on a robust sampling frame that would allow
for unbiased diffusion estimates; instead, most farm surveys contrast a sample of
ZT adopters with non-adopters (e.g. Singh 2008). Reliable and empirically based ZT
diffusion indicators are scarce and problematic. Lacking other estimates, the expert
estimates of ZT adoption are often repeated and cited. However, in the process, two
important underlying qualifications are often omitted — they are estimates and not
empirically grounded; and they reflect estimated ZT drill use irrespective of tillage
intensity.
 Lessons from South Asia 57

A first systematic attempt to estimate ZT diffusion through a random village

sample across the north-west IGP confirmed earlier reports of significant ZT diffusion. It
found the combined zero/reduced tillage wheat amounted to 22 per cent of the
wheat area in the communities surveyed in 2007/08, which, extrapolated to Indian
Punjab and Haryana, would imply 1.26 million ha (Erenstein 2010c).
Farm surveys have also revealed some ZT dis-adoption (Erenstein 2010b), apparently
due to a combination of factors including technology performance, technology access
and seasonal constraints. Claims of (dis-)adoption need to be evaluated systematically:
a case in point is ZT wheat in Pakistan, where original claims of adoption were
based on extrapolation and were not necessarily in line with empirically based dif-
fusion indicators, which showed slower diffusion and higher dis-adoption (Erenstein
2010b).

Measuring impact
Erenstein and Laxmi (2008) provide a comprehensive review of the impacts of ZT
wheat in India’s rice-wheat systems, including effects on land preparation and crop
establishment, water use, soils and biotic stresses, yields, and cost savings and profitability.
The most commonly reported performance indicators include yield and production
costs, which were already reviewed.
Ceteris paribus, there is a decreasing ability to control for noise as one proceeds from
‘on-station trials, to on-farm trials, to farmer use. We would thus expect a decreasing
likelihood of finding significant differences in terms of performance indicators. Yet
the review found a more consistent ZT yield gain in on-farm trials compared with
on-station work, which was hypothesised to be associated with the fact that these
trials did not benefit from subsequent enhancements in ZT drills, knowledge and skills.
An additional factor may have been that the on-station trials maintained the same
sowing date for tillage treatments, thereby eliminating a major source of ZT yield
gain (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). A confounding factor was the site-specificity of the
ZT yield gains: both on-station and on-farm trials showed a marked ZT yield effect
that increased from the Indian Punjab in the north west towards the middle Gangetic
plains, reflecting the increasing importance of timeliness (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008).
An additional complication is that some of the ZT-induced changes in performance
are easily dwarfed by the inability to control other sources of variation in field surveys.
Hence surveys typically confirm the cost savings associated with ZT, but are less apt
to confirm water savings. The amount of background variation is aggravated further
by the fact that partial adoption is widespread, be it of technology components or in
terms of area, whereby farmers use ZT on only a part of their farm. A major chal-
lenge in measuring the impact of any technological package is the fact that farmers
unpack them and use only those components that are attractive. In the end, the
prime driver for adoption of ZT is monetary gain, not water savings or soil health
(Erenstein et al 2008). The complexity of ZT also makes it knowledge-intensive, to
the extent that its success may depend more on the ‘how’ of management rather than
the level of inputs applied (Wall 2007). Structural differences between adoption
58 O. Erenstein

categories are also important (Erenstein and Farooq 2009a, 2009b); as are specification
effects in terms of how tillage options are contrasted (Erenstein 2009b).

Equity
Zero-tillage wheat has been adopted primarily in the north-west IGP (Erenstein and
Laxmi 2008), an area that typically has more intensive and productive rice-wheat
systems, more favourable institutional support, and markedly less poverty than the
densely populated eastern plains (Erenstein et al 2010; Erenstein and Thorpe 2011).
Nevertheless, the potential yield gains and cost savings associated with ZT should be
greater in areas with less intensive agriculture such as the eastern plains (Erenstein and
Laxmi 2008). The initial R&D results in the eastern plains are encouraging but not
well documented or widely published. Most references to ZT and the rice-wheat
systems in the IGP are still based on or extrapolated from the experience in the north
west, tending to ignore significant biophysical and socio-economic gradients (Erenstein
and Thorpe 2011).
Benefits of ZT have been reported to be scale-neutral, with both larger-scale farms
and smallholders adopting (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). This is facilitated by the
ability of smallholders to contract ZT drill services, just as they do for their tillage
services in general, which makes the tractor-based machinery divisible. Adoption
surveys have revealed that 60-74 per cent of ZT adopters did not own a ZT drill
(Erenstein and Farooq 2009a). Drill providers have the added advantage of having
hands-on experience and self-interest in promoting the technology. Still, ZT tends to
be adopted first by the better endowed farmers (Erenstein and Faroog 2009a, 2009b).
The differential ZT adoption calls for a closer consideration of equity implications in
future R&D, with particular attention to smallholders’ access to ZT knowledge and
drills. Timely access to a ZT drill is the key to ensuring timely wheat establishment
and consequent yield gains. Differential access to ZT implements and knowledge may
therefore have contributed to the differential yield performance of ZT wheat in
Pakistan Punjab, where ZT resulted in lower yields only on smallholder farms
(Erenstein 2009b).
Despite increasing talk of participation, a technocentric approach to R&D still prevails,
and as a result the implications of technical change for disadvantaged segments of
society are often ignored. Labour-saving technologies inherently shift income from
labourers to producers. The IGP’s mainly mechanised land preparation, however,
implies that the labour savings associated with ZT wheat are limited, but could be
substantial if direct seeding of rice were to substitute for transplanting. The class and
gender segmentation in the labour market would impose social costs. There would
also be a regional equity dimension, as the intensive north-west systems still rely on
migrant labour from the eastern plains.
Technology developed for the capital-abundant north-west IGP is not necessarily
appropriate for the eastern plains, where capital is more limited. The popularity of
two-wheel tractors in Bangladesh and Nepal is a case in point, these being less capital-
intensive than four-wheel tractors and more appropriate for the small farms and plots.
 Lessons from South Asia 59

There is thus a need for local adaptation of ZT, and initial results along these lines are
encouraging (e.g. Hossain et al 2006).

Environmental aspects
From a CA perspective, ZT wheat represents partial adoption and thus implies relatively
limited environmental gains. Most of the environmental gains associated with CA are
forgone because reduction in tillage, retention of mulch, and crop rotation are only
partial. Nevertheless, ZT still implies some positive effects, including lower fossil fuel
and water use, and reduced greenhouse gas emissions. The fuel savings produce
relatively undisputed gains in terms of carbon emissions, but the effects on soil organic C
are less clear cut (Govaerts et al 2009). Further research is needed to substantiate and
value these environmental impacts (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008).
CA helps regulate the soil ecology (Erenstein 2002; 2003), which is relevant as
an adaptation strategy to climate change. Climate change is expected to exacerbate
the heat stress at the end of the wheat season, enhancing the potential payoff
to ZT wheat if seeding is timely. However, climate change also raises serious
questions about the future of rice-wheat systems and agriculture in the IGP more
generally.
Zero-tillage wheat after rice does not necessarily entail an increased reliance on
herbicides because rice fields are relatively weed-free at harvest time (Erenstein and
‘Laxmi 2008). In fact, by reducing soil movement, ZT serves as an effective control
measure for Phalaris minor, an important weed that has reduced wheat yields, and that
in the mid-1990s showed emerging resistance to the herbicide isoproturon. The
ability to control herbicide-resistant Phalaris thereby became one of the drivers for ZT
adoption in north-west India; ZT combined with new herbicides eventually proved
effective in controlling Phalaris (Erenstein 2010d). However, an increased use of dry
rice seeding is likely to increase reliance on herbicide.
The unfolding water crisis in the north-west IGP (e.g. Briscoe and Malik 2006) has led
to concern about agricultural water productivity and calls for water-saving technologies.
Water savings in farmers’ fields with ZT wheat are relatively small, and less than
initially expected (Erenstein and Laxmi 2008). Yet, from a system perspective, any
savings from wheat are dwarfed by the potential water savings associated with a shift
to direct seeding of rice in dry soil (Erenstein 2009a). Water shortage may eventually
drive the change toward direct rice-seeding methods. In the eastern plains, irrigation
infrastructure is less well developed and rice is often rainfed or only partially irrigated.
Here, too, direct-seeded rice may be an increasingly attractive alternative to trans-
planting, particularly in view of the erratic onset of the monsoon and frequent incidence
of drought.

Discussion

The adoption of ZT wheat in the IGP can be explained because it is financially

attractive and was promoted through a process that combined elements of persistence,
60 O. Erenstein

flexibility, inclusiveness and facilitation (Erenstein 2010d). To enhance its potential

contribution to soil health and system sustainability, there is a need to use ZT wheat
as a stepping stone to CA by addressing several outstanding challenges. These include
the existing knowledge gaps regarding socio-economic and environmental impacts
that would enhance the ability to out- and up-scale in a cost-effective, equitable and
sustainable manner (Erenstein 2010d). To succeed, the R&D establishment needs to
acknowledge more emphatically that the political economy typically ensures the
playing field is not level for agronomic innovations such as CA.
The adoption dynamics of CA in the IGP are governed by two key factors: the
complexity of the technological package, and the political economy. The former
opens up the interpretation of results and impacts to contestation, producing different
and contending ‘facts’ and knowledges. The latter creates vested economic and political
interests that some stakeholders seek to safeguard and some innovations may erode.
The IGP’s political economy is a major impediment to change. Policies that
favoured the creation and intensification of the rice-wheat system during the Green
Revolution shifted the political economy in such a way that the system has become a
victim of its own success. Indeed, the prevailing policy environment has been a major
contributor to making the rice-wheat system unsustainable (Erenstein and Thorpe
2011): it undervalues ecosystem services and has introduced numerous market
distortions, including assured staple commodity markets and prices, and substantial
subsidies for fertiliser and immgation. The extent of these distortions varies both
between countries (Erenstein 2010a) and within countries — for example, relatively
rich north-west India still receives the lion’s share of policy support and subsidies
(World Bank 2005; Jha et al 2007). Vested interests are now such that policy change
implies political suicide: to date, no elected government has dared to push through
the much-needed reforms. Ironically, the prevailing political economy has dug itself
into an ever deeper hole by producing a highly stable status quo despite the natural
resource base being stretched to the limit (Erenstein and Thorpe 2011). With the
vested interests — including farmers, R&D or policy-makers — having limited incen-
tive for change, what options are there to break the log-jam other than a full-blown
agro-ecological crisis?
Innovations that create enough interest and momentum among selected stakeholders
to become self-sustaining appear the most promising option — thereby potentially
surmounting any unfavourable political economy environment. A major obstacle,
though, is that any such innovation still needs to be introduced somehow, whereas
the agricultural R&D establishment already tends to be part and parcel of the political
economy. The RWC played an important facilitating role in the introduction of ZT
by dovetailing into local research institutions without being similarly bound by the
domestic political economy.
From a CA perspective, the introduction of ZT wheat is a piecemeal innovation
approach. The development and promotion of ZT wheat instead of outnght CA
allowed for some initial progress, but the overarching question remains whether this
will suffice in the face of the magnitude of change required. Such a technocentric
entry point could be complemented by a regulatory approach, but the relative
 Lessons from South Asia 61

reluctance of the political establishment to bite the bullet so far is a bad omen. Also,
enforcement of mandatory agronomic practices is particularly problematic — although
the use of social group control has been more successful. The quest therefore remains
for technological options that are attractive from both private and social perspectives.
Such options need to be worth their while for farmers — that is, to have substantial
short-term benefits and relatively limited up-front costs.
Conservation Agriculture remains a problematic sell, particularly in irrigated systems
such as the IGP, where it typically needs a multi-year time frame to build up soil
health and concomitant productivity increases. Still, there is a need to establish and
demonstrate unambiguously the pay-off to CA over the long term through well-
designed long-term trials. The long-term CA trials in Mexico are a case in point, and
provide a continuing stream of scientific and hands-on visual evidence of CA’s potential.
The integrated nature of CA is also problematic. First, this makes the adaptation and
adoption of CA-based practices complex and knowledge-intensive, with important roles
for agricultural extension, farmer education and training; yet there has been a general
breakdown of publicly funded providers of such services. Second, farmers have an
outstanding ability to unpack technological packages and adopt only those components
that best fit their needs and interests. In this regard, CA as a package has not been suc-
cessful, as only individual component technologies have been adopted. This reiterates the
need for substantial synergies between components and/or the need for institutional
innovations that ensure components remain coupled.
In the end, agronomists in the IGP and elsewhere need to provide options that create
enough interest and deliver sufficient benefits to create a self-sustaining dynamic of
technical change. The case of CA in the IGP illustrates the numerous challenges that
agricultural innovations must surmount.

Acknowledgement
This chapter draws from and builds on earlier work (particularly Erenstein 2010d) and
subsequent papers cited above, derived from when the author was based in South
Asia for CIMMYT. The chapter benefited from comments by Philip Woodhouse
and Ian Scoones. The views expressed in this chapter are the author’s and do not
necessarily reflect the views of the author’s institution.

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ANTHROPOGENIC DARK EARTHS
AND AFRICA
A political agronomy of research disjunctures

James Fairhead, Melissa Leach and Kojo Amanor

Introduction

Anthropogenic dark earths (ADE) and biochar are current foci of extraordinary levels
of technological optimism, agricultural research and political debate. ADE comprise
both black soils associated with long enduring settlement sites and their depositions,
and slightly lighter coloured soils that have also been rendered more enduringly fertile
than the soils on which they are formed through deposition and cultivation practices.
These anthropogenically enriched soils can sustain permanent farming; their fertility
is thought to be due in part to their high biochar content. Biochar refers to the
carbon-rich products that result when biomass is burned under oxygen-deprived
conditions and then buried in the ground (Lehmann and Joseph 2009).
Interest in ADE and biochar is linked to a double promise held by the purposeful
creation of ADE through applying biochar: enduringly improving the productivity of
highly weathered tropical (and other) soils, while at the same time capturing atmo-
spheric carbon dioxide and locking it up in the soil. This potential ‘win-win’ is now
generating intense research interest, and private-sector and NGO investments. At the
same time, the agronomy of ADE and biochar has become the focus of critique and
of counter-politics in a sometimes heated and polarised debate.
This chapter examines how research into ADE and biochar in the tropics has
developed. We take a political agronomy lens to analyse how our particular objects of
study — ADE and biochar — have emerged and become politicised within.a wider
history of agronomy, whose broader trends we can only sketch. Political agronomy,
we note, is closely related to the vibrant research field of ‘political ecology’, and can
be enriched with owo insights trom it. First, while political ecologists examine how
ecological processes are shaped by political and economic forces, some also attend to
how ecology leaves its mark on politics. Second, political ecologists reveal not only how
political and economic forces shape the conduct of science, but also how ecology is
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 65

understood ~ the politics of ecological knowledge (Forsyth 2003). There is no question

that research into ADE has developed from observations of soils in Amazonia (there
termed Terra preta and Terra mulata) originating in pre-Colombian settlement and
farming, practices, and few would contest that it was originally Terra preta research
that animated wider research into biochar as a soil conditioner. Yet beyond this
consensus, we want to consider how ADE and biochar research has responded to,
and been reframed by, changing political and economic contexts — now shaped strongly
by climate change debates and the new political economy of carbon. We also argue
that the history of ADE and biochar is a story about disjunctures drawn between
Amazonia and Africa in academic and policy communities. These disjunctures have
been written into the way African soils are understood and researched, are shaping
how the significance of ADE and biochar for Africa is being portrayed, and opening
the field of ADE and biochar to new, and sometimes highly polarised, contestations.
The story we tell unfolds over four episodes. First, following a brief introduction
to ADE and its significance, we consider how and why ADE was for so long ignored
and occluded in agronomic research. Second, we explore the emergence of ADE and
Terra preta research in Amazonia from the 1980s. Third, we examine why this
interest was not paralleled in Africa during this period, and reasons for the continued
profound silence about African ADE until around 2005. Finally, we explore the
implications of the sudden interest in ADE in Africa from this time, now reframed as
‘biochar’, a technology to be transferred into African settings.
Our political agronomy analysis of each of these episodes is ‘political’ in relation to
three theories of power. First, we attend to the politics of knowledge, using a broadly
Foucauldian optic to consider the structuring of inquiry within and between academic
‘disciplines and how this shapes the discourses put into play — and what they include
and occlude, Just as there are disjunctures between the disciplines of soil and agronomic
sciences, and of archaeology, history and the social sciences, in their methods, reasoning
and communities, so there are particular conjunctures between them in their reliance
upon each other’s findings. We examine how ADE and biochar research has been
structured by these disciplinary configurations, but also how individual researchers
have been able to subvert them.
Second, we explore the changing political-economic context in which new ideas
and disciplinary combinations become appealing and fundable. Over the past century,
different agricultural, food and environmental issues have attracted policy attention
and research funding. The relative prominence of colonial and global players, and of
state, non-governmental and business actors, have all been enwrapped with shifting
economic and political interests. These shape the ways in which ADE and biochar
have been framed and reframed at different stages.
Third, our political agronomy approach recalls a more subtle form of power —
residing not just in knowledge and political economy, but in the practices they put
into play. Ideas about soils do not exist just in journals and research, but become
vested in (encoded in) landscape features (such as ‘watershed protection reserves’, ‘fire
curtain reserves’ or ‘permanent sample plots’); in the laws, institutions and carto-
graphy that govern their use; in the tools and chemicals used to manipulate them; and
66 J. Fairhead et al

in networks and communities of collaboration (such as those now linking biochar

researchers). Ideas that are put into practice in this way acquire a quality very different
from those that are not. Scientists may have disproved the idea that the Sahara is
advancing because of anthropogenic influence, but the idea that it does so lives on in
the international desertification convention and the myriad of programmes extolling
inhabitants to change their ways. If the idea of human-induced desertification had
never been institutionalised, its refutation would be much less challenging. Particular
ideas about soils have become embedded in, and reproduced through, everyday
practices of science and intervention, and in the very soil and landscape features and
processes produced through these (Fairhead and Leach 2003).
At the same time, we are interested in how ecologies and soils, however framed,
make their presence felt. What comes to be known (and what remains unknown) is
thus conditioned not only by the politics of knowledge, political economy and
practice, but by these in a dialectical relation with ecological forces.
The chapter thus argues that the paradigms and practices through which ADE and
biochar have become objects of study can be traced to broader political economic
orders. Our own arrival at the door of ADE and biochar is a case in point. As social
science researchers with interdisciplinary backgrounds and interests in agriculture and
ecology, we have long-standing concerns with African landscapes, farmers’ knowledge
and investments in productivity in certain sites, but — in keeping with dominant
priorities and practices in the 1990s — had focused on their anthropogenic vegetation
(Amanor 1994; Fairhead and Leach 1996, 1998). After exposure to the Terra preta
and biochar literature, we realised that these sites could be investigated as much for
their anthropogenic soils as for their enriched forests and fallows. Given that ADE
research was being framed as a phenomenon only of Amazonia, we reconfigured our
own research interests to look at ADE in Africa (Fairhead and Leach 2009), aiming
to initiate a conversation between ADE research communities in Amazonia and
researchers in Africa. Yet in entering this debate we encountered three concerns.
First, those researching ADE in Amazonia had established ADE as exclusive to
Amazonia or the neo-tropics. Second, ADE and biochar research had acquired a
dominating global carbon focus. Third, we realised how quickly and how far agronomic
research around biochar was itself becoming politicised and commoditised. We
found ourselves contributing to a field that was being criticised for its distributional
implications; as playing into industrial solutions to climate change and ‘land grabs’
associated with it. In none of these domains, however, were the interests and per-
spectives of the African farmers we knew being addressed. Our overriding concern
driving this analysis of the political agronomy of ADE and biochar research is to
divest it of these shackles.

ADE (Terra preta) and biochar

The existence of extensive areas of ADE in the Amazon was first documented in the 1870s,
and until the early 1900s it was uncontroversial to understand these as associated with
depopulated Amerindian settlements and as anthropogenic (Woods and Denevan
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 67

2009). Yet for most of the twentieth century, these soils attracted little attention and
most observers understood them as natural.
Recent research on the Amazon basin, however, has led to a fundamental reappraisal
of its social and natural history. Earlier arguments that the region’s poor soils had
restricted pre-Hispanic social formations to small, semi-permanent settlements (Meggers
1971) have been undermined by archaeological evidence of large sedentary settle-
ments throughout the Amazon basin (Heckenberger et al 2008; Mann 2008; Schaan
et al 2008). Areas of dark, highly fertile soils able to support intensive farming have
been found to cover 1.21.8 million ha of forested lowland Amazonia, undermining
earlier interpretations that its infertile soils could not support large settled populations
(e.g. contributions to Woods et al 2009). These soils are anthropogenic; the darkest
(Terra preta) are usually the middens of pre-Hispanic settlements, while others (Terra
mulata) are probably the outcome of pre-Hispanic agricultural practices (Lehmann
et al 2003a; Glaser et al 2004a,b; Woods et al 2009). Pre-Hispanic populations are
now known to have been far greater than earlier thought, their decline far more
precipitous, and their impact on modern Amazonian forests far more significant
(Clement 1999; Lehmann et al 2003a; Balée and Erikson 2006; Woods et al 2009).
The significance of these soils extends beyond a reappraisal of history. First, modern
farmers value them, and many have developed distinct agricultural practices on them
that contribute to more sustainable livelihoods (German 2003; Fraser 2009). Second,
soil scientists are excited by their complex soil biology and its implications for soil
fertility and agriculture (e.g. Uphoff et al 2006). Amazonian ADE contrast strongly
with the soils in which they develop. They generally have about three times the soil
organic matter (SOM) and, more importantly, the component of SOM consisting of
‘charred residues from incomplete combustion (carbons and charcoal) can be up to 70
times greater than that of background soils (Glaser et al 2004a,b; Liang et al 2006).
This is chemically stable and resistant to microbial degradation, so remains in the soil
for centuries. This biochar improves soil structure and aggregation, water infiltration
and retention, and nutrient storage capacity (Lehmann et al 2003b). Third, because
the secret to these soils lies partially in their high proportion of biochar, farming
technologies that seek to create ADE could sequester enormous quantities of carbon.
The existence of ADE in Africa has been less apparent in the agronomic literature.
The most obvious example lies in the exploitation of the middens of the cities of
Pharaonic Egypt as a source of fertiliser during the early nineteenth century. The
remains of mud-brick structures (bricks themselves being made of nutrient-laden Nile
silt), which form the ancient mounds of Egyptian cities and villages, are referred to
as sebakh and are sought out by farmers. Nitrogen-rich material in courtyard work
areas, rubbish dumps and unpaved streets also contributes to sebakh formation. In
larger cities, household rubbish and animal excreta were dumped over hundreds (and
thousands) of years, causing the streets to rise ever higher so that the ground floors of
houses gradually became basements (Bailey 1999). The importance of these middens
as a fertiliser was recognised in the early nineteenth century, when the soil was trans-
ported and sold throughout the Nile Valley, and large companies mined them on an
industrial scale. Fields throughout Egypt are nowadays ‘archaeologically polluted’ as
68 J. Fairhead et al

they are full of ceramic shards removed from mounds. In the 1930s, sebakh digging
was officially banned, although its removal in small and substantial quantities still
occurs to the present.
Farming practices that generate biochar through the slow burning of vegetation
under anaerobic conditions were also observed in Africa from the mid-nineteenth
century. In many locations, colonial observers noted how grass or bush vegetation
was cut, dried, covered with soil and burnt. Farmers would craft the conditions such
that the vegetation burned very slowly and ‘without a flame’, often for a week or two.
Afterwards, the soil, char and ash mix could be farmed in situ, or distributed more
widely over the field. This practice acquired assorted names in European languages,
including ‘burn-beating’, ‘denshering’, ‘soil burning’, ‘sod burning’ and, in French,
‘ecobuage’. This technique was described in the Fouta Djallon (Guinea), in Chad and
Cameroon, Ghana, Ethiopia, Congo, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Malawi.
But while these practices produce biochar, contemporary observers understood their
logic to lie in other benefits: the nutrients released in the ash; the reduced soil acidity;
the improved soil texture; and the destruction of weed seed banks and insect pests.
None saw any significance in the accumulation of biochar (Livingstone 1875; Portéres
1972; Mesfin 1981, 1982; Roorda 1984; Pulschen and Koch 1990; Mboukou-Kimbatsa
1997; Mpangui 1997; Sohi and Yeboah 2009).

Histories of occlusion

Why was the significance of ADE and biochar largely ignored — at least until the
1980s? Focusing first on the politics of knowledge, the significance of ADE was
downplayed by the structuring of scientific disciplines. In both Amazonian and African
settings, soil scientists, historians, archaeologists, foresters and social anthropologists
generally conducted research separately, yet drew on each other’s assumptions.
Foresters examining the Amazonian forest considered it ‘pristine’ and a climatic
climax. Soil scientists found the region’s soils to be highly weathered and unable to
sustain intensive agriculture. Anthropologists cast its people’s longer-term history in
evolutionary rather than social and political terms. And archaeologists accepted the
agronomists’ conclusions that Amazonian soils were inevitably too poor to have
supported dense, settled populations; accepted from foresters that if the forest had a
history, it was a natural history; and accepted from anthropologists more timeless
interpretations of social form. In short, the disjuncture between forestry, soil science,
anthropology and archaeology structured the ways in which the Amazon was inter-
preted, and the conjuncture (mutual reliance on each other’s analysis) stabilised a
reading of the Amazon that occluded its human history. These patterns were not
totalising, but critique when it happened was ignored. For instance, Sombroek
made arguments in the 1960s about Amazonian ADE and their capacity to support
large populations, but these fell on deaf ears in both archaeological and agronomic
circles. Where ADE were observed, they were generally interpreted as ‘natural’;
where they were associated with artefacts, it was assumed that they had attracted
settlements.
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 69

Such ‘naturalisation’ of ADE was also important in African settings, but linked to a
slightly different analysis stabilised in the configuration of these disciplines. Here,
patches of ‘dark earths’ are associated with woody vegetation. Foresters understood
these as ‘more natural’, less degraded landscape features, in line with ‘climatic climax’
assumptions that ‘natural’ African vegetation was more forested. Soil scientists accepted
this, considering the richer soils under ‘forest patches’ either to be naturally different,
or to be the more original soils of landscapes otherwise degraded by people. So, far
from seeing ADE as improved relative to surrounding ‘unimproved’ soils, these patches
of good soil came to be considered as the natural soils, and a baseline against which
surrounding soil degradation could be assessed. For example, when Ramsay and Innes
(1963) searched for ‘original’ vegetation during research on controlled burning in
African savannas, they drew a blank but, finding sacred groves with dense closed
woodland on old settlement sites, took this as evidence of the possibility of establishing
undisturbed woodlands in the savanna zone. Crucially, however, they considered that
‘the vigour of the trees in these groves may be ascribed in the first instance to higher
soil fertility levels of old village sites than on impoverished eroded soils of surrounding
farms’ (p. 50) — thus downplaying any effects of positive investment in settlement soils
in relation to ‘natural’ background soils, by considering the latter as degraded.
Examples of such misrecognition of upgraded soils occurred throughout West Africa
(see Fairhead and Leach 1996, 1998).
Within the prevailing politics of knowledge during this period, there was little
" attention to farmers’ indigenous knowledge and practices, and their possible significance
in upgrading soils. In Amazonia, this is because indigenous settled farming popula-
tions are rare now, and were assumed not to have existed. In African settings, farmers
evidently did exist — but pejorative and sometimes racist colonial assumptions about
the backwardness of their techniques and practices deterred interest in indigenous
knowledge.
Second, these histories of occlusion reflected particular political-economic and policy
contexts that shaped the prisms, and funding, of agronomic research. In Amazonia,
settlement and clearance for agriculture — and associated agronomic interest — dates
only from the 1960s, and was driven by concerns with large-scale mechanisation and
modernisation. In Africa, the political economy of agronomic research has a deeper
history, with several discernible phases. Until the great depression in the 1930s, the
principal colonial interest in African agriculture focused on the expansion of export
crops such as rubber, cotton, groundnut, coffee, cocoa and palm oil. The possible
importance of ADE to the production of these crops went unnoticed.
From the 1930s, colonial researchers began to conduct research on food crops in
the context of famines and food shortages linked to the expansion of export crops,
and (in southern and eastern Africa) of white settlement (Faulkner and Mackie 1933;
Cooper and Packard 1997; Hodge 2007). Colonial researchers’ attention came to be
dominated by soil erosion and by a set of crisis narratives constructed around defor-
estation, desertification and overpopulation. Soil conservation emerged as central to
colonial agricultural policy, through the promotion of soil terracing and mixed
farming to replace shifting cultivation, control of bush burning, and the introduction
70 J. Fairhead et al

of local land-planning systems. Studies began to be conducted on the relationship

between shifting cultivation and the soil, and the relationship between soil organic
matter, vegetation and agricultural practice came to be of agronomic interest, taken
up at the Third Inter-African Soils Conference at Dalaba in Guinea in 1959, for
example. Studies and debates compared the relative merits of attempts to improve soil
humus through green manures, cover crops, bush fallowing and other African farming
methods (e.g. Vine 1953), culminating in Nye and Greenland’s (1960) The Soil Under
Shifting Cultivation and Ahn’s (1970) West African Soils. In these approaches it was
surmised that fallowing led to a growth in the ‘nutrient capital’ of the soil, which
declined during cultivation. Two possible methods of dealing with decline in nutrient
levels were investigated: use of fertilisers, and use of leguminous trees and cover
crops, both of which attracted debate and scepticism (Ahn 1970: 245).
After the Second World War, research refocused in support of agricultural mod-
ernisation and mechanisation, with the emphasis on inorganic fertiliser and improved seeds
(Hodge 2007) — a focus that continued after independence. Narratives of a looming
population explosion justified increasing marginalisation of research on farmers’ soil
management techniques. Research on soil fertility became concerned largely with the
optimal application of inorganic fertilisers to different soil types and farming regimes
involving mechanised land clearance and line planting. During the 1970s, the main
focus in agricultural policies was on extending Green Revolution technologies to
smallholder farmers, including packages of seeds and fertilisers. A second branch of
research in international agricultural institutions experimented with insights into fast
regenerating fallow species and agroforestry. This, however, resulted in the commo-
dification of farm—fallow interactions and farmers’ management practices, which were
appropriated and redesigned on experimental sites as packages — such as alley-cropping —
to be disseminated to farmers to ‘solve’ the problem of shifting cultivation. This sat
uneasily with existing labour constraints and gender relations, and with the diversity
of farming systems. Thus insights gained from research into the soil under shifting
agriculture from an earlier era were marginalised within policy, which sought to replace
farmers’ knowledge and practice with new technologies created on experimental
stations.
With the economic crises and Sahelian droughts of the late 1970s and early 1980s,
many international and church-based NGOs moved into agricultural development
with a focus on the environment, tree planting and agroforestry. In addition to dis-
seminating Green Revolution technologies, such agencies supported technologies
that were a throwback to the ‘conservation’-focused land planning of the 1930s,
including composting, soil bunding, terracing and tree planting. -
The dominant policies within agricultural research during the 1980s did not
encourage attention to indigenous soil fertility management. However, new paradigms
also emerged, based on participatory approaches and indigenous knowledge (Chambers
1983; Richards 1985). These responded to critiques of both state planning in agriculture
(Lipton 1977; Bates 1981) and the development of neoliberal anti-statist policies.
They questioned the top-down nature of agricultural policies, and their failure to
tailor recommendations to the conditions and needs of farmers or to build research
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 71

on farmers’ existing practices, strategies and knowledge. The advances made by soil
science in the 1950s and 1960s in understanding the rationale of fallow cultivation
were important in the emergence of participatory frameworks and validation of farmers’
knowledge. However, approaches were also influenced by the environmental concerns
of the late 1980s with deforestation and biodiversity, and used the insights from ear-
lier soil research to address these concerns. As a consequence, knowledge of soils
continued to be structured by processes related to nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium
and pH, and the significance of soil carbon and old settlement sites did not feature.
Even ‘ethnopedology’ — which gained ground in this period in detailing indigenous
soil classifications and understandings of soil processes (Barrera-Bassols and Zinck
2000, 2003) — remained entirely silent on both the soils of old settlement sites and
processes involving soil carbon.
Throughout these shifting political-economic contexts, it is notable that those
shifts in policy concern that might have been attentive to ADE were not (e.g. the
early periods of interest in tree crops, which often focused on peri-village ADE, and
the period of participation and attention to indigenous knowledge). This did not
simply reflect the hazards of discovery. After all, ADE had been observed in the 1870s
in Amazonia, and biochar-liberating agricultural techniques had been observed in
Africa. Instead, it indicates why it is important to consider the different dimensions to
ways in which power operates — including Foucauldian perspectives already discussed,
and the embedding of power/knowledge in practice.
In this third dimension to our political agronomy framework, the occlusion of
ADE reflected embedded practices in research and intervention: ideas of soils being
natural unless degraded were not only reproduced in theories of soil genesis based on
background geology, climate and ‘catena’, but also were incorporated into regional
soil mapping and land classification, and the regional agricultural planning and even
legislation based on it.
We can see that the ‘agency’ of ADE and biochar itself was either misrecognised as
a feature of natural soil (if soils were dark, they were dark for all the reasons except
the addition of pyrolised materials, which could hardly be ‘natural’). Or, in the case
of biochar, its effects were masked by all the other transformations that pyrolising
vegetation under the soil might effect. That ADE made itself known to Amazonian
farmers, and that African farmers considered it as banal and an inevitable corollary of
settlement, was rarely, if ever, observed.

The new significance of Terra preta in Amazonia

In Amazonia, appreciation of ADE among agronomists began to change from the late
1970s. These soils came again to be understood as anthropogenic, and a new and
vibrant era of research and interest in Terra preta and Terra mulata was born.
The political-economic context was crucial to this new appreciation as it coincided
with the increased settlement and use of Amazonia. As roads were built, Amazonian
forests were cleared and small-scale farmers moved into them in a complex relation-
ship with loggers and ranchers, so they found and used ADE. As colonisation
72 J. Fairhead et al

proceeded apace, so its environmental and social effects began to show, and this
threw up a critical counter-current to the rapid clearance and unsustainable use of
Amazonian soils. As they endeavoured to develop permanent agricultural systems,
several researchers began to see a potential model in Terra preta. This critique
developed in the context of indigenous people’s movements, and more global
appreciation of indigenous knowledge and agro-ecological paradigms for small farm
development. ADE research thus became configured within, and framed as, an
alternative to massive, and destructive, forest clearances.
This ‘struggle’ was also associated with new disciplinary configurations in the
production of knowledge. Anthropologists, agronomists and archaeologists were by now
starting to work together more closely. Rather rapidly, a new and mutually appreciative
community of discovery developed around Terra preta. This linked Amazonia-based
researchers with others in universities and research institutes in the Latin American
region and the USA, extending to Europe. They organised into networks and funded
programmes, and found common purpose in reasoning that came to be labelled as
historical ecology, political ecology and agro-ecology.
This emerging research located Terra preta in the context of indigenous practices,
and in the knowledge of the small-scale farmers who appreciated these soils (although
not indigenous knowledge per se, as the processes leading to Terra preta formation
appeared to have been ‘lost’ with the region’s European conquest). Nevertheless,
some researchers (e.g. Hecht 2003; Steiner et al 2009) were interested in indigenous
knowledge and agro-ecology, and researched exemplars of ADE creation by con-
temporary farmers. One line of research and debate asked whether ADE were produced
intentionally as part of livelihood strategies, or were accidental legacies of past peoples.
Another set aside the question of origins to focus on how today’s farmers value and
use Terra preta (Fraser 2009, 2010).
When Sombroek articulated the vision of mimicking the creation of ADE in ‘terra
preta nova’ (Sombroek et al 2003), it was largely in the context of searching for
alternatives to shifting cultivation. Yet, as research revealed that the secret of these
sous lay in part in their biochar content, it became clear that, in mimicking ADE, one
would sequester atmospheric carbon. It-was at this point, and in the context of new
concerns with climate change and carbon sequestration, that attention shifted from
ADE to biochar.
Several soil scientists who were already prominent in Terra preta research picked
up on and led work on biochar, suggesting a high-potential ‘win-win’ for climate
change mitigation as well as soil conditioning (Sombroek et al 2003; Lehmann 2007;
Gaunt and Lehmann 2008; Lenton and Vaughan 2009). This, in turn, gave a boost to
Amazonian Terra preta research. Finding that pyrolised organic material has a much
greater average stability than uncharred organic matter, researchers argued that burying
biochar creates a long-term carbon sink that can last from hundreds to thousands of
years (Cheng et al 2008; Lehmann et al 2009), with evidence of Terra preta soils that
have retained their carbon since pre-Hispanic times adduced to support these claims
(e.g. Lehmann et al 2009: 184). It was argued that most soils already contain char
generated through vegetation fires and settlement practices during the past few
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 73

thousand years, and that these - ADE and ADE-like soils — make up several per cent
of total soil organic carbon worldwide (e.g. Gonzalez-Perez et al 2004). Biochar soil
management offered the potential to add significantly to these pre-existing chars,
with some proponents quoting a potential global carbon sink of 5.5-9.5 Gt C year!
by 2100, larger than the annual quantity of carbon currently produced by the burning
of fossil fuels (Lehmann et al 2006).
The argument that biochar buried in soil offers large potential for sequestering
carbon rapidly linked Amazonian soil scientists and agronomists with an expanding
global network of researchers and political advocates. This included prominent indi-
viduals such as James Hansen, head of the NASA Goddard Institute for Space Studies,
and James Lovelock, originator of the Gaia theory, who claimed that “There is one
way we could save ourselves and that is through the massive burial of charcoal. [ ... ]
Then you can start shifting really hefty quantities of carbon out of the system and pull
the CO, down quite fast.’ Johannes Lehmann of Cornell University, a long-standing
researcher in the Amazonian ADE field, was in this context named by social enterprise
Re:char as the ‘biochar hero’.! An expanding epistemic community that had built
around Terra preta now refocused around biochar, and was formalised in organisations
and networks such as the International Biochar Initiative and a growing suite of biochar-
focused panels at soil science conferences in the Latin American region and beyond.
Thus ADE — which initially had attracted interest as a conservation-inspired alter-
native to Amazonian destruction, emerging as a reaction to experiences of state-led
" agricultural modernisation — was now reframed as a solution to a global climate problem.

Continued silence about ADE in Africa

New interest in Terra preta and biochar among agronomists and others working on
Amazonia during the 1980s and 1990s, and even into the early 2000s, was not paralleled
in Africa. Africanist researchers did not pick up on the Terra preta/biochar debate
during this period, and in some quarters these lines of agronomic research were actively
constructed as being irrelevant to Africa. Again, the reasons for this relate to the
politics of knowledge, to prevailing political-economic contexts, and to communities
of practice.
Partly at stake was a strong regionalism in the practices of research communities
and partnerships, in which crossover between those concerned with the Amazon — mainly
from Latin American and US institutions — and those concerned with Africa was
relatively infrequent. Moreover, some Amazonianists and Africanists alike discouraged
such interaction, contributing to discursive disjunctures through claims about the
‘exceptionalism’ of their regions’ agro-ecology and history. Thus Amazonianists argued
that because pre-Hispanic Amazonian farmers had only stone axes, they could not practise
shifting cultivation — as African farmers, who had iron technologies, were able to —
and so were forced into the kind of intensive practices that build Terra preta (Denevan
1992, 2006). It was also argued that, as Amazonia (unlike Africa) did not have domestic
animals, aquatic environments were more important, and that the qualities of Terra
preta may be linked to fish diets and their calcium additions to soils (Neves et al
74 |. Fairhead et al

2003). For some Africanists, importing an ‘Amazonian model’ into Africa was an
analytical sin; indeed, Nyerges and Green (2000) made this critique of Fairhead and
Leach’s research that revealed the significance of old settlement sites to farming practices
in the West African forest zone in the early 1990s (Fairhead and Leach 1996). These
arguments asserting the uniqueness of Amazonian and African agro-ecological history are
wholly overstated. Although Africa had a much earlier iron age, many African agro-
ecological systems (or parts of them) have long involved intensive forms of cultivation
not reliant on the efficiencies of iron technology — while fish, freshly caught or
dried — have long been central to livelihoods and diets in many parts of the continent.
It has also become evident that basic ecological and soil distinctions cannot provide a
basis for Amazonian exceptionalism. ADE are found over a wide range of ecological
conditions in Amazonia, many of which are common to the lowland humid tropics
of Central and West Africa, including the highly weathered and leached soils (Oxisols
and Ultisols). Amazonian ADE are now understood to comprise a family of carbon-
enriched soil types, which is not a singular basis for comparison (Hecht 2003, 2009;
Schmidt and Heckenberger 2009). Nevertheless, throughout the 1980s and 1990s,
exceptionalist arguments prevailed and helped to construct Terra preta and biochar
research as irrelevant in African settings.
Disciplinary divides also contributed to the continuing silence about ADE in
African settings. There were certainly many interdisciplinary engagements and part-
nerships between agronomists and social scientists in this era. Indeed, this combination
was actively promoted by many Africa-based centres within the CGIAR system, for
instance. Yet archaeologists — whose contributions had been so important to the Terra
preta debate in Amazonia — largely worked apart. Thus, while Africanist archaeologists
frequently encountered dark earths on the settlement sites they investigated, and
observed farmers using them, their focus was on the sites and their artefacts — not on
the soils, their qualities and agro-ecological significance.
Contradictory tendencies emerged within soil science, in which an increasingly
influential ‘nutrient balance’ model dating back to the 1960s was in tension with a
broader agro-ecological model critical of it, yet neither has been attentive to anthro-
pogenic soil transformation. At its most extreme, the former is highly reductionist,
imagining African ‘soil fertility’ as if the soil was simply a bank account, with the
fertility status being understood as the balance between the nutrients added (through
fallows, manuring or fertiliser) or removed through cropping. Economic metaphors
infuse this powerful strand of soil science work on nutrient balances, their measurement
and modelling (Fairhead and Scoones 2005).
Those pioneering agro-ecological approaches to farming in Africa at this time, and
urging appreciation of indigenous knowledge and practices, also overlooked enduring
anthropogenic soil transformations. The ‘soil under shifting cultivation’ paradigm
framed social science inquiries into farmers’ own knowledge and logics — in attuning
crops to particular site, soil nutrient and fallow conditions, and enriching and managing
fallows (e.g. Richards 1985; Amanor 1994). Their focus expands far beyond soil
nutrients, reflecting on soil structure, weed competition and pests and diseases, and
wider ecological and social factors shaping their management. Yet with the major
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 75

focus on the maintenance of soil fertility through fallows, and through the management
and recycling of vegetation into crop production, greater attention has been paid to
the more temporary factors impacting on crop fertility, rather than on the more
permanent soil transformations associated with ADE. We are not arguing that a focus
on ADE should question the pertinence of these approaches. Indeed, farmers’ man-
agement of trees in short land-rotation systems, and their selection of trees in fallows
and root-mat management through pollarding and rapid coppice regrowth, may be
more significant for soil processes over much larger areas than ADE formation. ADE
is just one of many relationships between people and the environment. All we
are arguing is that these agro-ecological approaches have also overlooked the soil
transformations associated with ADE.
Such discursive constructions of African soil fertility also fitted the prevailing political-
economic context of the 1980s and 1990s, with the embedding of neoliberal policies
and market arrangements. This was an era in which metaphors of soils as nutrient
banks, and of nutrients themselves as ‘natural capital’, made sense; framings that also
facilitated the assimilation of chemical fertilisers, provided through emerging market
and public-private arrangements, into farming as additions to the nutrient balance.
This was also an era of growing environmental concern, shaping political-economic
and funding contexts for agronomic and agro-ecological research. Yet at this time,
leading up to and just after the 1992 Earth Summit conference in Rio de Janeiro,
preoccupying concerns were with desertification, biodiversity loss, deforestation and
~ Jand degradation. Dominant policy and donor narratives, and many projects, high-
lighted crises of land and soil degradation linked to loss of vegetation cover — and
much research was framed in response or resistance to such views (Leach and Mearns
1996). This was not a context that encouraged a research focus on long-term
anthropogenic soil transformations. Indeed, when Fairhead and Leach explored
farmers’ long-term creation of village ‘forest islands’ in Guinea in the early 1990s
(Fairhead and Leach 1996), they did examine soil effects, but relatively cursorily; they
framed their research as primarily significant to understanding vegetation and forest
cover change (not soil), in keeping with the key environmental debates of the time.
The early 2000s have seen a renewed interest in agricultural intensification,
refashioned in the context of promoting private input dealers and the expansion and
concentration of capital in agribusiness and supermarket chains. The state’s role is
increasingly limited to developing enabling conditions for private investment in
agriculture. At the same time, large philanthro-capitalist initiatives and public—private
partnerships seek to roll out and scale up the use of improved seeds and inorganic
fertilisers in order to stimulate Africa’s own Green Revolution. These tendencies
have resulted in a decline of funding for more ecologically focused and participatory
research in agriculture. It is likely that indigenous African agro-ecologies, such as
ADE and the wider cropping practices and vegetation suites associated with them, are
simply not on the radar of a policy world where fertiliser and GM crops are increasingly
seen as the solution to farming problems. Robert Paarlberg’s (2009) Starved for Science:
How Biotechnology is Being Kept Out of Africa exemplifies this framing. Paarlberg is
dismissive of indigenous agro-ecology as being not only unworthy of scientific study,
76 |. Fairhead et al

but also responsible for soil degradation and poor crop yields. Such discourses help to
shape the interests of agricultural science in Africa, and explain in part why many
institutions, researchers and policy-makers overlook the existence and significance of
indigenous agronomic practices around ADE.

Transferring biochar to Africa

Nevertheless, and even in this apparently unwelcome agricultural political-economic
and policy context, from around 2005 Africa saw an expansion of biochar research and
development. Arguments began to be made that the Amazonian research on Terra preta
was relevant to Africa (Sillitoe 2006). A number of prominent soil scientists and
agronomists in the Amazonian biochar field expanded their attention to more global,
including African, settings (Lehmann and Joseph 2009). There, they began to work
with partners in African soil science institutions (e.g. Sohi and Yeboah 2009), joined
by new generations of international biochar researchers who are focusing their work
on Africa.
In accounting for this sudden interest in biochar in Africa, its timing and the particular
form it has taken, again an analysis must link political economy with political ecologies of
practice, and with the politics of knowledge. The political economy of environment
and climate change as it has emerged in the 2000s is undoubtedly central. This has cre-
ated new political and policy imperatives to mitigate climate change, and new carbon
markets and opportunities linked to them. In this context, a host of new companies,
NGOs, partnerships and business initiatives have emerged, seeking to promote biochar as
a ‘win-win’ that will simultaneously address African climate and farming challenges —
and benefit from what Spash has called the ‘brave new world’ of carbon funding
(Spash 2009).
Biochar is thus seen as a way to tap into carbon markets, offering high market
potential ‘as a long-term and readily measurable sequestration product, [that] will
provide additional revenue in any market or jurisdiction where C is traded or C
sequestration outcomes are valued’ (Glover 2009: 378). Funding from carbon trading
is argued to be essential to finance the research and development necessary to discover
and exploit the full potential of biochar to contribute to climate change mitigation,
and to enable scale-up to sequester carbon at globally significant levels. Others
argue that, if farmers receive payments for sequestered carbon, this can provide an
income stream and justify the financial and time investments necessary to adopt
biochar systems (Palmer 2009) — a model tested by the Biochar Fund in Central
Africa. Pro-biochar advocates have been at pains to bring biochar into the UN
Framework Convention on Climate Change process, and to argue the case for bio-
char to be included as an offset mechanism in formal carbon trading schemes under
the Kyoto Protocol and in its Clean Development Mechanism. Meanwhile, biochar
is included in various voluntary carbon markets — or at least the promise of these, in
an unfolding and uncertain market scene. Through ‘farming carbon’ — sequestering
carbon in soils, including those that are desertified or degraded — and selling
carbon credits just like any other farm-produced commodity, it is argued, carbon
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 77

trading could generate significant profits, whether for businesses, farmers or both
(Lal 2010).
The potential of generating profits through carbon trading has enticed many small
companies and commercial initiatives onto the biochar scene, where they form a subset
of the dizzying array of commercial ventures forming around the new carbon economy
in general. Commercial ventures specialising in or including biochar are many and
varied. Examples include BioChar Products, ‘a start up company dedicated to the
demonstrating and testing of the fast pyrolysis concept for use in small communities
near forested landscapes’* and Carbon Gold, a UK-based company that manufactures
biochar-based products for gardening and has a portfolio of projects in developing
countries including Ghana®. These examples are only a small handful among the
many business initiatives seeking to profit from biochar technologies and offering
advice about them amidst the political economy of carbon. In this context, even
publicly funded research such as our own is easily reframed in terms of its ‘impact’ in
contributing to carbon agendas, and the business relationships linked to these (Leach
et al 2010).
In this political-economic context, emerging NGO-business partnerships are
implementing a rapidly expanding number of practical biochar projects. African Biodi-
versity Network, Biofuelwatch and Gaia Foundation (2009) list 19 such projects, and
the list is growing fast. These have all started since 2005 and most describe themselves
as ‘trials’, illustrating both the novelty of biochar applications and the status of many as
~ simultaneous research sites for the development of biochar science. They include a
project by the French Centre for Rural Innovations (in Cote d'Ivoire and Burkina
Faso), involving biofuel and biochar trials on 2500 hectares, and field trials in
Cameroon and DR Congo run by the Biochar Fund (Belgium); research projects/
trials in western Kenya linked to Cornell University, targeting 20 households with
cookstoves and carrying out biomass assessments on 50 households; small pilot pyr-
olysis plants and biochar trials in Mali, Niger and Senegal supported by the NGO
Pro-Natura; a study in west-central Ghana aiming to develop ‘biochar-based soil
management strategies for smallholder agriculture’ run by Rothamsted Research
(UK) and the Soil Research Institute in Kumasi; and an EU-funded project
linking Italian researchers with institutions in Sierra Leone and Togo to produce
biochar in cookstoves, and its effects on soils both in field stations and on farmers’
fields. Emerging networks, websites and databases, such as those managed by
the International Biochar Initiative, connect these and other projects, contributing
to a growing community of experimental practice around biochar in Africa and
beyond.
As in these examples, most contemporary African biochar projects focus on the
transfer of biochar technology, and on the rapid production of biochar for application
to soils through the use of ‘improved’ (often imported) stoves and kilns. However,
in the context of such projects, there is a nascent interest in African Terra preta: in
the carbon-enriched soils of old settlement sites which are valued and used across the
continent, the history of their production, and the significance of farmers’ knowledge and
practices in using and possibly mimicking them today. Our own research has helped
78 |. Fairhead et al

to stimulate this interest among biochar researchers working in Ghana and Sierra
Leone, for example, leading to new PhD and master’s student projects.
As the justifications for these projects emphasise, biochar offers prospects of
contributing to small farmers’ priorities and agendas without upsetting the prevailing
political economy of food and agriculture. This has been key to its promotion in
African settings. Supporting small farmers and contributing to livelihoods and poverty
reduction is a central motivation for the interest in biochar among many researchers —
ourselves included — and hitching to carbon agendas and funding can be seen as
strategically valuable in achieving these aims. For example, the Biochar Fund describes its
mission as ‘fighting hunger, energy poverty, deforestation and climate change —
simultaneously’, and its impact —.through projects such as those in Cameroon and DR
Congo — as creating ‘a synergy that radically changes the livelihoods of some of the
world’s poorest communities in multiple ways’.*
The NGO Pro-Natura, whose central concern is ‘fighting rural poverty’, describes
how it took the decision ‘to encourage the use of its green charcoal as a biochar and
has launched pilot projects on its intervention sites. [ ... ] It is thus possible to render
the carbon footprint globally negative (by taking more carbon from the atmosphere than
is emitted), while fighting effectively against poverty and hunger’.° This framing of
biochar as contributing simultaneously to soil enhancement, poverty reduction,
wellbeing and livelihoods along with climate change has been key to the growing
research and development interest in it in African settings — among businesses, NGOs
and universities alike.
Nevertheless, there are tensions in this biochar debate, which is unfolding and
being shaped by a high-stakes political economy chasing new carbon money. One set
of tensions is around the politics of scale. While those promoting small farmer agendas
generally favour small-scale schemes that recycle agricultural wastes (Lehmann and Joseph
2009; Pratt and Moran 2010), those seeking to sequester sufficient carbon to make a
difference to climate change mitigation (and engender sufficient carbon-trading profits)
emphasise large-scale schemes involving plantations of biochar feedstocks (Read
2009). Yet this spectre of large-scale biochar development is being roundly ques-
tioned by NGOs and researchers as unsustainable and liable to lead to poverty and
deprivation — in an era shaped by concerns with ‘land grabs’ in Africa and by recent
debates over ‘biofuels versus food’ as competing uses of rural lands (African Biodi-
versity Network et al 2009; Paul et al 2009). There is, as yet, no evidence of large-
scale, commercial biochar developments in Africa, yet critics suggest that all biochar
projects are currently small-scale simply because there has been no opportunity to scale
them up. In this way, and as happened with biofuels, it is argued, small-scale partici-
patory schemes are both a smokescreen for, and an opening to pave the way for, large-scale
biochar monocultures that will displace farmers from their land (TNI 2009).
Another set of tensions concerns the most appropriate strategies for addressing
Africa’s supposed soil productivity crisis. Here, amidst a complex and again highly
politicised debate, as we have seen, many of those arguing for a new Green Revolution
for Africa (AGRA 2009) emphasise the importance of packages including chemical
fertilisers, to be delivered at scale — including through new business—state partnerships
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 79

and philanthropic funding. In contrast, others emphasise approaches that are claimed
to be more attuned to small farmers’ diverse livelihood and agro-ecological contexts.
While such debates about African agricultural futures are heated and often polarised,
biochar notably offers opportunities to both ‘sides’. Thus organisations favouring an
increased role for small farmer agendas and organic, biomass-based pathways see
biochar strategies as offering one route of this kind (e.g. Woodfine 2009). Yet,
because additions of biochar may help soil to retain nutrients and fertilisers (Hansen
et al 2008; Lehmann and Joseph 2009), biochar can be framed as not an alternative to
inorganic fertilisers, but a complement — enhancing fertiliser efficiency. This is potentially
an attractive scenario for companies and organisations that profit from fertiliser pro-
duction and distribution, which can expect greater demand for fertilisers from farmers
who see their application resulting in larger crop productivity gains. Of course, not all
advocates of a fertiliser-led revolution are interested in biochar. Yet the potential for
biochar to be mobilised across diverse parts of the contemporary soil politics spectrum
has certainly contributed to interest in it, and to difficulties in rejecting its potential
out of hand. However, it is also the case that biochar promoted in this way might
come to be seen by farmers as another commodity fertiliser, and perhaps rejected
in favour of other soil fertility management practices. There is even a danger that an
alliance of ADE and biochar with carbon sequestering and climate change agendas
may lead to a marginalisation of other aspects of farmers’ management of soil fertility
and fallows.
This contemporary political-economic context has interlocked with a politics of
knowledge in shaping interest in biochar in Africa. The promise of carbon sequestration
and the transfer of biochar technology seems to be breaking down the regional
exclusivity that dominated during earlier decades. Thus soil scientists with a back-
ground in Amazonian research are increasingly becoming involved in African research
and partnerships. In some instances, they are working with social scientists — such as
ourselves — who once framed their interests in African environments in terms of their
vegetation, but, inspired by social and ecological research on Amazonian Terra preta,
are now asking similar questions about African soils. In parallel, and significantly,
global climate change concerns are inspiring Africanist archaeologists to turn their
attention more closely to environmental questions, so that in some places at least,
archaeology on the continent is becoming environmental archaeology. This is creating
new potential for the kinds of interdisciplinary engagement between archaeologists,
agronomists, ecologists and social scientists which were so significant to Terra preta
research in the Amazon. In a few instances, such interdisciplinary alliances are now
being mobilised to explore ADE in Africa.
The place of indigenous knowledge in contemporary biochar debates in Africa is
ambiguous, but may be shifting. Amidst the interest in African biochar from around
2005, little attention has been paid to indigenous knowledge. Despite general arguments
about participation, there is very little attention to the potential for working with,
and seeking to build on, farmers’ existing ADE knowledge and practices. The dominant
modus operandi is of transferring in biochar technologies and _ strategies from
outside. This presumed gap between farmers’ existing practices and biochar strategies
80 J. Fairhead et al

seems, at first sight, to jar with the origins of biochar interest in work on Amazonian
Terra preta. Yet there is a presumed disjuncture between Terra preta creation — part
of a pre-Hispanic past — and today’s farming. This narrative of disjuncture deters
interest in the implications of today’s farming systems for the implantation of biochar
practices. More significantly, it also deters interest in the possibility that today’s
farmers might themselves be creating ADE; that recent, extant indigenous knowledge
might include acknowledgement, value and use of — or even practices to create —
char-enriched soils. Research led by social scientists in Africa is now exploring just
this possibility (Fairhead and Leach 2009; Fairhead et al 2009), seeking to investigate
more widely and systematically practices that have so far been reported only as iso-
lated cases and anecdotes (e.g. Zech and Haumaier 1990; Leach and Fairhead 1995;
Sohi and Yeboah 2009). If evidence builds, it may lend support to those arguing for
small-scale, locally appropriate approaches to biochar strategies for soil enhancement.
It may be open to mobilisation by public and private organisations seeking to profit
from the new political economy of carbon, which will be able to add to the sus-
tainability credentials of their initiatives a romantic appeal to indigenous, African
authenticity — as some already do with respect to Amazonian Terra preta. It is likely
also that new lines of agronomic and ecological research will open up, as well as new
dialogues across disciplines and regions, and with Amazonian Terra preta research
communities.

Conclusions

This chapter has tracked the rise of ADE and biochar research in both Amazonia and
Africa against the background of historical occlusion. In Amazonia, interest in
ADE offered a conservationist counter to destructive agricultural expansion. By
the time the debate was picked up in African settings, more than twenty years
later, environmental preoccupations had shifted to global climate change and
ADE was reframed as biochar, a win—win that could link soil enhancement
with climate change mitigation in a profitable new carbon economy. Political
agronomy has thus produced and re-produced its objects in a range of contrasting
and contested ways.
In explaining these shifting foci, framings and timings, we have required a political
agronomy analysis attentive both to changing politics of knowledge and to shifting
political-economic:contexts. As we have shown, most recently, agronomic research is
being shaped to some degree by the new business opportunities associated with carbon
pricing and potential profits. We have shown the importance of political-economic
drivers of research, and the inverse: the ways in which research findings support lobbying
within and for market opportunities. The financing of research is predicated on
driving that economy forward — now so visible in the way researchers obtain funding
by emphasising climate mitigation impacts. Many scientists have been sceptical of ADE,
and especially of biochar, as a soil conditioner. Yet precisely because biochar
research is enwrapped in political economic forces, such critique is now inevitably
politicised.
 Anthropogenic dark earths and Africa 81

Thus, today, alongside positive narratives about the potential of biochar, an array
of alternative narratives can also be discerned. Critique is located in positions that see
biochar research as locked into a research—business pathway that would support the
establishment of biochar plantations that offer false promise to solve climate problems,
and will have negative fall-out (e.g. land grabs). In a critical commentary in The Guardian
newspaper in March 2009, the environmental journalist George Monbiot argued that
‘the latest miracle mass fuel cure, biochar, does not stand up; yet many who should
know better have been suckered into it’ (Monbiot 2009a). At the very least, the so-called
““charleaders” need to cool their enthusiasm’ (Monbiot 2009b). Biochar is thus becoming
the focus of a — sometimes fraught and potentially high-stakes — political debate.
The importance of taking a political agronomy approach is thus in its ability to
reveal the political economic forces shaping the encounter between scientists and the
ecological world they probe, and to introduce reflexivity into the interpretation of
their results. While this might be seen to be at the cost of debasing scientific results
(shifting biochar research away from a simplistic ‘realist’ ontology), such reflexivity
has the benefit of opening the research field to alternative pathways. The current
political polarisation risks blocking alternative research. A political agronomy analysis,
in helping to reveal reasons and contexts for such polarisation, also helps illuminate
how it might be overcome. In particular, research need not be financed within
the current win-win framing, but could look more empirically at soils and their use —
not carbon-centric and linked to global agendas and a narrow view of soil ecology,
~but open to farmers’ own knowledge and agendas. Such approaches might not meet
the ‘win—win’ claims of proponents, but might still offer the prospects of benefits for
farmers, livelihoods and landscapes as part of more diverse strategies to address soil
fertility and environmental problems. In the long run, it may prove to be this kind of
approach that delivers both agronomic and environmental wins, less as overt goals,
but amidst multiple outcomes of processes attuned to livelihoods and landscapes — and
thus likely to work in reality.
In many senses, current debates about biochar mirror earlier debates about soil and
environment. Like the promotion of inorganic fertilisers during the Green Revolution
era, and of agroforestry technologies during the environmental era, the current focus
on carbon-fixing technologies during a climate-anxious era marginalises the complexity
and diversity of agro-ecological and agronomic processes and interactions, and farmers’
knowledge of these. Now that the silence about ADE in Africa has been broken, will
the agenda be co-opted by big business and externally led ‘solutions’ to problems
framed elsewhere? Or will ADE be properly acknowledged and researched as part of
a rich, diverse repertoire of soil management processes and practices, with farmers’
own perspectives and priorities centre stage?

Notes
1 ‘Biochar Hero, Johannes Lehmann, Testifies before 111th Congress’, 9 July 2009,
[Link]/2009/07/09/biochar-hero-johannes-lehmann-testifies-before-the-1 1 1th-
congress
82 |. Fairhead et al

2 [Link]
3 [Link]
4 [Link]/[Link]?option=com_content&task=view&id=1 4&1temid=37
5 [Link]

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5
CONTESTATION AS CONTINUITY?
Biofortification research and the CGIAR

Sally Brooks and Sarah E. Johnson-Beebout

Introduction

Biofortification, the development of nutrient-dense staple crops, has been promoted

both as a solution to ‘hidden hunger’ among poor populations in the developing world
(Nestel et al 2006) and as an exemplar of the kind of global public goods research for
which the CGIAR system is renowned (Dalrymple 2008). As an interdisciplinary
field of research and development linking crop science with human nutrition and
public health (CIAT and IFPRI 2002), biofortification presents both challenges and
opportunities for an international agricultural research system oriented towards
genetics-led crop improvement (Anderson et al 1991). This chapter traces develop-
ments in biofortification research over a fifteen-year period during which it emerged
from the margins of the CGIAR to become a priority for research investment (von
Braun et al 2008).
Biofortification is a relatively new term which simultaneously refers to (i) a range
of technologies designed to alter the grain nutrient levels in selected crop varieties;
(1) a development intervention combining goals of improved public health and poverty
alleviation; and (iii) an idea linking agriculture, nutrition and health in new ways. It is
a multi-dimensional ‘project’ contested on a number of levels, in terms of its technical
feasibility and efficacy (in controlled conditions), effectiveness and impact (in the ‘real
world’), and appropriateness and desirability (in comparison with alternative solutions).
This chapter analyses developments in biofortification research as an extended case study
in contested agronomy', in which a body of knowledge about complex interactions
between genotypes, soils, human bodies and populations has evolved over time, in
ways that have both reflected and reinforced particular sets of interdisciplinary and
inter-institutional relations. In the process, certain types of knowledge have presided
over others, with the result that some dimensions of this complex, multi-dimensional
project have been contested, while others have not.
 Biofortification research and the CGIAR 87

This chapter traces successive stages of biofortification research within the CGIAR
and among its partners, highlighting how these dimensions of potential contestation
have played out at each stage, in ways that reflected the priorities of the time, location
and particular characteristics of crops, nutrients and technologies. Despite these
specificities, certain continuities can be identified. In particular, contestation has tended
to focus on feasibility and efficacy questions that can be resolved within the confines
of institutional science, at the expense of broader questions about effectiveness
and appropniateness in the context of the needs, priorities and programmes of particular
countries and populations. A notable exception is the contestation surrounding the
controversial “Golden Rice’ project, which has been elevated to exemplary ‘case
study’ status in the GM crop debate (Jasanoff 2005; Taverne 2007). In the process, a
multiplicity of uncertainties about the less emotive, technical aspects of the project
have been shielded from professional as well as public scrutiny (Brooks 2010).
One dimension that has gone remarkably uncontested, at least by the international
nutrition community, is the question of the appropriateness of biofortification as a
nutritional intervention (although there are notable exceptions; for example, see
Johns and Sthapit 2004). This may be because biofortification does not, for this
community, represent a fundamental change of paradigm. Since the mid-1990s,
the field has been dominated by a ‘goal-oriented nutrition’ paradigm that is
particularly amenable to scalable micronutrient delivery mechanisms such as industrial
food fortification and pharmaceutical supplements (Gillespie et al 2004; Latham
2010). From this position, biofortification, despite its novelty, does not represent
a significant point of departure. Instead, debates about impact are dominated by
ex ante analyses extrapolating health and economic outcomes associated with a
‘switch’ from non-biofortified to biofortified varieties (Stein et al 2005). By and
large, these analyses are based on frameworks from neoclassical economics, which
do not take into account the diversity of ways in which rice is cultivated, pro-
cessed and consumed within different cultural and agro-ecological contexts (Brooks
2010).
A glance back at the CGIAR’s first biofortification project (long before the term
appeared) suggests that this lack of debate about effectiveness and appropriateness,
particularly with regard to addressing the nutritional needs of the poorest, was indeed
problematic. Research began at the Mexico-based International Maize and Wheat
Improvement Center (CIMMYT) on opaque2 maize in the 1960s (Mertz et al 1964),
providing the foundation for the Quality Protein Maize (QPM) programme that has
continued from the 1970s to this day. Accounts of the trajectory of QPM research
reveal repeated cycles of optimism inspired by each new ‘breakthrough’, only to be
tempered by field results that were insufficiently conclusive to justify either full
endorsement or closure (Mertz 1997; see also Prasanna et al 2001).* Today, QPM is
grown extensively in East Africa, although the extent to which this is due to its
nutritional qualities is uncertain (De Groote et al 2010). In India, the national maize
breeding programme prioritizes QPM research (Prasanna et al 2001), although its
work is increasingly oriented towards the livestock feed market rather than the
nutritional deficiencies of the poor (Hellin and Erenstein 2009).
88S. Brooks and S.E. Johnson-Beebout

Will more recent biofortification initiatives, focused on the micronutrients iron,

zinc and vitamin A, avoid these ambiguities and succeed in reaching the poorest?
An example and oft-cited biofortification ‘success story’ has been the promotion of
orange fleshed sweet potato (OFSP) in sub-Saharan Africa. Naturally high in beta-
carotene (the precursor of vitamin A), its substitution for white-fleshed sweet potato
has been a favoured food-based strategy of nutritionists for many years (Gichuki et al
1997; Hagenimama et al 2001; Low et al 2001, 2007). The untapped potential of
OFSP to combat vitamin A deficiency led to the absorption of ongoing research
activity into the HarvestPlus Biofortification Challenge Program as the basis for much
of its early ‘end-user’ work.* In contrast to other crops targeted by the CGIAR for
biofortification, the OFSP project utilises well developed products, the efficacy and
desirability of which do not attract contestation. Nevertheless, questions remain
about the effectiveness of a nutrition intervention, based on food items that still
require intensive promotion, even after twenty years of research and development
efforts.*
Perhaps because of the conspicuous yellow colour associated with the trait, research
on biofortification of crops with beta-carotene has tended to have a higher profile
than research focusing on other nutrients. Varieties enriched with beta-carotene
exhibit a yellow-orange colour that makes it possible to segregate biofortified from
non-biofortified products, while cultivars bred for increased iron or zinc density are
visually indistinguishable from other varieties. This has implications for labelling and
pricing, as well as the potential for targeting particular populations ‘at nsk’ from
malnutrition-related illness, raising a different set of challenges with regard to impact
assessment. The focus of this chapter is on efforts, centred in the International Rice
Research Institute (IRRI), to biofortify rice with the trace minerals iron and zinc.
Contestation around this research has been relatively restrained, mainly because the
research has relied largely (but not exclusively) on ‘conventional’ plant breeding
rather than more controversial transgenic technologies. A key claim made for iron- and
zinc-dense varieties is that they offer a ‘win-win’ solution combining nutritional
benefits with improved agronomic performance (realising higher yields, particularly in
nutrient-deficient soils; Bouis 1996), making this a particularly interesting case from a
contested agronomy perspective.
This chapter traces the history of research aimed at producing iron- and zinc-dense
rice varieties. It highlights, at each stage, which dimensions were contested and which
were not, and how this contestation (or lack of it) was linked to particular config-
urations of actors, disciplines and broader institutional factors. It explores how the
problem to be addressed by the research was defined or ‘framed’ (Schén and Rein
1994) in ways that both reflected and reinforced particular sets of interdisciplinary
relations. These dynamics are viewed through the lens of interdisciplinary relations
and contests that emerged in each stage of the research. This analysis highlights how
scale assumptions embedded in certain disciplines (or in particular approaches within
disciplines) could be marshalled to tilt the interdisciplinary playing field, with impli-
cations for research directions and science practice. Furthermore, these dynamics ‘at
the interface’ (Long 2001) between epistemic traditions unfolded within a broader
 Biofortification research and the CGIAR 89

institutional context that was itself in a state of perpetual transformation. A key con-
tribution of this chapter is that it offers a cross-scale analysis of contested agronomy
linking the micropolitics of interdisciplinary ‘boundary work’ (Gieryn 1999) with the
broader power-knowledge relations that characterize these increasingly globalised
research networks.

The pre-breeding study — establishing feasibility (1994-99)

This section outlines the series of events through which plant breeding for micro-
nutrient density found its way onto the CGIAR research agenda. This was due, in large
part, to a small network of like-minded people who championed the approach at a
time when it was perceived by many within the CGIAR as unrealistic and somewhat
eccentric. It focuses on particular moments when the biofortification research agenda
was subtly reframed to bring in different constituencies, particularly the CGIAR plant
breeders on whom the approach (as conceived by its promoters) depended.
In 1993, the International Food Policy Research Institute (IFPRI) received funding
from the USAID Office of Nutrition to identify ways in which CGIAR ‘might
undertake to join other international and national organisations in the fight against
micronutrient malnutrition’ (Bouis 1995a: 11). While this idea initially received a
lukewarm response from CGIAR scientists (mindful of the early QPM experience), a
breakthrough came with the discovery of a network of scientists advocating a ‘food
systems approach’ to the problem of micronutrient malnutrition (Combs et al 1996).
This was envisaged as a holistic and ‘inherently interdisciplinary’ approach in which plant
breeding research was integrated with research into micronutrient bioavailability? and
food technology. The institutional home of this approach was the Cornell-based
Federal Plant, Soil and Nutrition Laboratory (PSNL), which ‘had, since the 1930s,
been investigating linkages between minerals in soils and the nutrition of plants, animals
and humans in the United States’ (Bouis 1995a: 12).
At this time, Ross Welch of the PSNL introduced Howarth Bouis, based at IFPRI
and the CGIAR’s main advocate of biofortification research, to Robin Graham of the
Waite Agricultural Research Institute at the University of Adelaide.° Graham was
conducting research on crops bred for more efficient uptake of trace minerals such
as iron and zinc from deficient soils (Bouis 1995a: 12-13). Graham’s aim was to use
this trait to improve wheat yields in zinc-deficient soils in Australia. Meanwhile, a
research programme was under way to adapt Australian zinc-efficient varieties for the
zinc-deficient soils in Turkey, with the aim of improving plant and human nutrition
simultaneously (Cakmak 1996). It was estimated that “Turkish wheat farmers would
save $100 million annually in reduced seeding rates alone’ (Cakmak 1996: 13).’
Graham, Welch and Bouis envisioned a ‘win-win situation’ (Graham and Welch 1996:
15-16) in which crop yields would be enhanced ‘without additional farmer inputs’
alongside improved nutritional quality (Welch and Graham 2004: 356), through a
strategy of ‘tailoring the plant to fit the soil’. However, the implied synergies
between plant and human nutrition benefits were still unproven at this stage (Bouis
1995b: 18).
90 5S. Brooks and S.E. Johnson-Beebout

In 1994, IFPRI hosted a workshop entitled ‘Agricultural Strategies for Micronutrients’,

which led to the establishment of the CGIAR micronutrients project (1994-99)
(Bouis et al 1999). The merits of various breeding strategies were explored and
mechanisms regulating plant and human nutrition were discussed. In the published
output a strategic simplification was made, which proved critical in convincing
CGIAR plant breeders to participate. It was articulated as follows: “The genetics of
these traits is generally simple, making the task for breeders comparatively easy ... the
primary selection criterion is a simple and efficient one — the micronutrient content
of the seed’ (Graham and Welch 1996: 55). This problem redefinition spoke directly
to the prevailing, genetics-led approach to crop research within the CGIAR by
framing grain micronutrient content as an ‘isolable problem’ (Anderson et al 1991),
which could be approached in the same way as other stress-tolerant traits. And so the
‘food systems’ framing was replaced by a familiar CGIAR narrative — the solution was
‘in the seed’ (Brooks 2010).
Meanwhile, a group of IRRI plant breeders led by Dharmawansa Senadhira were
developing rice varieties for ‘problem soils’ characterised by salinity and mineral
toxicity and deficiency. This group produced a cross called ‘IR68144’, an aromatic
variety suited to ‘cold elevated areas’. At this time, Senadhira became aware of the
CGIAR micronutrients project, which prompted a shift to nutritional breeding
objectives. At the same time, the attention of his Filipino colleagues was drawn to a
national campaign to combat iron-deficiency anaemia following the ‘Ending Hidden
Hunger’ conference in Montreal in 1991 (Gregorio et al 2000: 382; see also Graham
et al 1999). As a result, while IR68144 contained elevated levels of both iron and zinc, it
was its identity as a high-iron cultivar that was emphasised. In 1999, an IRRI-convened
conference, which brought together crop scientists and nutritionists to discuss strategies
for ‘improving human nutrition through agriculture’, provided Sehandhira’s team
with an opportunity to showcase their recently discovered ‘high-iron rice’:

A high-iron trait can be combined with high-yielding traits. This has already
been demonstrated by the serendipitous discovery ... of an aromatic variety — a
cross between a high yielding variety (IR72) and a tall, traditional variety
(Zawa Bonday) from India — from which IRRI identified an improved line
(IR68144—3B-2-2-3°) with a high concentration of grain iron (about 21ppm!°
in brown rice). ... yields are about 10% below those of IR72, but in partial
compensation, maturity is earlier. This variety has good tolerance to soils deficient
in minerals such as phosphorus, zinc and iron.
(Gregorio et al 2000: 383)

While the ‘serendipitous discovery’ of IR68144 appeared to confirm the feasibility of rice
biofortification, questions remained about its performance under different agro-ecologi-
cal conditions. The question of genotype-environment interactions, however, would
be dealt with through the usual process of varietal evaluation following multi-location
trials, so these were put on hold. For the time being, the focus shifted to the nutrition
parameters of bioavailability and bioefficacy (the extent to which adsorption of these
 Biofortification research and the CGIAR 91

nutrients effects a measurable change in human nutrition status) as representing ‘the

final unknown’ (Brooks 2010). Bouis and Senadhira’s team now looked to Angelita
del Mundo, a nutritionist at the neighbouring Institute for Human Nutrition and
Food at the University of Philippines, Los Baiios, who had for many years advocated the
incorporation of nutritional parameters into rice breeding programmes.!! Del Mundo
proposed a ‘feeding trial’ be conducted to test the bioefficacy of iron in IR68144; and
proposed Catholic convents as an ‘ideal’ setting for such a study (Haas et al 2000: 442).
Collaborators would include Jere Haas of the Division of Nutritional Sciences at
Corell and John Beard from the Department of Nutrition at Pennsylvania State
University. Following this presentation, new funding was secured from the Asian
Development Bank (ADB) for continued research on iron-biofortified rice — on the
condition that the feeding trial formed an integral part of the programme.'?

The feeding trial — focus on nutrition (2000-03)

This section focuses on the systematic nutrition study which, it was hoped, would
convince the international nutrition and donor communities to support biofortification.
The study that Del Mundo and her colleagues designed was an ambitious nine-month
feeding trial which involved, as research subjects, more than 300 religious sisters in
ten Catholic convents across Metro Manila. It was both a landmark study and a major
logistical challenge which was extremely demanding of the small, close-knit inter-
disciplinary team of nutritionists and plant breeders. This team, or ‘research family’ as
they called themselves, displayed particular characteristics that shaped the study in
ways that have tended to be overlooked during subsequent contestation.
‘With the prioritisation of the bioefficacy study, the emphasis of the project shifted
to nutrition, using the ‘high-iron rice’ IR68144 as the material ‘developed at the
IRRI for experimental use’ (Haas et al 2005: 2825). The feeding trial was a ‘pro-
spective, randomised, controlled, double blind, longitudinal (9 month) intervention
trial involving 317 women. The study had two arms: low-iron rice and high-iron
rice, which were the exclusive sources of rice consumed [by the research subjects] for
nine months’ (Haas et al 2005: 2824). In preparation for the feeding trial, crop scientists
at IRRI conducted a series of experiments to measure the effects of production,
milling and cooking of IR68144 in comparison with the proposed control. Thus far,
the screening of varieties for iron content had been conducted on dehulled but
unmilled ‘brown’ rice. However, in the Philippines (and elsewhere in the region) rice
is usually consumed in its milled ‘white’ form. This was the first time that the
research team had evaluated the effects of post-harvest processing (milling, rinsing,
cooking) on grain iron content. They found that milling and rinsing had a far greater
impact on the iron content of cooked white rice than previously assumed, to the extent
that the differential between the ‘high-iron’ and ‘low-iron’ rice was reduced to a level
that threatened the viability of the study:

In effect, the differential between IR68144 and PSBRc28 [the original control] is
largely based on milling and not genotype. ... The differential may be achieved
92S. Brooks and S.E. Johnson-Beebout

if a commercially produced rice ... will be used opposite to IR68144 ...

treatments such as milling of IR68144 and washing of rice prior to cooking
should be taken into consideration to maximize the differential.
(Gregorio et al 2003: Conclusions and recommendations)

Adjustments had to be made in order to engineer the iron differential required for the
study to go ahead, including the selection of a new control and the development ofa
milling strategy that involved under-milling IR68144 and over-milling the control.
Since under-milled rice does not store well, supplies of the ‘high-iron’ rice had to be
delivered to the participating convents on a fortnightly basis. These adjustments
placed demands on the researchers, which they absorbed willingly. The location of
the research in Catholic convents held particular significance for the Filipino ‘research
family’, who were all of the Catholic faith. Del Mundo, in particular, ‘had always ~
dreamed of working with religious sisters’ in her research work (Del Mundo 2003: 82).
This convergence of science and religion'? was also reflected in the convent leaders’
decision to accommodate the research, once convinced that participation constituted
a form of ‘humanitarian service’.'*
Questions remained, however, about how the ‘high-iron’ status of IR68144 might
be sustained beyond the carefully controlled feeding trial. The elaborate logistics
required to maintain the identity of the ‘high-iron’ material was just a taste of the
challenges to come in maintaining its integrity as a commercial variety with distinct
(yet invisible) characteristics. Consideration of the implications for traceability, pricing
and attributable nutritional impact in ‘real-world’ conditions was shelved. The seeds
of future contestation were sown with the claim that such a partial and contingent
success would represent ‘proof of concept’ (an ambiguous claim in itself); particularly
since the IR68144 materials had, by then, been submitted for varietal testing, with
the expectation that the conclusion of the feeding trial would coincide with the
launch of the Philippines’ first high-iron rice variety.
During routine varietal testing, the agronomic performance of IR68144 did not
match expectations, so it was released with the more cautious certification of a ‘special
variety’ and named MS13 (Padolina et al 2003: 11; Corpuz-Arocena et al 2004).
Meanwhile, MS13 seeds were transferred to the Philippine Rice Research Institute
(PhilRace) for seed multiplication and varietal promotion. It was at this point that
agronomists began investigating the variability of the ‘high-iron’ character of MS13/
IR68144 more closely, discovering significant variation in grain iron content across
contrasting agro-ecological conditions and between seasons.!° It was in the context of
these questions about the relative contribution of the genotype (G) and environ-
mental (E) factors that some agronomists began to question the wisdom of privileging
a genetic-led approach to biofortification. Surely these findings suggested that envir-
onmental testing might play a useful role in informing breeding strategies (cf.
Simmonds 1991)? As one scientist explained: ‘ ... they identify genotypes first,
without understanding the cultural practices that will optimise the expression of iron ...
If they did an agronomic study first, then the true breeding parents would have been
used’,'°
 Biofortification research and the CGIAR 93

Globalising biofortification: negotiating programme-wide

breeding targets (2004-06)
In 2003, funding was secured for a joint proposal from CIAT and IFPRI for a
biofortification ‘Challenge Program’ called HarvestPlus (CIAT and IFPRI 2002).
This included funds from a new donor, the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation
(BMGF). This section charts the transformation of the ADB-funded regional rice
biofortification initiative into the rice crop component of this new global pro-
gramme. In the process, new actors congregated around a vision of a series of ‘gold
standard’!” biofortified lines, developed according to a system-wide framework of
breeding targets. Meanwhile, the outputs of earlier research — including the mixed
performance of IR68144 — presented dilemmas for a new team of research managers
poised to ‘scale up’ rice biofortification research.
The results of the feeding trial were published in 2005, with the conclusion that
‘consumption of biofortified rice, without any other changes in diet, is efficacious in
improving iron stores of women with iron-poor diets in the developing world’ (Haas
et al 2005: 2823). This was an important milestone, which coincided with a change
in personnel involved in rice biofortification research at IRRI.'® A ‘research family’
rooted in the Philippine context gave way to an internationally focused network
of researchers now tasked with conducting iron-biofortified rice research under
HarvestPlus.'? Distancing themselves from IR68144/MS13, they asserted that, while
as a variety it was far from ‘gold standard’, the feeding trial had provided the necessary
* ‘proof of concept’ to justify investment in further research.
But what had been proven? As discussed in the previous section, problems had
emerged in the run-up to the feeding tnial, and later in varietal testing, that cast
doubts on the wisdom of a genetics-led approach to biofortification. While the
former had highlighted the importance of post-harvest practices in determining grain iron
content (Gregorio et al 2003), the latter suggested that environmental rather than
genetic factors might be more significant. By this time, however, the HarvestPlus
Program, which institutionalised a genetics-led strategy, had been endorsed by the
newly established CGIAR Science Council. The Science Council was committed to
a return to model of ‘high-impact’ public goods research (Science Council 2006),
which within the CGIAR was equated with genetics-led research (Brooks 201 1a).
Furthermore, this equation linking ‘impact at scale’ with a genetics-led approach had
been key to securing the support of the BMGF for biofortification at a time when the
CGIAR’s traditional donors were still cautious.”” The next step would therefore be to
resume the search for rice germplasm with higher grain iron content in accordance with
centralised, programme-wide targets.*' Having streamlined the problem definition thus,
it was not long before IRRI scientists were debating whether transgenic methods might
be a more efficient way to achieve these targets than conventional plant breeding.“
Those now tasked with steering rice biofortification research under HarvestPlus drew
selectively from the previous research phase, claiming ‘proof of concept’ for the efficacy
of iron-rice biofortification (as well as, even more questionably, a ‘bioavailability
number’ for iron in rice-based diets?*). At the same time, the question of technical
94 S. Brooks and S.E. Johnson-Beebout

feasibility with respect to biofortification through conventional plant breeding was

being reopened — the key question now was whether HarvestPlus nutrient targets
necessitated a transgenic approach. As a result, research at IRRI on iron-biofortified
rice began to follow two parallel paths — based on the use of first, conventional plant
breeding and second, transgenic techniques. This development suggested that the
choice facing decision-makers was between the objective merits of two technologies;
obscuring the fact that the critical decision had already been made. In both cases,
research would follow a genetic-led strategy focusing on centralised targets based on
calculations of ‘impact’ in relation to generic ‘populations at risk’. This shared
understanding of the choices ahead enabled plant geneticists to define the parameters
of engagement with other disciplines, including human nutrition.»
Nowhere was this more apparent than in an encounter between plant breeders and
nutritionists over the setting of programme-wide breeding targets. With HarvestPlus
framed as a strategy in which ‘agriculture would be an instrument for human health’
(Graham 2002), these targets were to be set at a level that would achieve a significant
health impact. However, it soon became clear that such targets would be difficult to
achieve within the first phase of the programme. Plant breeders proposed they work
towards ‘intermediate targets’, as is consistent with the common practice of ‘breeding
up’, and releasing a series of improved products over time, ‘like Honda cars’.7° But to
the nutritionists, this made no sense: ‘you either have the level for biological impact
or you don’t.” The plant breeders won the argument and intermediate targets were
adopted. For the nutritionists, this was a turning point which demonstrated that
HarvestPlus remained, first and foremost, a crop improvement programme. As one
nutritionist remarked; ‘whenever [Link] up a challenge, [plant breeders]
move the goalposts!’?*
With the changes accompanying the transition from the ADB-funded project to
the global HarvestPlus programme, including the interdisciplinary contestation outlined
above, a key lesson from the IR68144/MS13 experience failed to attract attention.
When MS13 was released in 2003, members of the ‘research family’ anticipated a
positive response from farmers and consumers, mindful of governmental initiatives to
support fortification of staple foods with essential nutrients.2? However, the release
coincided with the launch of a major subsidy programme for hybrid rice producers in
the year leading up to the ‘International Year of Rice’ (PhilRice 2006). Thus the
high-iron rice project was but a short chapter in a more complex story of science,
policy and politics in the Philippines, in which a narrative of rice self-sufficiency
remains as emotive and powerful as it was at the height of the Green Revolution
(Brooks 2011b). When asked what was the most important lesson to be drawn from
the experience of IR68144/MS13, one participant in the varietal assessment process
put it succinctly: ‘national priorities matter’.>°

The shift to zinc: genetic or agronomic biofortification? (2007-10)

By 2007 another series of shifts was under way. The HarvestPlus team had succeeded
in securing funding for a second phase. The Challenge Program structure was being
 Biofortification research and the CGIAR 95

questioned during discussions then taking place in the CGIAR around a series of
‘mega-programmes’. Meanwhile, those steering rice biofortification research at
IRRI recognised that the prospects of meeting HarvestPlus targets using conventional
plant breeding alone were increasingly unlikely. Nevertheless, during the first phase
of HarvestPlus, plant breeders at IRRI had been screening known rice cultivars for
both iron and zinc grain content. A key factor was the exact location of these nutri-
ents within the grain. While a substantial amount of grain iron content is con-
centrated in the aleurone layer, which is removed in the milling process (so that
levels dropped below target levels in white rice — as had been discovered in
preparations for the feeding trials), milling had a relatively small effect on grain
zinc content (Johnson-Beebout et al 2010). The decision was taken, therefore, to
proceed with conventional plant breeding for zinc and transgenic research with
respect to iron.
The shift to zinc created new spaces for the development of a different culture of
interdisciplinary enquiry at IRRI. This collaboration was prompted by plant breeders’
and soil scientists’ shared sense of curiosity and puzzlement that neither had been able,
from their own disciplinary perspective, to explain observed G x E interaction in grain
zinc concentration. Encouraged by managerial changes supportive of interdisciplinary
collaboration, a new cohort of young scientists has begun to explore new avenues of
research. Importantly, this transformation has taken place, not according to an a priori
plan, but through an evolutionary process that has followed the formation of lateral
_relationships between scientists, through serendipitous events, informal connections
and friendship. As one scientist commented; ‘it helped that we are all women about
the same age, and we communicate more easily than the larger group which included
mostly men, and mostly more senior scientists’.*!
- From late 2006 onwards, this group continued to meet as a ‘cross-disciplinary group
of zinc researchers within IRRI to discuss their work, while continuing to design their
own experiments in the normal way. Soil experiments were designed around a range of
variables but utilised only one or two genotypes and were therefore ‘only moderately
interesting to breeders’. Similarly, breeders carried out multi-location trials from
which they collected data via ‘routine soil tests’, which was of little use to soil scientists
attempting to interpret the G x E results as the data did not relate to zinc availability.
As one scientist explained, ‘it took us a long time to realise how differently we
understood G x E effects in different disciplines’.*? A turning point came when
funding was secured to recruit a post-doctoral researcher for the project and, instead
of an additional plant breeder or agronomist, a plant physiologist was appointed.
This individual proved to be the vital link in the interdisciplinary web, able to
explain to plant breeders and soil chemists why specific rice varieties perform differ-
ently in different environments. These interdisciplinary discussions, enabled as much
by personal relationships as any organisational plan, led to the design of a specific set
of experiments to answer each other’s questions. By early 2011, the group were
planning ‘plant breeding experiments in strategic locations’ representing varying
zine availability, thus enabling the simultaneous collection of plant physiology and
soil-related data.
96 S. Brooks and S.E. Johnson-Beebout

In parallel with these developments at IRRI, however, a new global project has been
launched under the auspices of HarvestPlus, based on a different type of agronomy
optimising the use of zinc fertiliser technology. Tellingly, this project incorporates
scalability assumptions comparable with those of genetics-led biofortification under
the first phase of HarvestPlus. In this case, a global mining industry in search of
new ways to demonstrate corporate social responsibility and ‘mineral stewardship’ by
promoting zinc as a product that is uniquely ‘natural, essential, durable and recyclable’
(Green et al 2010) is emerging as a powerful new actor. Initiatives to date have
included a high-profile ‘Zinc Saves Kids’ supplementation campaign (in partnership
with UNICEF*), and now the industry-sponsored “HarvestPlus Global Zinc Fertilizer
Project’.*+ The latter involves widespread application of zinc fertiliser as a ‘short-term’
solution to serve as a stop-gap until ‘genetic biofortification’ (still the ‘optimum’ strategy)
produces its long-awaited results:

Application of Zn fertilizers or Zn-enriched NPK fertilizers (e.g. argronomic

biofortification) offers a rapid solution to the problem, and represents [a] useful
complementary approach to on-going breeding programs.
(Cakmak 2008: 1)

This view of zinc fertiliser as a ‘silver bullet’ is contested by agronomists working

in the field. The initial success stories of zinc fertiliser-induced biofortification
involved only wheat (Cakmak et al 2010; Erenoglu et al 2010). These studies
demonstrated the effectiveness of both soil and foliar applications of zinc in increasing
grain zinc content, in at least some Zn-defiecient environments. However, rice is dif-
ferent from wheat in two important respects. First, it is grown in flooded soils and
‘flooding the soil changes everything’ (Johnson-Beebout et al 2010). In particular,
soil-applied zinc fertiliser sometimes becomes rapidly unavailable to plants after the
soil has been flooded (Johnson-Beebout et al 2009). Second, zinc applied on
the foliage is not as easily moved into the grain in rice as it is in wheat, due to
fundamental physiological differences between the two species (Jiang et al 2007;
Stomph et al 2009); although there is still debate about the level of genetic variation
within rice varieties for this trait. Wissuwa et al (2008) have therefore cautioned
against the use of zinc fertiliser as a generic solution, highlighting results showing
‘native soil Zn status’ as the dominant factor determining grain Zn concentrations
‘followed by genotype and fertilizer’. They argue that it is ‘not possible to simply
compensate for low soil Zn availability by fertilizer applications’ (Wissuwa et al
2008: 37). Plant breeders, however, have contested this, arguing that the genotypes
used in the study did not include sufficient genetic variability to support such a
conclusion.
Thus biofortification remains a site of contested agronomy. At IRRI, contestation
is confined to technical feasibility questions debated among crop scientists. Meanwhile,
nutrition studies are conducted elsewhere, with research partners in Bangladesh, with
whom, under current organisational arrangements, IRRI crop scientists have little
interaction. Similarly, wider issues of effectiveness and appropriateness, such as
 Biofortification research and the CGIAR 97

whether poorer farmers will ultimately be able to afford zinc fertilisers, are ‘dealt
with’ elsewhere within an increasingly dispersed global network.

Conclusions

This chapter takes biofortification research as a case study in contested agronomy, in

which a body of knowledge about complex interactions between genotypes, soils,
human bodies and populations has evolved over time, in ways that have both reflected
and reinforced particular sets of interdisciplinary and interinstitutional relations. In the
process, certain types of knowledge have presided over others, with the result that
some dimensions of this complex, multidimensional project have been contested,
while others have not. Research in each phase has been both groundbreaking and
partial — something is always left out — with the consequences of blind spots inherent
in one phase being carried over to the next. In this context, biofortification has been
an arena of continual contestation, nourished by a succession of ‘new paradigms’,
inflated claims and counterclaims, and never quite resolved.
These dynamics have been examined through the lens of interdisciplinary relations
and contests that have characterised different stages of the research. Specifically, the
chapter has traced efforts centred at IRRI to develop rice cultivars enriched with the trace
minerals iron and zinc. This analysis has shown that the ‘software’ of interdisciplinary
collaboration — built on collegial relations that are difficult to cultivate at a distance —
_is as important as the hardware that can be drawn on an organisation chart. In particular,
a crucial element of fruitful interdisciplinary exchange has been the formation of
lateral connections between early career scientists (not yet constrained by imperatives
to simplify results and secure future funding) — who have been motivated to learn more
about the function of each others’ disciplines. Nevertheless, these have tended to be
islands of beneficial interdisciplinary contestation and learning that have emerged at
particular moments, through serendipitous connections, informal relations and friendship,
which have not, thus far, been institutionalised. As a result, interdisciplinary colla-
boration throughout 15 years of biofortifciation research at IRRI has been variable,
inconsistent and partial; and opportunities for institutional learning have been elusive.
The globalisation of biofortification research is predicated on the principle of
interdisciplinary collaborative research. In practice, however, the research is increasingly
compartmentalised, with specialised components of research dispersed throughout
global, heterogeneous networks of institutions and individuals. This effectively closes
spaces for contestation, often when and where it is most needed. This chapter has
highlighted the inherent challenges in widening (rather than narrowing, as is the
current trend) interdisciplinary exchange to incorporate broader issues — political as
well as technical — that will ultimately have the greatest influence on the effectiveness
of biofortification as a real-world intervention. With zinc-biofortified rice now
identified as a ‘product line’ within the Global Rice Science Partnership (GRASP,
formerly the Rice Crop ‘Mega program’) (IRRI et al 2010), this would be an
appropriate time to review the lessons highlighted by this chapter and consider their
implications for research design and practice.
98 S. Brooks and S.E. Johnson-Beebout

Notes
il In Chapter 1 of this volume, agronomy is defined as ‘the application of plant and soil science to
crop production’; however, in this chapter we use the term agronomy as understood at IRRJ,
where there is a clear organisational division between the constituent activities (and related
disciplines) of crop improvement (genetics), crop management (agronomy), and grain
quality (cereal chemistry and post-harvest/agricultural engineering) [interviews, Institute
of Human Nutrition and Food (IHNF) and IRRI, June 2006; [Link]].
2 For example, a recent meta-analysis of community-based studies of the nutritional
impact of QPM generated results that were encouraging, but not conclusive (Gunaratna
et al 2009).
3 Interview, HarvestPlus, 31 January 2006.
4 Interview, former CGIAR director, 20 January 2006.
5 The term ‘bioavailability’ refers to the proportion of nutrient the body can extract from
food items and make available for utilisation.
6 Interview, Cornell, 19 January 2006.
7 ‘The potential economic returns on research aimed at helping Turkish farmers on zinc-
deficient lands reduce their seeding rate are tremendous’, says Braun [of CIMMYT’s
Wheat Programme]. ‘A reduction of 80 kg/ha could save about 400,000 tons of seed a
year, with an estimated value of US$80 million’ (CIMMYT 1995).
8 Interview, IRRI scientist, 9 June 2006.
9 The full name of the variety, normally abbreviated to IR68144.
10 Parts per million (sometimes expressed as g/g).
11 Interview, IHNF, 26 May 2006.
12 Interview, HarvestPlus, 27 January 2006.
13 Interview, IRRI scientist, 16 December 2006.
14 Discussions with ‘family members’ en route to visit participating convents, 21 December 2006.
15 Interview, PhilRice, 7 June 2006.
16 Interview, PhilRice, 30 May 2006, original emphasis.
17 Interview, IFPRI, 17 January 2006.
18 Interviews, IHNF and IRRI, June 2006.
19 [Link]
20 Interview, BMGF, 30 November 2005.
21 Interviews, HarvestPlus, January 2006.
22 Interviews, IRRI, November and December 2006.
23 This view solidified following publication of research showing that the bioavailability of
iron in ferritin, the proposed source material, compared favourably with ferrous sulphate,
a common fortificant (Davila-Hicks et al 2004).
24 Interview, IRRI, 2 June 2006.
25 Interview, HarvestPlus, 31 January 2006.
26 Interview, IRRI scientist, 30 May 2006.
27 Interview, nutritionist, HarvestPlus, 16 February 2006.
28 Ibid.
29 Food Fortification Law (2000).
30 Interview, Rice Variety Improvement Group member, PhilRice campus, Nueva Ecija,
17 January 2007.
31 Ibid.
32 Interview, IRRI scientist, 25 November 2010.
33 [Link]
34 [Link]/publications/ HarvestPlus_Zinc_Project.pdf

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6
WATER IN AFRICAN AGRONOMY
Philip Woodhouse

Introduction: the water constraint in African agriculture

Water availability effectively defines the growing season for most of sub-Saharan
Africa, and, for the semi-arid and sub-humid climatic zones that comprise most of the
region, this includes a highly seasonal pattern of rainfall distribution. However, it is
not seasonality or even total annual rainfall that constitutes the main water constraint
to African agriculture, but the variability and unreliability of rainfall, giving rise to dry
spells during the growing season that cause serious reductions in yield (‘agricultural
drought’); and longer dry spells interrupting the growing season one year in every
four or five, resulting in total crop failure (Rockstrom et al 2010). Even in the rela-
tively humid zone of coastal West Africa, with annual rainfall averaging 2000 mm
and above, agricultural production is limited by a four-month dry period, the
beginning and end of which are marked by particularly high rainfall uncertainty,
translating into high risks of crop loss at planting and harvest time (Richards 1985).
It is thus fair to summarise that neither average annual rainfall nor average length of
rainy season is a good guide to the extent to which (lack of) moisture availability may
constrain crop growth in Africa, or to the need for water management to form a
central part of agronomic strategy.
African agriculture is characterised by water management strategies that seek to
reduce the risks associated with rainfall uncertainty. These include spreading planted
areas among different topographical sites including low-lying wetter locations and
higher, better-drained sites. In drier years the ‘wetland’ fields would be expected to
provide a crop even if upland plantings failed, while in wetter years good yields on
upland sites would compensate losses due to excess water in valley bottoms. In
addition, a variety of techniques involve varying intensity of investment in water
management, such as planting crops in pits or basins and building stone lines or earth
bunds to trap or harvest rainwater flowing across the soil surface (Reij et al 1996).
 Water in African agronomy 103

Historically, such investments reached very substantial levels in some cases, such as the
‘terrace-builders of Nyanga’ in north-east Zimbabwe in the sixteenth to nineteenth
centuries (Soper 2006) or canal irrigation systems in hilly terrain in East Africa (Adams
1992). Modern variants of such investment in water management infrastructure are
exemplified by African farmers’ construction of irrigation furrows in Kajiado District,
Kenya (Southgate and Hulme 2000); by the bench terrace systems in Machakos,
Kenya (Tiffen et al 1994; Murton 1999); and by combinations of bench-terracing and
irrigation furrows in Manica Province, Mozambique (Bolding et al 2010). Although
the extent of water ‘control’ varies considerably in these instances, from capturing and
conserving rainfall in the soil (‘green’ water) to diversion of flowing streams (‘blue’
water), in each case water management constitutes a key organising factor for agri-
culture, reducing risk and hence increasing the likelihood of positive returns to
investments of labour and other production inputs.
Yet such patterns of water management might be regarded as exceptions in a
subcontinent frequently characterised by underinvestment, low agricultural productivity
and rural poverty. How are we to understand this situation, and what has been the
role of agronomic research in fostering it? In the sections that follow, I first trace
the trajectories of intervention in agricultural water management in sub-Saharan
Africa. I separate these into two periods, overlapping in the 1970s. The first was
dominated by a drive towards agricultural modernisation, fostered by colonial gov-
ernment agencies and their post-independence successors. The second, a reaction to
_ the first, has deployed environmental conservation arguments to support ‘indigenous’
technologies of soil and water management. The chapter then argues that both
of these tendencies can be found in current discourses of agricultural water manage-
ment in Africa, but polarised to a degree that makes it unlikely that agronomic
research will engage in ways that address opportunities and constraints in actually
existing rural economies. This point is illustrated by identifying examples of investment
in water management by farmers, often ‘out of sight’ of government agencies and
with little or no support from agronomic research. In conclusion, I suggest that the
water constraint has been inadequately addressed by agronomic research in Africa, for
two reasons. The first is the tendency of agronomists to leave agricultural water
management to either engineers or environmentalists, with the consequence that
agricultural (and livelihood) goals become subordinated to those of engineering
design or resource conservation. The second, linked, reason is that engineering/
modernisation and conservation/traditional approaches to agriculture are framed by
powerful narratives of African rural society and possible development trajectories.
To the extent that agronomists’ understanding of rural society is bounded by those
narratives, they will struggle to engage with the current social dynamics of African
agriculture and continue to lack impact on agricultural productivity.

Agricultural modernisation: large-scale irrigation (1930s-1980s)

What is today regarded as formal water management for agriculture — large-scale irmgated
agriculture — was started by colonial governments seeking to develop commercial
104 P. Woodhouse

production for export to Europe. Both the Gezira scheme built on the Nile in Sudan
in the 1920s, and the Office du Niger in Mali begun a decade later, were originally
intended to produce cotton. In the latter decades of colonial administration, these
commercial goals of irrigation development were overlain by social objectives, and
irrigation projects were designed to provide the economic basis of rural resettlement
projects, as in the case of Mwea in Kenya. These schemes established a pattern of
publicly funded and government-managed large-scale irrigation that was continued
by post-independence African states. It followed a model of state-led development
that took shape in the economic recession and war economy of the 1930s and 1940s,
notably in the United States, where government funding for major water infra-
structure projects such as the Hoover Dam and the Central Valley project in California
was prominent (Reisner 1993). The apparent success of such state investment in
delivering an affluent society — not least in that leading exemplar of irrigated agriculture,
California — lent credibility to its use as a model for development elsewhere.
In Africa, however, productivity on large-scale irrigation schemes proved disappointing.
Despite a major stimulus to new irrigation investment in the 1970s, in response to a
rainfall reduction of about 30 per cent in much of the West African savannah that began
with a severe drought in 1972-73, development of formal irrigation in Africa made little
headway compared with developments in countries such as India and Bangladesh.
Irrigated agriculture is estimated to account for less than 5 per cent of African agriculture,
compared with nearly 40 per cent in South Asia (UNDP 2006: 177). Consequently,
although agriculture accounts for 85 per cent of all water withdrawals for economic
activity in Africa, this represents only 2—3 per cent of African internal renewable
water resources, compared with 25-35 per cent in South Asia (FAO 2011).
Part of the explanation for the poor performance of irrigation in Africa is found in
reviews undertaken in the 1980s, which make clear that state-managed irrigation
systems, in which African cultivators were typically tenants of the state, suffered from
a number of specific design problems. These included engineering design failures,
such as cost-cutting measures that omitted adequate drainage and led to waterlogging
and salinisation after the schemes were put into operation, and inappropriate dimensions
of reservoirs or pumping stations due to designs based on inadequate river flow records.
Other problems resulted from inadequate budgets for supporting infrastructure such
as roads, resulting in poor market access, or for compensating and resettling populations
displaced from sites of reservoirs or new irrigation areas (Moris and Thom 1985;
Hocombe et al 1986; Adams 1992). Efforts to sustain the model by reducing the scale
of the designs during the 1970s and 1980s proved unsuccessful, as costs (per hectare)
appeared just as high on small- as on large-scale schemes (Moris and Thom 1985).
This crisis for state-funded water development was made all the more acute in the
context of the Sahel drought of the 1970s and the Ethiopian drought in the 1980s,
which brought the water constraint to the fore. Growing disillusion with formal
irrigation schemes prompted a retreat from irrigation investment by development
funders during the 1980s. Estimates made in the mid-1980s put formal irrigation in
sub-Saharan Africa at 2.64 million ha (Hocombe et al 1986). By 1994, this had almost
doubled to 5 million ha, but had only risen to 6 million a decade later (FAO 2005).
 Water in African agronomy 105

It should be noted that these irrigation statistics relate to ‘areas equipped for irrigation’
through water storage and distribution infrastructure. In many cases, lack of maintenance
and limited operational budgets resulted in low proportions of these areas being used.
Thus, while in Mali cropping intensity figures of 171 per cent indicated that the
irrigated area was not only fully cultivated, but much of it was cultivated with more
than two crops per year, in contrast in Senegal only 73 per cent of the ‘equipped’
irrigation area was actually used. Elsewhere, even lower rates of usage of irrigation
infrastructure are recorded, such as 43 per cent in Sudan and 11 per cent in Congo
(FAO 2005). These data underline the poor performance of formal irrigation in many
parts of Africa, and are consistent with a substantial slowing of investment in formal
irrigation in the 1990s. In part this reflects a decade-long halt to public investment in
irrigation in Africa from the mid-1980s, but also a broader decline in the importance
of agriculture in development funders’ policies. Lending for agricultural development
slipped from 30 per cent of World Bank loans in 1980 to 7 per cent in 2000, only
rising to 12 per cent in 2010 as a result of the rise in food prices in 2007-08 (IPS
2010). These trends bore particularly heavily on irrigation, and some sources estimate
that loans for irrigation and drainage in Africa were lower in 2002-05 than they had
been in 1978-81 (CAWMA 2007: 73).
This retreat from investment in formal irrigation was informed by two critiques
that, while not mutually compatible in every respect, reinforced one another in
important ways. The first, neoliberal, critique argued that bureaucratic (state) irrigation
.agencies were inherently inefficient and would be more efficient if governed by
‘market disciplines’ and accountable to ‘clients’ or ‘water users’. Thus neoliberal policy
sought the divestiture of state-owned irrigation assets to private service providers
(infrastructure operation and maintenance, input supply, crop processing and mar-
keting) and associations of farmers or water users, with the latter responsible for
paying the former at market rates (‘responsabilisation paysanne’ in the terms of Senegal’s
New Agricultural Policy in 1984). For the most part, the technical design of formal
irrigation schemes was not the focus of neoliberal criticism, but was the target of the
second critique, which, following Paul Richards (1985), I term ‘populist’.

‘Populist’ agronomy and the conservation agenda

Richards’ seminal work Indigenous Agricultural Revolution (1985) used evidence from
small-scale cultivation in Sierra Leone to argue that African farmers actively engaged
in their own crop improvement and experimented with land and water management in
order to optimise productivity in valley-bottom lands with seasonally varying water
levels. Richards’ empirical cases showed such indigenous approaches compared favourably
with failed efforts to introduce ‘modern’ irrigation designs and mechanised cultivation
to swamplands and seasonally-flooded valleys. The work provided ammunition for a
broader critique of contemporary agricultural research under the banner of ‘farmer first’
(Chambers et al 1989). This argued that the main product of mid-twentieth-century
agronomic research — ‘Green Revolution’ technology, including crop varieties adapted
to irrigation and high fertiliser application — was inappropriate for the needs of poorer
106 P. Woodhouse

farmers and for less favourable ecological conditions (without reliable rainfall or irri-
gation). Such arguments also tapped into environmental concerns over the impacts
of monocrop farming using high levels of fertiliser and pesticide, such as evidence of
heightened crop vulnerability to pest damage following the widespread planting of
Green Revolution rice in Indonesia in the 1970s.
In contrast, it was argued that ‘indigenous technology’ was more attuned to local
ecologies and less likely to provoke radical and destructive disturbance of natural systems
of environmental regulation. As a consequence, ‘indigenous agricultural technology’
quickly became associated with soil and water conservation, and became the object of
both support and expectations of the burgeoning sustainable development movement in
the 1990s. From the point of view of agricultural water management, two distinct
themes characterise the populist critique of formal irrigation schemes in Africa. On
one hand, the threat of drought in semi-arid areas was rethought in ecological, rather
than engineering, terms, and instead of irrigation, development agencies favoured
indigenous options including rainwater harvesting or other techniques for retaining
and conserving rainfall, such as terraces, pits, contour ridges and stone lines (Rejj et al
1996; Rockstrom et al 2003). The environmental associations of such approaches
were often made explicitly, as in the title More People, Less Erosion given to the account of
terracing of hillsides in Machakos, Kenya (Tiffin et al 1994), and Sustaining the Soil:
Indigenous Soil and Water Conservation in Africa (Rey et al 1996).
A second theme of populist critique was a recognition of, and interest in, ‘informal’ or
indigenous irrigation among African farmers (Underhill 1984; Hocombe et al 1986).
Subsequently, data for irrigation in Africa discriminated between a ‘formal’ irngation
sector, equipped for full or partial water control, and ‘informal’ or ‘non-equipped’
cultivation of lowland areas. ‘Formal’ irrigation is typically state-funded and uses
standard engineering structures (dams, canals, pumps) to store and distribute water on
the floodplains of major river systems. ‘Informal’ or ‘non-equipped’ lowland cultivation
typically uses indigenous technology to achieve a measure of water management, for
example through stream diversion into irrigation furrows, drainage of wetlands, or
planting crops following a receding flood. Taken together, these categories have been
estimated to total 15.4 million ha of ‘areas under water management’ in Africa (FAO
2005), of which nearly half is in North Africa and Madagascar. The remaining 8
million ha in sub-Saharan Africa are split between some 6 million ha of formal iri-
gation and 2 million ha of areas under informal water management.
Figures for informal irrigation (and even formal irrigation, given the extent of
underexploitation noted above) are unlikely to be accurate, and the area cultivated
will in any case vary considerably from year to year according to varying rainfall and/
or flooding. However, FAO data cited by Moris and Thom (1985: 3) showed a
number of countries, notably Nigeria, Tanzania, Guinea and Sierra Leone, in which
‘informal’ irrigation constituted between 70 and 95 per cent of the total recorded
urigated area. This testifies to the importance accorded to indigenous water man-
agement, but we can note that these data omit any mention of ‘dryland’ water
management, such as is widely used in drier savannas. As a consequence, the data
must evidently underestimate the extent of water management used in African agriculture
 Water in African agronomy 107

and perpetuate a discrimination between ‘irrigated’/wetland and ‘rainfed’/ dryland agri-

culture, implying different scientific disciplines and (almost invariably) separate institutional
and organisational structures at the level of both governments (ministries) and research
organisations (including CGIAR) (Morardet et al 2005; Rockstrom et al 2010).
Within this framework, in which water management has been delegated to irrigation
and soil engineers, agronomic research has been confined to ‘in-field’ water man-
agement. This has focused on questions of planting date, tillage methods, mulching,
etc. that could increase infiltration of rainfall into the crop root zone, a ‘fine tuning’
of the conditions for growing the improved varieties developed by plant breeders.
Conversely, crop variety improvement took account of water constraints by trialling
new varieties in different agroclimatic zones (of which ‘irrigated areas’ was one). That
is, the approach is to incorporate as much environmental adaptation as possible into
the crop genetic material. This emphasis continues in the hopes attached to the use of
genetic engineering to generate ‘drought-resistant’ crops. Interestingly, this is considered
unlikely to materialise as a ‘solution’ to low productivity, according to the Compre-
hensive Assessment of Water Management in Agriculture (CAWMA 2007: 291). The
overall effect has been for field crop agronomists to work with a fairly narrow
range of interventions to manage soil moisture within determined agro-ecological
expectations, leaving the dichotomy between irrigated/wetland and rainfed/dryland
largely unchallenged.
Has the ‘populist turn’ had an impact among scientists working in these parallel
disciplines? In the case of irrigation/wetland agriculture, significant effort went into
making irrigation technology more accessible to farmers. One notable success in the
1980s was the introduction of the use of water jets to bore shallow wells in densely
populated, low-lying fadama lands in northern Nigeria (Carter et al 1983; Carter
1985). Water withdrawn from these wells by small petrol pumps (the maintenance
requirements of which could be met by local motorcycle mechanics) was used to
irrigate expanded, but still small-scale vegetable production for sale in local urban and
peri-urban markets. More broadly, however, despite considerable interest and effort
among irrigation engineers to address the shortcomings of irrigation design, exemplified
by 33 papers presented at a workshop on ‘Design for sustainable farmer-managed
irrigation schemes in sub-Saharan Africa’, organised in 1990 by Wageningen University’s
Department of Irrigation and Soil and Water Conservation, there has been no
widespread acceleration in the use of irrigation in African agriculture.
At least part of the explanation seems to lie in the failure of researchers to escape
the confines of disciplinary boundaries. In their review of irrigation in Africa, Moris
and Thom (1985) commented that study of indigenous agricultural water management
in Africa had barely begun: ‘It is another case where, because the system differs from
full irrigation and rainfed arable farming, it is simply ignored by scientists’ (p. 35). As
an example of indigenous management systems that appeared to defy conventional
disciplines of scientific research, they note:

The valley-bottom ‘vertisols’ represent some of the best agricultural land available
provided. they are intelligently used with suitable technologies. The division
108 P. Woodhouse

between ‘irrigation’ and ‘rainfed’ cultivation is here also arbitrary, since what
usually occurs is not full irrigation, but rather a combination of drainage,
impoundment (for ‘wet’ rice), and some supplemental water to extend the soil
moisture regime.
(Moris and Thom 1985: 71)

This observation remains relevant 25 years later. While the most recent inter-institutional
policy document (World Bank 2008) speaks of ‘agricultural water management’ that
embraces both ‘irrigation’ and ‘in-field’ water management, it still identifies ‘irrigated
farming systems’ as a separate ‘agro-ecological zone’ among 14 others defined by
rainfall. More fundamentally, perhaps, there is a failure by researchers to overcome
their fixation with technology (and its adoption, or not, by ‘farmers’) and pay serious
attention to social and economic context. Moris and Thom (1985: 48) state that
the ‘largest single error’ in economic evaluation of irrigation plans had been the
discounting of the cost of family labour, thus effectively ignoring the opportunity cost
of any other livelihood activities of the ‘beneficiaries’ of the irrigation. This point
emerged forcefully from Diemer and Vincent’s (1992) review of four ‘irrigation
sector’ reports published by development agencies in the late 1980s. In a wide-ranging
and detailed critique of irrigation engineering practice in Africa, they state:

Predictions of farming activities and local incomes are rarely based on the actual
strategies pursued by the various categories of farmers that the government has
designated as beneficiaries. Key elements of misrepresentation include the failure
to include activities in rainfed farming, livestock herding and off-farm employ-
ment. This is linked to the view that somehow all income will be generated
from agriculture undertaken within the irrigated plot.
(Diemer and Vincent 1992: 138)

To this must be added that livelihoods change as a result of investments in irrigation.

The altered possibilities of production arising from water management set in train
changing social relations that extinguish and create property rights and potential
income streams (Southgate and Hulme 2000; Woodhouse et al 2000; Woodhouse
2003). The highly contextual nature of such changes and their repercussions for the
operation of ‘modern’ irrigation are illustrated in some detail by Robertson’s (1987)
account of informal sharecropping arrangements between plotholders and immigrants
in the Gezira scheme in Sudan.
In the case of rainfed/dryland agriculture, scientists have perhaps been more aware
of the importance of understanding the logic of African land use. The ‘indigeneity’ of
techniques such as terraces, stone lines and pits to increase rainfall infiltration was an
important element of their appeal as possible low-cost, ‘farmer-led’ alternatives that
would alleviate the water constraint in African agriculture. The extensive collection
of case studies published by Reij et al (1996) certainly includes some very positive
examples, including one from Niger, where recuperation of unproductive land by
digging large numbers of planting pits (¢assa) proved so financially profitable that a
 Water in African agronomy 109

market in ‘degraded land’ became established, and some 6000 ha of previously

uncultivable land were brought under cultivation in five years (Hassan 1996).
Yet CAWMA (2007) observes. that overall adoption of such methods has been slow.
It nonetheless regards them as the basis for raising agricultural productivity in African
savannah environments, in what it refers to as ‘upgraded’ rainfed agriculture, particularly
by using small-scale water-harvesting to provide supplemental irrigation at critical periods
of crop growth during dry spells in the growing season (Rockstrom et al 2010).
Yet, even here, where scientific research is committed to building on indigenous
technology, there is a sense that ‘at issue is not what engineers recommend, but the topics
they ignore’ (Jon Moris, cited in Diemer and Vincent 1992). Thus, even though the
excellent introductory chapter in Reij et al (1996) abjures us to ‘be wary of simple
solutions to complex problems’, and to ‘recognise that technology exists not just as
engineering design but in a social and economic context’, the book provides instances
that raise questions about the social and economic significance of the technologies being
described. In particular, the relatively high labour demand of ‘improved indigenous’
methods used in the Sahel to bring ‘degraded’ soils back into cultivation — between
40 and 80 work-days per hectare treated with tassa or zwai pits — will evidently strongly
favour those capable of hiring labour. Similar conclusions apply to mulch application
in Burkina Faso, which was undertaken only by households with at least two active
working adults, thereby excluding almost half the households in the area studied
(Slingerland and Masdewel 1996). A more recent review (Barry et al 2008) confirms
_ the importance of differential access to labour, along with insecurity of land tenure, as
key barriers to wider adoption of these techniques. This raises the question of whether
an emphasis on conserving soil and water as a means of increasing production has
obscured an understanding of how that increased production might aftect livelihoods.

A continuing dichotomy of scientists’ social understanding:

modernisation versus conservation
It is important to observe that agricultural scientists’ failure to understand local social
and economic contexts does not mean that their thinking is not informed by social and
economic considerations. All engineering design embodies within it a social model of
how it is to be used, and thus, implicitly, a set of assumptions about how society and
economy work. Social understanding informing agricultural science in Africa may be
identified as largely falling within one of two camps: modernisation and conservation.
In some ways this should not be surprising, for the tension between modernisation
and conservation of tradition in African society has marked government policy since
early in the colonial period, and thus might be expected to have influenced the
encounter of science with African agriculture.
Modernisation through application of engineering not only marked the introduction
of irrigation in the Gezira in the 1920s, but increasingly informed colonial adminis-
tration, particularly in the British settler colonies of eastern and southern Africa. Thus
mechanisation was seen as a means of introducing soil conservation measures, such
as contour bunds, or even of reproducing certain beneficial indigenous cultivation
110 P. Woodhouse

methods, such as tied ridges. However, the modernisation perspective also prohibited
other indigenous water management practices, such as cultivation of wetland and stream
banks, on the grounds that these were informed by ignorance and caused degradation
of the resources. The transformation of African farming to a ‘modern’ commercial
small-farm model was the basis for most of the heavily intrusive soil and water con-
servation work associated with ‘Native Land Husbandry Act’ and ‘Betterment’ schemes
of British-administered southern and Eastern Africa (Scoones et al 1996).
In the contemporary modernisation discourse, engineering has been largely supplanted
by the Green Revolution model of technological improvement, but the basic social
model remains the same: unproductive and environmentally destructive traditional
farming must be transformed by modern technology to enable rural households to
develop from a ‘subsistence’ mentality to a more commercial outlook, thus increasing
overall marketed output and raising rural incomes. Within this social model, com-
mercially oriented ‘family farms’ are expected to be competitive with, or to draw support
(e.g. through input supply markets and smallholder outgrower schemes), from larger-scale
capitalist agricultural enterprises. This vision, captured perhaps most eloquently by the
term ‘emerging farmers’ used in post-apartheid South Africa, but running throughout
the African Union’s Comprehensive Africa Agriculture Development Programme
(CAADP 2003) and the ‘farming as business’ discourse of the Alliance for a Green
Revolution in Africa (AGRA 2009), entrenches an expectation of linear progress
through stages from traditional to modern that is the essence of modernisation thinking.
In terms of social relations, family farms are expected to have free access to family
labour, the economic activity of women and young adults being assimilated under
unitary decision-making of the head of household. Similarly, pressures for changes in
access to land are to be negotiated through a land market and tradeable land titles.
Although it is acknowledged that more efficient family farms will grow at the
expense of others, who are assumed to find employment in the growing non-farm
rural economy, it is generally only implicit that further modernisation stages will see
an increasing (more highly capitalised) scale of agriculture.
This social model ignores evidence of rather different actually existing social relations.
These include a large literature on intra-household gender relations, at least some of
which documents women’s conflicts with men over access to land, labour and
agricultural income (Whitehead and Tsikata 2003), not least as a result of modern
irrigation investment (Carney 1988). A further literature on young men’s efforts to
develop farming independently of their older male relatives documents instances
where increasing inter-generational conflict has fuelled wider armed conflict (Chauveau
and Richards 2008; Amanor 2010; Kouame 2010). In addition to these gaps, the
‘modern family farm’ version of African rural society also makes little mention of
labour markets or diversified livelihoods that frequently involve seasonal or longer-term
migration of young adult members of farming households.
For those whose vision of rural society is informed by a conservationist, rather than
modernisation, perspective, there is often a stronger sense of social and economic
context because they give explicit attention to analysing local agricultural practice,
past and present, and to understanding its underlying logic, for example in terms of
 Water in African agronomy 111

labour constraints. Yet, as observed earlier, the relatively large labour investments
required for ‘improved indigenous technology’ advocated by soil and water con-
servation (SWC) approaches, and the evidence that these are beyond the means of
substantial numbers of rural households, seem to generate comparatively little dis-
cussion of the social implications of their adoption. Moreover, where technological
change is framed by the lexicon of ‘resilience’, one needs to ask what, in specific
social contexts, is envisaged for the future? And to what extent does successful
environmental conservation accommodate social change, particularly where it involves
radical change in land and water use? There is evidence that some SWC researchers
are probing these boundaries. Rockstrom et al (2010), for example, acknowledge the
limited potential of dryland SWC efforts so far to move beyond assuring crop survival
to significantly raise output and incomes. To achieve this, they advocate abandoning
the current divide between rainfed and irrigated agriculture in order to explore how
supplemental irrigation can be supported by water management at a larger scale than
that of the individual farm, but at a smaller scale than the river basin at which most
water sector and irrigation planning operates. This they propose as a ‘catchment’, or
landscape, scale of planning, usually no larger than 1000 km, arguing that this would
enable a much wider range of water management options, from fully irrigated to fully
rainfed. They acknowledge that this would involve interventions in terms of funding
and construction of infrastructure, with many associated institutional (political)
implications involving government agencies, farmers’ organisations and capital investors.
. This begins to sounds like a response to the criticisms made by Moris and Thom
nearly 20 years earlier, but it remains to be seen whether the ‘new paradigm’ will be
able to ‘see’ the instances in which such developments have already been under way
in many parts of Africa, often with little or no formal input from water engineers or
agronomists.

Indigenous development of water management: where there

are no agronomists?
I have argued that agricultural scientists’ assumptions about African rural society may
be summarised in terms of either conservationist/’traditional’ forms of organisation
assumed to be of long historical provenance, or modernising family farming units on
the path from subsistence to commercial systems of production. I have suggested that
such assumptions are unlikely to hold in many rural contexts, and are likely to
undermine scientists’ capacity to engage their technical skills with the needs and
aspirations of the rural people they wish to serve. Here I wish to illustrate the proposition
that there are likely to be many instances of dynamic (and productive) innovation in
water management by African cultivators. To be understood, these need to be framed
by an understanding that draws not only on a ‘new paradigm’ of water management,
but also a willingness to question the nature and trajectory of African rural societies.
One obvious starting point for a consideration of dynamic agricultural water use is
in the peri-urban areas of Africa’s large cities, where market gardening to supply fresh
fruit and vegetables to the growing urban markets has provided a strong stimulus to
112 P. Woodhouse

intensify land and water use to achieve year-round production. Such areas are char-
acterised by large influxes of people; competition for, and investment in, land and
water; and highly commercial orientation of production, usually by individuals
(especially women) operating their own businesses. Relatively few studies of such
production systems have been published, but that by Baglioni (2009) in the Niayes
outside Dakar conveys a sense of the rapid social and economic changes taking place
in such highly productive agricultural contexts.
The high value of horticultural production also provided the stimulus for the
development of furrow irrigation in the arid conditions of Kajiado district in southern
Kenya. It is an area that colonial planners had deemed unsuitable for human settlement,
let alone commercial agriculture. Yet initial experiments by Maasai during drought
years in the 1930s successfully diverted water from streams flowing down the foothills
of Kilimanjaro into furrows to water subsistence crops. During the 1960s and 1970s,
irrigation to produce cash crops was developed by immigrants, notably Kikuyu and
Chagga, and by the late 1990s, some 560 farmers, a majority of them immigrants,
were using furrow irrigation for commercial production of tomatoes and onions
on about 180 ha for the Nairobi and Mombasa markets (Southgate and Hulme
2000). A similar set of dynamics saw local communities in the Sourou river valley in
southern Mali clear about 6000 ha of riverine forest to plant rice — a crop not
previously cultivated in the area — in a valley that had become flooded as a result ofa
dam constructed downstream in Burkina Faso. In the mid-1990s, in addition to
providing a major contribution to local staple cereal consumption, just under half of
the overall crop of about 5200 tons was sold, constituting the most important source
of income for two-thirds of those cultivating rice. Again, immigrants formed a key
part of those clearing and cultivating rice fields (Woodhouse et al 2000).
A final example is provided by the development of an area estimated at between
5000 and 10,000 ha of irrigation in the hills of Penhalonga, in Manica Province,
Mozambique, close to the frontier with Zimbabwe (Bolding et al 2010). A network
of irrigation furrows, some dating from the early twentieth century, have been greatly
extended as a result of investment over the past decade, made possible by a combi-
nation of cheap labour in the form of people (some Zimbabweans, some Mozambicans
previously resident in Zimbabwe) moving across from the Zimbabwean side of the
frontier, and the erratic but significant generation of capital from gold panning.
Irrigation is used for maize, beans, wheat and vegetables, as well as spices such as
turmeric and ginger. The detailed study of three furrows suggests the area irrigated
has more than doubled between 1991 and 2008, and competition for land, together
with the availability of labour, has prompted construction of stone-walled terraces to
improve soil and water management. In addition to irrigation, furrows provide water
to power grain mills, feed fishponds and support brick-making and livestock watering.
A number of observations on these empirical cases are relevant to this chapter.
Firstly, in none of these examples, particularly the latter three, has the development
of water management or agronomic practice been planned or managed by scientifically
trained staff or, indeed, government officials or planners of any kind. Some infra-
structural investment (improvement of weirs and canal structures) has been received
 Water in African agronomy 113

in the case of Penhalonga and some irrigation extension input in Kayiado, but in each
case only after the system had been established. This is not to argue that such scientific
input is not needed. In the Sourou case, the viability of rice cultivation proved relatively
short-lived, compromised by, among other things, the lack of an adequate technology to
control the rapid spread of perennial weeds in rice fields. Rather, the cases demon-
strate that agricultural water management obeys social and economic dynamics other
than those ordained by development planners. In relation to the latter point, it is
worth noting that annual rainfall in Penhalonga averages 1200 mm, placing it fairly low
on a list of sites for irrigation development according to conventional planning criteria.
A second observation is that immigration is a significant feature of the social context,
with particular significance for the introduction of skills and technical innovation, as
well as providing a supply of cheap labour. This also has significance for markets in
labour and land. In such contexts, where immigrants form a significant proportion —
and in Kajiado the majority — of the population, assumptions about family units and
family labour are clearly unhelpful. Similarly, in all these cases informal land markets,
whether purchase or rental/sharecropping, operate, although governed by local cus-
tomary authority. This situation, which I have referred to elsewhere as a ‘vernacular’
land market (Chimhowu and Woodhouse 2006), often involves a degree of ambiguity
and insecurity over the rights being acquired, as well as instances of contestation and
reinvention of what constitutes ‘custom’. Issues of local power relations and their
legality and legitimacy are evidently central to any understanding of how land and
_ water management can be governed in such contexts. My final point is that dynamic
agriculture in Africa is not necessarily found in places or in forms that scientists or
planners expect. Indeed, it is arguable that such cases are relatively dynamic because
they are not subject to planning controls. The broader challenge for agronomic science
is, then, to establish both how to engage with such dynamic agricultural contexts, and
perhaps more importantly, why.

Conclusion: ‘framing’ the water constraint

In this chapter I trace the failure of irrigation in particular, and agricultural water
management more generally, to address the problem of rainfall uncertainty and risk in
African agriculture. Part of the reason lies in the separation between ‘irrigated’ and
‘rainfed’ agriculture and the professional and institutional boundaries that entrench
this separation. I argue that beyond the analytical blind spots created by such a
structure to scientific thinking there lie further problems arising from the capacity of
scientists to ‘see’ African rural society. The predominance of modernisation and
conservationist framings of rural society mean that scientists are lable to see farming
activity either in terms of family farms on a linear path of transition from subsistence
to commercial production, or as custodians of natural resources to be made ‘resilient’
to change. When compared with instances of dynamic agriculture in African contexts,
which invariably include elements of agricultural water management, such framings
appear inadequate as a guide to how and why agronomists should engage with
actually existing agricultural production in specific contexts. Despite evidence of
114 P. Woodhouse

willingness among some to abandon the rainfed/irrigated boundary and seek a ‘new
paradigm’ of agricultural water management, there remains, therefore, a challenge to
agricultural scientists to test their understanding of rural society against empirical
evidence. Certainly, as a minimum, any technical design for agricultural water man-
agement should state explicitly what sets of social assumptions it incorporates,
including property and power issues that come into focus whenever land and water
management (or any natural resources) are managed collectively, so that these may be
evaluated, not least by those who are to benefit from the design’s implementation.

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/
UNDERSTANDING AGRICULTURAL
INTENSIFICATION ON A FOREST
FRONTIER IN MADAGASCAR
Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis

Jacques Pollini

Introduction

Slash-and-burn cultivation, a land use that consists of clearing and burning vegetation
on a piece of land, planting and harvesting crops, and repeating these operations after
a fallow period of varying length, has been practised in many regions of the world
since the beginning of agriculture. It is still practised today, mostly in low-income
tropical countries (Palm et al 2005). It is a sustainable land use when the fallow is
sufficiently long to reconstitute significant biomass and nutrient stocks, but often leads
to land degradation when the population density is incompatible with long fallowing
(Palm et al 2005). Since the Earth Summit held at Rio in 1992, the search for alter-
natives to slash-and-burn has become prominent among organisations supporting
agricultural development and environmental conservation. The Global Environment
Facility, for instance, funded an ambitious international, collaborative effort — the
Alternative to Slash-and-Burn (ASB) Programme — coordinated by the World
Agroforestry Centre and launched in 1991.
One of the implicit premises of such programmes is that, in order to escape a
Malthusian crisis, scientists need to design alternative cropping systems that will pro-
vide higher yields while not depleting soil fertility. This approach has been criticised
for overlooking the political economy of land degradation and deforestation (Pollini
2009), and it is also open to critique in relation to the work of Ester Boserup (1965).
This author describes an historical sequence of agricultural intensification that goes
from long fallow to short fallow, and then to annual and multi-cropping systems. The
transition from one stage to the next is triggered by population growth. The key
variable that discriminates between each stage is the frequency of cropping, which
goes from once every 20-25 years when a long fallow is practised, to several times
per year in a multi-cropping system. The key constraint to intensification is labour
availability, with the new systems demanding more labour input for the same output,
 Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis 117

as a way to compensate for the loss of natural capital (lower biomass, biodiversity and
fertility) as a consequence of shorter fallow. Boserup’s emphasis on the frequency of
cropping and on labour availability contrasts starkly with mainstream approaches to
agricultural intensification, where yield and soil fertility are regarded as the key variables.
This chapter tests these Boserupian assumptions in Beforona, a rural municipality located
on a forest frontier in eastern Madagascar. If these assumptions were verified, population
control and crop yield increase — two key strategies adopted by rural development pro-
jects working in this area, as well as by most agronomists working in similar areas —
would be of secondary importance when searching for alternatives to slash-and-burn.
I start by describing the slash-and-burn cultivation systems of Beforona, the other
cropping systems that farmers have developed or use in the area, and the constraints
to land-use change. I show that slash-and-burn cultivation has always been combined
with other cropping systems, particularly paddy fields and home gardens, but that the
respective importance of these systems in the local economy has varied over time and
space, through successive phases of intensification and extensification, as a consequence
of changing economic and policy contexts and differentiated access to markets. I con-
clude that the Boserup-versus-Malthus controversy makes little sense once the
epistemology that sustains it is questioned, and persists mostly because of political bias
in the production of knowledge. Both authors refer to processes that exist in the real
world, but that interact in a dialectical way, with often unpredictable outcomes.
Data collection took place between 2001 and 2007. In 2001, I lived for six months
in Ambodilaingo, a village in the municipality of Beforona. From 2001 to 2007, I made
frequent visits in Ambodilaingo and to other villages of the municipality to collect
additional data and monitor a rural development project implemented by a small NGO
(Zanaky ny Ala), which I created with a Malagasy colleague. Data collection was
primarily through informal discussions while touring the area, or during meals and
other social gatherings. A snowball sampling strategy was used that resulted in more
than 100 persons being interviewed in the area, although only a selection of these
interviews inform this chapter.

Beforona and Ambodilaingo

The rural municipality of Beforona is located 160 km east of Antananarivo, in the
Moramanga District of Mangoro—Alaotra Region. Beforona is the centre of the munici-
pality, where the town hall, health centre, junior high school, several shops and a weekly
market are located. Ambodilaingo is a village of about 130 households (in 2003) that is
a 16 km walk south from the National Road 2 (NR2), which passes through Beforona.
The area experiences a tropical wet climate, with an average annual rainfall of
2757 mm at the nearby Marolafo Research Station (Nambena 2007). Rains occur
throughout the year but primarily take the form of light drizzle from June to November.
Cyclones can strike the area from February to May, when winds of more than 100 km
per hour can destroy crops and provoke flooding and landslides. The hydrographic
network is dense, with water running all year round in rivers and most streams. The
average temperature ranges from about 16°C in July to 26°C in January.
118 Jj. Pollini

The topography shows a regular pattern of small valleys formed by low hills with
steep slopes. The altitude ranges from 500-700 m except for a north-south escarpment
that reaches 1300 m on the western edge. This escarpment is the only part of the
landscape that is still forested (Vohidrazana forest). Many families live near to the forest
boundary in order to find more fertile soils to cultivate, but forest clearing essentially
stopped in 2002, when the government and its international partners conducted an
aggressive campaign against the use of fire and slash-and-burn cultivation (Pollini
2007, 2011).
With the exception of any recently cleared land, forest and bottom-land soils are
ferralitic and strongly desaturated. The main soil constraints to cultivation are low
phosphorus availability and aluminium toxicity. Neither sheet nor gully erosion is
prominent: the most dramatic cause of erosion is landslides associated with cyclones
(Brand and Rakotovao 1997).
Farmers live in dispersed settlements in order to remain close to their fields. The
economy has long been based on agriculture, and tavy, the local form of slash-and-burn
cultivation, is the dominant land use, although more intensive systems are also pre-
sent. Logging produces a significant complementary income for families living close
to the forest, including most people in Ambodilaingo, who sell their labour to
transport boards to the road, where they are collected. This activity has been in
decline since about 2006. Mining (corundum in Ambodilaingo, gold in a few other
villages) also plays a marginal role in the economy.

Tavy cultivation in Ambodilaingo

In 2001, a farmer from Ambodilaingo described tavy as follows:

When we clear the primary forest, we first grow rice and then plant sweet
potato on part of the plot when the rice is 30 cm high. Clearing the forest is the
basis of our way of life. We cultivate the land a second time after 3-4 years,
again with rice and sweet potato, but we also add cassava. We do not wait longer
because we lack area to cultivate due to population increase. After that, we
wait six years before cultivating again, because the soil is not very fertile. The
fallow period after this third cultivation cycle will have to be still longer. [ ... ]
We plant beans, maize and tsidimy [Phaseolus Iunatus L.] with the rice. The rice is
sown first. Maize grows better in the first cycle. We do not stop cultivating
until the land is invaded by tenina [Imperata cylindrical (L.) Raeusch.] and rangotra
[Pteridium aquilinum (L.) Kuhn]. This usually occurs at. the fifth cultivation
cycle, but these plants can disappear if we wait about 20 years. Tenina can also
invade from the third cultivation cycle. For the fourth cycle of cultivation, we
usually wait 8-10 years because the soil is not fertile. We sow one vat [20 kg]
of rice and harvest 8-20 vat [400 kilograms] ...

This description is consistent with other interviews and with descriptions found in
various reports about the area (Projet Terre-Tany/BEMA 1997, 1998; Messerli 2003:
 Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis 119

Nambena 2004), although there is some local variation in the duration of the fallow
periods, crop rotations and associations. It suggests that slash-and-burn already faces its
agro-ecological limits, as revealed by the practice of short fallow and invasion by the
weed Imperata cylindrica. Primary forest remains that could be cleared to make more
land available and increase the fallow period, but the analysis of local maps shows that
it is located at relatively high altitude (above 800 m), where the risks of heavy rain,
cold temperatures and low harvests are higher. The ban on forest-clearing instituted
by the government, although loosely enforced, also explains the reluctance to clear, as
we will see. The quantity of rice that is sown and harvested varies greatly from one
family to another. The amount sown ranges from 1—5 kg, resulting in harvests of 0.3—1.0
tons’; harvests beyond 1 ton per household being exceptional. Considering that an
average family (two adults plus four children) requires about 800 kg of rice per year
(rice is the staple food), most households are short of home-produced rice for three to
nine months per year. During this period, the diet shifts to cassava and bananas unless
income can be generated to buy rice, usually by transporting boards to the road.
Variation in the area dedicated to tavy is also explained by competition with other
land uses. Immgated rice, which is a more intensive system in the sense that the same
land can be cultivated many years without fallowing, is also practised. As a con-
sequence, the working calendar is full (farmers do not have time to grow more crops),
which is consistent with the fact that household food production is insufficient:

We sow tavy first, in October-November and we sow rice in paddy fields later,
in November—December-—January. We can sow in paddy fields at different
seasons because there is no problem of water. Ploughing the paddy is in January, at
the same time as weeding in tavy. We always lack time. We also lack time for
watching over paddy fields and tavy in the same time.
(a farmer from Ambodilaingo 2001)

Paddy rice production seems to have played a more prominent role in the past, as did
other agricultural activities including cattle and perennial crops. We will now see that
there have been successive phases of intensification and extensification that can be
explained by economic and policy factors as well as labour availability. This will
provide arguments both for and against Boserup’s model.

Intensification and extensification in Ambodilaingo

Tavy has played a significant role in the local economy since as far back as people
remember, but was always combined with irrigated rice cultivation, perennial crops and
cattle. According to some informants, the first paddy fields were created in the period
1914-18. Villagers even claim that their ancestors are Bezanozano (Rakotoarijaona
Razafimbelo 2005), a people whose way of life and culture have many similarities
with those of the Merina. Like the Merina, the Bezanozano’s main land use is irm-
gated rice cultivation. But the families who moved to the Ambodilaingo area adopted
the Betsimisiraka way of lifey which centres on the practice of tavy, although paddy
120 J. Pollini

fields also play a role in their livelihood (Le Bourdiec 1974). In effect, they became
Betsimisaraka.
Regarding cattle husbandry, this activity was of great economic importance in the
1950s:

About half of the families had big cattle in 1959. Those who had animals had
many: 15 to 30, sometimes more. Those who did not have animals borrowed
them from others. They did not refuse because people had good relations at
that time. Those who had large herds hired people to watch over animals and
paid them by giving calves. Usually the herds were all put together to avoid
being lost ... There was much area available for grazing ... The animals were
put in corrals during the night, but only during the cultivation season, in order
to avoid damage to the crops ... Animals had good care and were visited by
veterinarians ... They were used to earn money and for sacrifices [rituals].
More animals were sacrificed than sold.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

Beyond revealing the importance of cattle, this excerpt shows that the state provided
some services, and that non-market based exchanges and rituals — manifestations of
social capital — might have played a significant role in the economy.
Cattle were also part of farmers’ ‘physical capital’, an agricultural ‘tool’ used to
puddle the soil in paddy fields, thereby relaxing the labour constraint to intensification:

There was a time when paddy fields covered more area than now, because
people had many more cattle. The animals were used for treading [puddling]
the land before sowing.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

Today, only a handful of families in Ambodilaingo have cattle, and the situation is
similar all over the region. The main direct cause of the decline seems to have been
increasing conflict between cattle and cropping, and the resulting shortage of feed:

There has been a big decrease in cattle since the 1970s. The main reason is that
the people started to be bad and asked penalties when cattle damaged their
crops ... These damages mainly concerned cassava, sweet potatoes and coffee in
the bottom land and in the lower part of the slopes. As a consequence, cattle
started to lack access to pastures. People did not build fences because agriculture
officers told the herders to care for their herds. In ancient times, damage was
limited because there were fewer crops in bottom lands and people were not
so bad.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

Another reason for the decrease in cattle is because they were sold due to
poverty and for sacrifices ... Cattle also died because of diseases: some people
 Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis 121

bought cattle from other regions, and this brought the disease. The animals
quickly became thin and died. The liver is full of small animals and cannot be
eaten. This disease developed around 1983 and still exists.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

The loss of cattle provoked a decline in irrigated rice cultivation because of their role
in soil preparation:

Cattle were used to tread paddy fields before sowing. My father had 50 head.
He had a paddy field because treading was easy. Paddy rice was a big activity in
ancient times because people had many cattle.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

If we do not have cattle, we can only cultivate small areas of paddy fields.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

A tentative systemic explanation can thus be drawn: the development of agricultural

activities, probably as a consequence of population growth, led to increasing tensions
between cattle and cultivation, a reduction of land available for grazing, feed shorta-
ges and livestock disease, reduction of herds, difficulty in preparing paddy fields,
abandonment of paddy rice and sale of most remaining animals in time of hardship.
“In other words, increased population density could have induced agricultural exten-
sification, a trajectory that appears to contradict Boserup’s model. Farmers apparently
failed to create new institutions to manage new problems (conflicts between cattle
and cultivation) arising out of higher population density. They also seem to have
failed to develop new ways to feed their animals in a context of dwindling grazing
resources, or new tools and techniques with which to prepare paddy land without
cattle.
This lack of social and technical innovation, however, could be explained by
external disruption (like the possibly misguided advice of agricultural officers reported
in the citation above, which might have distracted people from building fences); by
erosion of the social and human capital (people becoming ‘bad’ and selfish, assertions
that were frequently made); or by the reduction of state support (veterinarians stopping
visiting the area). These could themselves reflect the overall economic decline that
Madagascar experienced at that time. If these explanations hold, some or all of the
processes described by Boserup may indeed have been operating, although not leading
to the expected outcomes as a consequence of macro-economic constraints.

Macro-economic constraints to land-use changes

The period during which paddy rice and cattle husbandry declined corresponded with
the change from relative economic prosperity in the 1960s to the deep economic and
political crises of the 1980s. This change in economic and political context was a
consequence of the degradation of the terms of trade and the failure of Madagascar’s
122 = Jj. Pollini

‘socialist revolution’. People in Ambodilaingo were deeply affected by these changes,

and often refer to them with very concrete figures:

Coffee cultivation developed around 1950, under the authorities of the contremaitre.
Coffee generated higher income at that time. One kilogram was sold for 150 francs,
while one kilogram of rice cost 30 francs. Today, one kilogram of coffee is sold
for 2500 francs, and one kilogram of rice costs about 2000 francs.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

A corollary of the economic crisis was the decline in government support for the
development and maintenance of irrigation. In the 1950s and 1960s, several dams
were built in the municipality of Beforona, including at least one in Ambodilaingo, with
support from government. But since the mid-1970s nothing has been provided for their
maintenance and they have been progressively degraded by cyclones and heavy rains.
Basic public services have also been eroded; today the most educated villagers are those
who received their education during the colonial period or just after independence in
1960. People in remote villages were left to fend for themselves, which reduced their
communication with the outside world and the range of options available to them.
The Malagasy economy started to recover during the 1990s, when it opened up to
foreign investment and received increased financial support from the international
community. The renovation of NR2 in the late 1980s led to significant changes in
the villages located near it. Many farmers moved into cash crops (mostly ginger and
bananas), which triggered investment in permanent cultivation and the expansion of
home gardens. They created irrigation systems and experimented with ploughing,
crop rotation and the application of manure (Messerli 2003; Nambena 2004; Pollini
2007), processes that are consistent with Boserup’s model and that cannot be
explained by project intervention.? But many people living in more remote areas
such as Ambodilaingo never experienced this economic recovery. Indeed, farmers in
Ambodilaingo are unanimous in presenting the period since the 1970s as one of
continuous degradation of their livelihoods. As they put it, ‘we are always becoming
poorer’.* The technical changes that occurred in villages located close to the road did
not reach them, except during a few years when ginger could be sold at a high
price. The level of poverty is now dramatic, resulting in limited investment capacity,
risk-avoiding strategies, the persistence of extensive cultivation systems, increasing
individualism, and further erosion of all forms of capital (Pollini 2007).
In sum, the 1970s and 1980s were a period of financial, physical and human capital
decline that was reversed in the late 1980s in villages located near NR2, but not in
Ambodilaingo, where the crisis persisted. Hence Boserupian outcomes were observed
on NR2 but not in Ambodilaingo.

Policy constraints to land-use changes

Beside the lack of technical and institutional innovation and the overall economic
decline, policy changes in relation to forest clearance and the practice of tavy also help
 Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis 123

explain the failure to intensify and the abandonment of paddy rice. A ban on the
practice of tavy existed during the 1950s, but was lifted soon after independence:

The main period concerning prohibition of clearing was after the visit of
Mr Abraham and the forest guards in 1954 ... Restrictions mainly concerned
the upper part of the slopes. People clearing forest at that time were sent to jail,
but this did not occur any more after independence.
(an elder from Ambodilaingo 2001)

Extensification since the 1970s could thus have been the consequence of a reduction
of population pressure following the reopening of the forest frontier. However,
this explanation contradicts the ‘induced extensification’ thesis outlined previously
(the idea that less land leads to a cattle crisis that forces the abandonment of paddy
fields and a return to extensive cultivation systems). If this thesis was correct, a low-
ering of population pressure should have favoured the redevelopment of animal
husbandry and a return to the paddy fields, neither of which occurred. One could
argue that relaxing the ban on forest clearing did not make enough difference to reverse
the dynamic of extensification because not enough suitable additional land (that is,
forest land at low altitude) was available for clearing. But then, the extensification
pathway could not be explained by policy change either. In sum, the fact that relaxing
the ban on forest clearing did not bring the cattle back suggests that economic rather
“that policy drivers had a greater influence on land-use change.
Policy change, however, could have affected the economy in another way: by
sending contradictory and unexpected signals regarding the availability of forest biomass.
It is well known that variation in crop price creates uncertainties that constrain long-term
investments among risk-averse farmers. The same might apply to policies relating to
resource access. At the time when most of these interviews were conducted (2001),
the fear of government intervention did not appear to be elevated, and some families,
usually those with many children to feed and abundant labour, cleared primary
forests. The situation changed in 2002, when the government initiated its repressive
campaign to enforce the ban on forest clearing, and then changed again a few
years later when the authorities relaxed this policy because of its excessive social and
political cost. In such an unstable policy environment, farmers cannot readily
adjust their strategies. Creating paddy fields and rebuilding herds obviously requires
time and effort that makes such endeavours worthwhile only over the long term: the
same is also true in relation to the appropriation of natural capital when control is
relaxed.

Discussion and conclusion

Mote research is required to tease apart the various causes of the failure to intensify.
But the picture that emerges here is one of progressive erosion of the various forms of
capital that could have facilitated a shift to more intensive land use. If irrigation schemes
had been maintained and multiplied, and if appropriate tools, such as ploughs or ards,
124 J. Pollini

had been available, paddy cultivation could have expanded and substituted for tavy.
If stables and fences had been built in order to reduce crop damage, and if veterinarians
had continued to visit the area, more cattle could have been raised to puddle paddy
fields, pull ards or ploughs, and provide manure to fields. Endogenous innovation
might have been more effective if human and social capital had not been eroded, if
the economic and policy environment had been more stable, and if vulnerability and risk
aversion had not increased. In other words, the chances of successful intensification
would have been higher if the price of coffee had not declined and if the government
had not been bankrupt. Maintaining a ban on forest clearing, by limiting the land
available for cultivation, would also have favoured the transition. It would have sti-
mulated intensification in the same manner as population growth, while the absence
of regulation might have contributed to the return to more extensive systems. But
sporadic and brutal enforcement of the ban, as in 2002, proved ineffective because
alternative land uses were not supported (Pollini 2007, 2011) and economic constraints
remained in place:
The case study also shows that issues are more complex than they appear at first
sight, and that the ‘Malthusian argument of the impoverishing effects of population
growth’ and the ‘Boserupian argument of induced intensification and resource
improvement’ (Pender 1998) can both be valid. On one hand, farmers in Ambodilaingo
faced the ecological limits of their systems, which helped propel them into an economic
crisis. Population increase led to a reduction in fallow periods, which reduced the
productivity of tavy and increased conflicts between cultivation and cattle keeping,
and in the process added new constraints to intensification. On the other hand, farmers
had developed more intensive cropping systems (alternatives to slash-and-bum) and used
them when the economic environment was favourable. They were encouraged to do
so by increasing population density and the closure of the forest frontier, although
these also created new constraints.
This conclusion is consistent with recent literature around Boserup’s model (Morrison
1996; Brookfield 2001), and with the findings of other case studies in Céte d’Ivoire
(Demont et al 2007) and Bangladesh (Turner and Shajaat Ali 1996). According to
Turner and Shajaat Ali (1996: 14990), Malthus and Boserup:

share various assumptions about the relationships among population, technology,

and resource use but differ primarily in their views of the origins of technology.
Malthus implies that technology is exogenous in the sense that its development
is not necessarily linked into the population—resource condition. Boserup, in
contrast, grounds this development directly into that condition; technological
change is endogenous to it.

Boserupian statements can indeed be found in the writings of Malthus, for example
when he states that the population dynamic:

keeps the inhabitants of the earth always fully up to the level of the means of
subsistence; and is constantly acting upon man as a powerful stimulus, urging
 Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis 125

him to the further cultivation of the earth, and to enable it, consequently, to
support a more extended population.
(Malthus 1992 [1798]: 281)

Why is it, then, that the Boserup versus Malthus controversy has fuelled so much
heated debate (Hunt 2000; Stone 2001) and remains unsettled? I see two reasons for
this. One is epistemological and the other is political, but both are intimately inter-
twined. Understanding these reasons is one of the core tasks of political agronomy
analysis, so I will dedicate the final sections of the chapter to this understanding.
The contradictory nature of the debate can be explained by the confusion between
what Roy Bhaskar (1979) called the domain of the real and the domain of the actual.
The domain of the real is the ontological domain within which natural laws operate.
These natural laws are the consequence of structures located in the real world, and their
effects are expressed by powers, or tendencies, that are universal and can only lead to
certain outcomes. The fact that these outcomes are not always realised does not refute
the universality of these laws. One can easily understand this by considering a metallic
ball suspended in air by a magnetic field — despite its mass, the ball does not fall. The
law of gravity operates on the ball, but does not lead to the expected outcome
(the fall) because it does not operate in isolation (the magnetic field operates as well).
Patterns of events, on the other hand, constitute the ontological domain of the
actual. They are the regularities observed in the real world, like the fact that most
“objects fall to the ground when they are not supported. They are generated by nat-
ural laws, but are not universal, because natural laws never operate alone — they
combine in unpredictable ways in the real world. Their universality is claimed only
when they are confused with the laws that generate them, that is, when the domain
of the real and the domain of the actual are conflated ontologically.
Humans tend to confuse these two domains. First, they are interested in predicting
events, and can more easily pretend to make such predictions when patterns of events
are mistakenly considered to be universal (like the laws that generate them). Second,
the purpose of science is the discovery of natural laws, but only patterns of events can
be observed and discovered; natural laws can only be inferred from them. When a
scientist pretends to test a natural law, he/she only attempts to observe a known
pattern of events. Any pattern that is observed is indeed the outcome of a combina-
tion of laws whose effects can never be completely isolated, because real objects can
never be completely isolated from the world to which they belong. Facing this lim-
itation, many scientists conflate the non-universal patterns they observe with the
universal laws they are searching for.
Coming back to Boserup, she was right to argue that population pressure creates a
tendency toward intensification. She did not prove this law, but she discovered patterns
of events (such as correlations between frequency of cropping and population densities),
through her many travels around the world, that could more easily be explained
by this law than by anything else. Beyond these patterns of events, the solidity of her
theory can be evaluated in the light of common-sense arguments, also elaborated
from the observation of other patterns of events that might have nothing to do with
126 J. Pollini

agriculture intensification. Why, for instance, would someone under any sort of
pressure not try to find a solution to reduce this pressure? Why would farmers facing
resource (land) scarcity not try to use more of another resource (labour, ingenuity) in
order to sustain their livelihood? Boserup’s model might indeed simply be the
expression of a more encompassing law that is at the foundation of economic thinking:
the tendency of economic actors to substitute a resource for another when it becomes
scarce, and to increase the efficiency with which they transform inputs into outputs.
This finding is consistent with the fact that farmers tend to maximize their output in
relation to their scarcest production factor, a mechanism described in detail by Chayanov
(1986 [1922]), discussed again by Dufumier (1996) and Mazoyer and Roudart (2006),
and which is now part of ‘textbook knowledge’ (see for instance Norton et al
2010). The literature dealing with induced innovation in the industrial world (Ruttan
2001) is also consistent with this finding. The substitution of one resource for another
in a context of scarcity might indeed-be a universal tendency explaining the failure of
sustainability strategies that attempt to keep all resources at a constant level. It might
reflect humans’ will to satisfy their needs no matter what happens, combined with
their capacity to design new things, institutions and processes.
What we need to do now is to define the conditions within which expected
outcomes such as induced innovation are realised. As we have already seen in the case
of Beforona and Ambodilaingo, the economic and policy environments are critical.
If population pressure is the law of gravity, then policy and economic shocks repre-
sent unstable magnetic fields that can give the ball a new trajectory. While these
fields need to be understood, unfortunately, more detailed analysis will be difficult,
for two reasons. First, tendencies can only be imperfectly isolated from each
other, because real-world objects cannot be easily isolated. They can be only dis-
connected virtually, in the abstract models that represent them, which exposes any
analysis to the risk. of reification. Second, there is a great temptation to look only
at the tendencies that generate outcomes that are compatible with a given incomplete
theory, or with a political agenda, which further encourages reification. This leads
us to the second reason why the Boserup versus Malthus controversy fuelled so
much debate: the political biases in science and the production of ‘convenient’
knowledge.
The biases surrounding the production of knowledge about the environment have
been extensively analyzed in the political and ecology literature with some of the
most influential work being that of Leach and Mearns (1996), Fairhead and Leach
(1998) and Peet and Watts (2004). Very briefly summarised, the argument is that the
will of elites to capture resources, which is embedded in social and political structures,
favours knowledge that justifies taking control over resources, to the detriment of
local people whose land use is conveniently labelled as ‘unsustainable’ and whose inno-
vations are ignored or disregarded. In the case of the debate that concerns us here, this
political bias favours the Malthusian view, which considers that technological innovation
is mostly exogenous. The consequence is never-ending research and extension efforts
aimed at designing and promoting new technologies (alley cropping, improved fal-
lows, contour-line hedgerows, no tilling, cover crops, slash-and-mulch, composting,
 Elements of a Malthusian/Boserupian synthesis 127

the System of Rice Intensification (SRI), fish farming, etc.) that farmers rarely adopt
(Pollini 2007). Since the rise of climate change mitigation in the international envir-
onmental agenda, carbon has become the resource to be captured, which has created
a new political bias in favour of techniques that maximise biomass production and
restrict the use of fire (Fairhead et al 2012).
This political economy analysis of the production of knowledge, however, is
incomplete, as the critique might also carry its own biases, which justifies a critique of the
critique (Pollini 2010). One such bias, which is symmetrical to the one analysed above, is
the tendency to idealise the behaviour of smallholder farmers and to consider that
their decisions always lead to harmonious nature/society relationships and optimal
output/input ratios, if no external social, economic or political disturbances occur.
Such harmony might be the exception rather than the rule. Empirical observations
show that relative social/ecological balances can be achieved over long periods, but
that biodiversity is usually not part of the calculus of these balances. Farmers, through
successive resource substitutions, convert primary ecosystems into anthropogenic ones
that provide most of the ecological and economic functions they need. At least in the
short term, a fraction of the initial biodiversity is sufficient to provide these services: the
rest is sacrificed through regimes that reduce the number of available ecological niches.
Late-successional species, for instance, fail to establish with short fallow periods.
A second bias of the political ecology literature is the anti-essentialist critique
and its corollary, the argument of particularism, or localism, visible in the work
‘of Brookfield (2001) and in Morrison’s (1996) critique of Boserup. These authors
emphasise the need to contextualise local situations, and see Boserup’s model as being
overly universalist. Much of the literature engaging with Boserup falls into this line,
by showing that intensification is not the only response to increasing population
pressure. The most frequently mentioned alternatives are extensification (occupation
of new land), which we observed in the case of Ambodilaingo; diversification by the
development of off-farm activities (trade, handicraft and wage labour), also observed
in Ambodilaingo in the form of the transportation of boards; out-migration (settlement
in other regions), which is observed in many regions of Madagascar; the protection of
the land from outside intrusion, also frequent in Madagascar; and fertility control.
But even if these alternatives played a prominent role, they do not falsify Boserup’s
model. They just show that institutional innovation, in addition to technological
innovation, is also induced by population pressure. In fact, Boserup herself showed
that population growth can also trigger institutional innovations, such as the evolution of
property regimes toward more individual ownership. We can criticize her on the fact
that she did not analyse the whole range of processes listed above, but the reason
might simply be that she did what most scientists do when they want to discover a
pattern of events: she created a ceteris paribus model (Stone 2001). She isolated the
causal relationship between population density and agricultural intensification from
other mechanisms that could interfere with it, in order to identify the generative
mechanism. (the ‘natural law’) that creates the tendency toward intensification.
This brings us back to the epistemological discussion above. Universalist claims
represent a danger when they are applied to pattern of events, but are legitimate
128 J. Pollini

when dealing with natural laws, which otherwise should not even be called laws. If
knowledge is not to fall into relativist traps, and if policy-makers are to take decisions
at a reasonable cost (with moderate knowledge inputs), general tendencies (that is, the
elementary structures of the way the world works) have to be discovered. Malthus
and Boserup probably discovered some of those general structures, which is why both the
universality of their models (as generators of tendencies) and the contingency of their
outcomes (the patterns of events they conjointly generate) need to be recognised.
In sum, this case study shows that reality needs to be investigated holistically if
some sense is to be made out of it. Rather than being ‘investigated’, it might even
need to be fully experienced through an involvement of all human intellectual skills
and faculties (perception, reason, emotion and intuition). If science is to answer the
sustainability issues faced by humanity today, it might need to reach a third stage in
the production of knowledge. Bhaskar (1979) called this stage transcendental realism.
Beyond the empirical observation of patterns of events, the inference of abstract models
from these patterns, and the reification of these models (by both classical empiricists
and their idealist critiques), scientists could proceed to the empirical testing of models
that would be the outcome of their imaginary power, nurtured by their observations,
but also by their life experience, their common sense and their values. Producing and
testing such holistic and open imaginaries might be the remedy to reductionism and could
help counter some of the political forces that bear on the practice of agronomic science.
They could also help shift the Malthus versus Boserup debate toward more practical
and constructive questions, such as how to maximise the chances that induced innovation
succeeds; and how to minimise the risk that Malthusian crises occur? These are two
formulations of the same question, and a contested agronomy analysis, beyond helping
achieving this reformulation, might play a key role in finding practical answers.

Notes

1 Based on a questionnaire passed to all 135 families living in Ambodilaingo, in 2003.

2 Staff from the colonial agriculture services.
3 Rural development projects working in the area reject the techniques developed by farmers,
such as the ploughing of hillsides to plant ginger or the expansion of ‘messy’ home gardens,
and propose instead techniques that farmers do not adopt, such as agroforestry, cover crops
and SRI (an extremely intensive mode of rice cultivation). See Pollini (2007) for details.
4 This statement was made frequently during enquiries, and contrasts with the situation in
villages close to the road, where some villagers assert that their situation improved during the
past decades due’ to increasing opportunities to market products, mostly ginger and bananas.

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 8
ALTERNATIVE CONFIGURATIONS OF
AGRONOMIC EXPERIMENTATION
Harro Maat and Dominic Glover

Introduction

The emergence and spread of the System of Rice Intensification (SRI) have stimulated
heated controversy among rice scientists and development workers. SRI is a method
. of rice cultivation that is said to produce high yields while also conserving natural
resources, especially water. Claims that dramatically increased yields can be achieved with
SRI, in some cases exceeding what plant physiologists consider to be the yield ceiling
for rice, triggered hostile responses from some scientists. Promoters of SRI argue that
it is superior to existing cultivation practices, and has particular advantages over
the technology packages associated with the Green Revolution. Many within the rice
research establishment dismiss SRI as a combination of well established ‘good man-
agement’ practices and some extraordinary claims that cannot be substantiated or
replicated. Proponents of SRI insist that remarkable results are being achieved in
farmers’ fields, and point to the enthusiasm of both farmers and non-governmental
organisations in using and spreading SRI to rice-growing regions around the world
(Berkhout and Glover 2011; Glover 2011).
Until recently, the SRI dispute has been conducted largely as an argument about
the best methods for cultivating rice. In this chapter we take a different tack and
argue that the controversy surrounding SRI exemplifies a more general and funda-
mental disagreement about how agronomic research on rice should be organised and
pursued.
To develop our argument, we examine the nature of experiments in agronomy.
The design and conduct of agronomic experiments serve to configure the relationship
between the worlds of scientific research and agricultural practice. This relationship is
fundamentally concerned with the generation and transmission of information,
knowledge and techniques. In principle, these can flow in both directions — from the
laboratory and field station to farmers’ fields and vice versa.
132 H. Maat and D. Glover

The relationship between formal science and farming practice can be configured in
different ways, however. Here we examine the historical processes that have led to
the evolution of particular configurations of this relationship, which are associated
with a bifurcated division of labour in agronomic science between researchers and
agricultural extension agents. As an intrinsic part of this organisational partition, the
two branches of the profession developed different methods for structuring their
relationships with farmers. We argue that because of this division of labour, in different
times and places the relationship has been configured in ways that have tended to
privilege the flow of information, knowledge and technology in one direction rather
than the other.
We use the example of SRI to show that the discontinuities between the two aspects
of professional agronomy and their characteristic methods and approaches continue to
exist. These discontinuities helped not only to shape the technical content of SRI,
but also to fuel the passionate disputes that surround it. We show that SRI emerged
in relative social isolation from the international mainstream of rice agronomy.
Consequently, it was developed using a particular style of scientific practice, which
helped to produce a distinctive set of rice cultivation methods. In particular, we draw
attention to the organisation of the field-level activities and practices that led to the
development of SRI methods, including the social and institutional setting within
which those developments occurred.

Experiments in agronomy
Most agronomists would agree that an essential feature of agronomic science and
expertise is their applied and practical nature. Agronomy is not just about biological,
chemical and physical processes and relationships, but is integrally concerned with
farming practice, skill and technique. For agronomists, foundational research on
topics such as soil chemistry, plant physiology and crop growth modelling is valuable
only when outputs are tested, monitored, evaluated and applied in real production
conditions.
Experimentation plays a crucial role in connecting the academic discipline of agronomy
with agricultural practice. Historically, there is a strong argument for considering
‘experimental turns’ in two antecedent disciplines, organic chemistry and biology, as
key moments in the development of agronomy as a distinct discipline. For organic
chemistry, this goes back to the work of Justus von Liebig, whose experimental
approach, developed in Germany in the 1820s and 1830s, gave impetus to the work
of agricultural research stations worldwide (Rossiter 1975). A few decades later,
Charles Darwin’s work forged an experimental connection between biology and
agriculture. Darwin himself pointed out that plant and animal breeding mimicked
evolutionary processes, and his theory of evolution provided a scientific basis for experi-
mental research in plant breeding and plant physiology (Kimmelman 1987; Cittadino
1990).
Agronomusts and other agricultural scientists generally draw a distinction between
experiments and demonstrations. Experiments are usually seen as having an objective
 Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 133

to discover facts or principles, generate data, test hypotheses, determine causes or confirm
theories. They are designed by, and primarily for, professional researchers. Experiments
are understood as methods for systematically comparing two or (more typically) more
‘treatments’ or sets of treatments, using designs (including replications, plot sizes,
plot arrangements, spatial placement, etc.) that allow systematic data collection and
rigorous analysis of the statistical significance of treatment effects and interactions.
Many agronomic field experiments are undertaken to provide information that can
be fed into the development of new production methods and technologies.
Demonstrations, on the other hand, are usually seen as having an objective to
demonstrate, convince or persuade. They typically have a simple format with perhaps only
two treatments, a straightforward side-by-side comparison, and often little formal
‘analysis’. They are generally conducted by extension officers or company repre-
sentatives, often with the cooperation of a farmer, for the purpose of disseminating
new knowledge and practices that have already been discovered, developed and
refined by scientists. This distinction between experimentation and demonstration
reflects a specific perception of the relationship between science and practice, a per-
ception that underpins the basic division of labour seen in present-day professional
agronomy and the different approaches to field-based activities.
However, it is not at all unusual or misleading to apply the term ‘experiment’ to
pedagogical exercises designed to demonstrate phenomena that are already well known —
school science lessons being an obvious example. Studies in the history and sociology
“of science and technology show the long-standing dual role of experiments — as
instruments of scientific discovery and as methods of instruction and persuasion.
Experiments as well as demonstrations represent the key means by which science and
its publics (including users of scientific knowledge, such as farmers) have been linked.
An early example is given by Steven Shapin (1988), who describes the activities
of Royal Society Fellows in seventeenth-century England. To gain acceptance for the
observations they made and the theories they developed, it was not enough for these
early scientists merely to attend to their instruments and apparatuses. Much of their
time and energy was devoted to what is nowadays called social networking, specifically
the arrangement of an appropriate audience of influential people before whom, during
carefully choreographed social events, they would replicate experiments that they had
previously refined in their workshops. The experiments themselves had to be designed,
as well as explained, in such a way that they would convince such an audience.
A similar point is made by Bruno Latour in his account of Louis Pasteur’s work on
the anthrax vaccine. While it was relatively easy to make the vaccine work in the
laboratory, the real challenge was to convince veterinarians and livestock farmers of
its value. To achieve this, Pasteur organised ‘demonstrations’ on a farm in France that
were designed ‘to bring to the still uncertain public a fresh and more grandiosely
staged proof of the efficacy of the vaccine’ (Latour 1983: 152). In this way, the
French veterinarians and farmers were bound together with Pasteur’s microbiology
laboratory. This connection, Latour argues, is not simply about research results being
disseminated to the livestock industry, but is about the creation, by means of an

experiment, of a mutual dependency between all the actors involved, creating an

134 H. Maat and D. Glover

‘actor-network’ in which the laboratory forms a central node. Within the actor-network,
not only Pasteur but also veterinarians and farmers (not to mention livestock,
microbes and vaccines) had their roles to play.
The work of Shapin and Latour makes clear that there is only a thin line between
experiments designed to test hypotheses and demonstrations designed to convince a
selectively targeted audience. For researchers, the key to success lies in mobilising
support from a larger set of actors, and experiments (including, for our purposes,
demonstrations) play a central role in this effort. It is the type of audience to be
convinced that largely determines the design and arrangement of the experiment.
Those to be convinced may encompass a wide range, from the scientist’s immediate
colleagues within a laboratory~or institute to a much wider public outside it. Because
of its applied nature, agronomic science is not an activity conducted entirely behind
the fences of research stations; through experiments and demonstrations, it is also
carried out in public view.
Shapin’s and Latour’s analyses of scientists’ activities in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries apply equally to contemporary scientific practice (Latour 1987). This point
is underlined by Levidow and Carr (2010) in their discussion of the way field trials of
a controversial technology such as genetically modified crops are amenable to a
variety of interpretations by different stakeholders. These trials can be simultaneously
demonstrations of the technology’s efficacy and safety; tools for identifying risks and
hazards; ways of modelling the behaviour of farmers, crops, insects and weeds; and
politically charged orchestrations intended to persuade reluctant consumers to accept
an unpopular technology. In a similar vein, Glover (2007: 165) found that the staff of
a commercial agribusiness company that was attempting to develop a market for
genetically modified seeds in India ‘did not draw clear distinctions between a trial as a
safety assessment for regulatory purposes, as a pre-commercial performance evaluation on
a new proprietary crop variety or as a demonstration plot to be used as a marketing tool’.
Experiments and demonstrations help to establish a connection between science and
practice through a site-specific process of network building, in which the skilled
activities of various actors play crucial roles. One such role is played by professionals who
mediate between basic researchers and the eventual end users of their work. In the
case described by Latour, it was veterinarians who helped to connect Pasteur to cattle
farmers. In agronomy, this role is usually played by agricultural extension officers.
The intermediary role of agricultural extension is not just about disseminating
knowledge from the laboratory to the field. In his account of field trials conducted in
California, Henke (2000) shows that the quality of the experimental results depended
on the skilled work of a variety of different actors, not just scientists. In particular,
extension officers played a key role in mediating between scientists, farmers, field
technicians, farm labourers and company representatives. Henke also shows that crucial
parts of the experimental work were done by Mexican immigrant fieldworkers, whose
farming skills were vital in securing the data: ‘Through their harvest skills, these
fieldworkers not only help advisors [extension officers] make their trials more “lab-like”’,
by standardizing the collection of data, but also more “field-like”, by helping them
get the nght kind of data’ (Henke 2000: 500).
 Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 135

Extension officers must work closely with farmers in order to bridge the gap
between science and practice. Moreover, farmers themselves have skilled work to do
in order to translate scientific information into farming methods that are adapted to
their own conditions. An agricultural development project implemented in East
Timor illustrates both the involvement of farmers as key actors in the successful
generation and dissemination of knowledge and technologies, and the dual nature of
on-farm experiments. In the Seeds of Life programme, farmers performed a central
role in the management of ‘on-farm demonstration trials’ — the combination of ‘trial’
and ‘demonstration’ is significant — that ‘served a double purpose: as a testing ground
for seed germplasm performance and, simultaneously, as an agricultural extension
strategy whereby the improved seed could be disseminated through local channels’
(Shepherd and McWilliam 2011: 204).
Just as agronomists must engage with the world of practice, anthropological studies
show that farming practice also involves experimentation. The designers of the Seeds
of Life programme drew explicitly on anthropological insights and deliberately
enrolled farmers as full participants in the project in order to achieve its goals. The
anthropologist Paul Richards (1989a, 1989b) has shown from his studies of rice pro-
ducers in Sierra Leone that agricultural practice is intrinsically experimental. Other
scholars and practitioners have also explored the nature of farmers’ experiments and
confirmed farmers’ capacity to frame research questions, try out interventions and
engage with scientists’ experimental methods (Sumberg and Okali 1997; van Veldhuizen
‘et al 1997). Examples like these demonstrate the importance of building effective
connections between formal science and farming practice. The key challenge 1s how
best to configure those connections.

The emerging gap between science and practice

In the previous section, we cited several examples which show that the social worlds
of science and practice may be connected by means of a range or continuum of dif-
ferent field activities — including experiments and demonstrations — which combine
knowledge generation and dissemination in locally, historically and topically specific
ways. In this respect, agronomy is no different from other science disciplines. The
distinction that modern agronomy makes between experiments and demonstrations
results from the particular way that this continuum has been divided conceptually,
professionally and methodologically. To further develop this argument and to explore
how this partitioning occurred, we examine the case of agricultural science in the
Netherlands and its former colonies.
During the second half of the nineteenth century, the nascent agricultural sciences
in the Netherlands faced a growing demand from below in the form of farmers’
associations seeking (and paying for) scientific advice. From above, governments
invested in agricultural research and education to stimulate the agricultural sector
(Marcus 1985; Maat 2001; Harwood 2007). The emerging agricultural research stations,
schools and universities offered support to the farm sector through demonstration
plots, school gardens and field experiments. These diverse activities were the main
136 H. Maat and D. Glover

source of information for farmers and researchers alike. Their information needs differed,
however: farmers sought reliable information with which to improve their practices,
while agronomists sought a reliable basis from which to make appropriate generalisations
and provide good advice.
However, researchers soon realised that simply trying a farming method or technology
and observing the result during a single season was not appropmiate, primarily because
of site-to-site and season-to-season variability. By the end of the nineteenth century,
many agronomists were aware that replication and inference calculation or statistical
significance testing could help solve this problem, but several decades passed before
appropriate methods were developed and applied in a standardised format. A professor of
statistics was appointed at the Agricultural College in Wageningen in 1913, but for
many years there were still no guidelines or handbooks that provided extension officers
with agreed methods for the design and analysis of field trials (Gigerenzer et al 1989;
Maat 2008). i
As they struggled to find the best way to generate reliable information that would meet
their respective needs, differences began to open up between agricultural researchers
and extension officers. In the early 1910s, for example, the agricultural chemist Joost
Hudig criticised Dutch agricultural extension officers for lacking a proper under-
standing of the mathematical complexity of experimentation. His main worry was the
extension officers’ habit of combining experiments from different locations and
drawing conclusions based on averages calculated over locations (Hudig 1911, 1912).
In a response to Hudig, one extension officer explained that he felt ‘morally obliged’
to inform farmers about results of trials even if they did not follow the latest scientific
norms (Rauwerda 1913).
In the mid-1920s, the Ministry of Agriculture created a committee to develop
guidelines for the conduct of field experiments. The committee found that not much
had changed since the 1910s. The chairman complained during a conference that
field trials were not real experiments but demonstrations, which were not carried out
according to ‘the new scientific methods of experimenting’ (Koeslag 1922). Several
extension officers responded to his presentation, emphasising the value of demon-
strations which, they argued, helped farmers to get a vivid impression of the effects of
particular treatments.
The committee took several years to arrive at an agreed position, which was turned
into a manual for agronomic field activities that was published by the ministry. The
manual distinguished between five different types of activity: (1) demonstrations of
clearly observable differences; (2) observation experiments for disease resistance:
(3) exploratory experiments to determine which factors needed more precise testing;
(4) experiments where ‘yield was the decisive element’; and (5) ‘institute experi-
ments’ to be conducted at research stations and not suitable for farmers’ fields
(Landbouwvoorlichtingsdienst 1934).
The manual’s five categories are remarkable because they reflect the committee’s
perception that there should be a range of activities in the space between the worlds
of science and practice. However, while the committee had been deliberating,
research stations and extension services had grown in size and, despite the central
 Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 137

coordination exercised by the Ministry of Agriculture, evolved into different kinds of

institution, each with its own organisational features. It was this organisational dif-
ferentiation, together with the adoption of particular methodologies for different
types of field activities, that helped to entrench the distinction between experiments
and demonstrations which has persisted to the present day.
Guided by the work of Ronald Fisher and other statisticians, professional agronomic
researchers in the Netherlands, like their counterparts elsewhere, increasingly under-
stood that the meaning and significance of experimental results could became apparent
only through the application of controlled and randomised experimental designs and
the use of sophisticated mathematical techniques (Gigerenzer et al 1989). Such designs
and analytical methods not only made it possible to be much more confident that an
observed result could be attributed to a given treatment, they also allowed researchers
to identify subtle effects and interactions that were not visible to the naked eye.
Extension officers, on the other hand, knew that farmers were most likely to be
convinced by vivid demonstrations, whether these could be directly observed in the field
or in easily grasped numbers. Over-elaborate experiments might alienate the very
farmers who were supposed to benefit from them, while subtle or invisible effects might
not be very persuasive. Over the years, extension officers have become increasingly
preoccupied not with the rigour of experimental designs as such, but with identifying
effective methods of communication, measuring the impact of extension systems,
promoting knowledge exchanges and stimulating innovation processes (Leeuwis and
‘van den Ban 2004).
The emerging division of labour between research and demonstrations was not
accepted by all agronomists, however. A clear example can be found in the activities
of Dutch agricultural officers in colonial Indonesia.
By and large, the graduates who were employed as agricultural extensionists in the
Dutch colonies were agronomists with some training in social science disciplines,
primarily agricultural economics (Maat 2001). Extension officers in the Netherlands
Indies faced the challenge of setting up extension activities for a type of agriculture
with which they were not familiar. Establishing a basic understanding of agricultural
practice in the region was a core element of their activities.
In 1947 one of these Dutch extension officers, W. J. Timmer, proposed an inte-
grated methodology for agricultural research and extension based on empirically
driven field research incorporating both plant and social sciences. Timmer called this
model ‘social agronomy’ and argued that its foundation should be a detailed appraisal
of the rural area: ‘the principle “know your district” is a crucial requirement for every
social agronomist and, if this is not met, appropriate extension is out of the question’
(Timmer 1947: 176).
Timmer proposed a step-wise procedure: after collection and analysis of information,
research topics were to be prioritised, after which cultivation practices, treatments or
techniques would be tested and disseminated. In practice, advisors were occupied
primarily with the last phase — testing and promotion. Research institutes put pressure
on the extension service to disseminate their findings and as a result extension officers
had little time for an elaborate exploratory phase. Timmer complained that this
138 H. Maat and D. Glover

meant the introduction of new cultivation methods or technologies was often based
on little more than ‘a good guess’ (Timmer 1947: 182). In place of this, Timmer
wanted to make agronomy speak to the locally specific conditions of farmers, not by
intensifying the downstream flow of information, but by creating a broad and integrated
exchange of information between the field and research institutes.
Timmer’s interest in social agronomy was not unique. The importance of empirical
field research was stressed by other colonial agronomists, such as Pierre De Schlippe
in central Africa (Richards 1989a) and Jean-Paul Dobelmann in Madagascar (Dobelmann
1961). Even earlier, René Dumont (1935) in Vietnam realised that farmers themselves
needed to carry out their own experiments in order to work out locally adapted
farming methods. The concerns of these colonial-era agronomists resurfaced in later
decades, perhaps most prominently in the form of farmer participatory research and
participatory plant breeding and varietal selection (Okali et al 1994; Almekinders and
Elings 2001).
More recently, some scholars have proposed new institutional and methodological
arrangements that would involve an even more profound rebalancing of the rela-
tionship between farmers’ experiments and the experimental practices of agricultural
scientists, while enlarging the base from which knowledge can be generated and
disseminated. As we noted above, the Seeds of Life programme in East Timor
deliberately harnessed the knowledge, experimental behaviour and social networks of
farmers in both seed selection and the dissemination of improved, locally adapted
seed varieties (Shepherd and McWilliam 2011). Richards et al (2009) have taken this
kind of design to a new level, with a proposal to exploit the power of ‘unsupervised
learning’ among a large number of farmers, modelled on artificial neural networks. In
a similar vein, van Etten (2011) has offered detailed proposals for exploiting the
potential of ‘crowdsourcing’ in crop improvement programmes.
These proposals seek to mobilise the knowledge, skills and experimental behaviour
of farmers themselves, in order to achieve outcomes that are both meaningful to sci-
ence and readily applicable in farmer practice. In doing so, they seek to broaden the
locus of knowledge generation and transform the flow of technology dissemination,
by acknowledging farmers as crucial partners in both of these activities. Although we
do not have space here to describe the proposals in detail, we simply note that they
seek to accomplish these objectives by deliberately blending different approaches to
experimentation and technology dissemination. They also accept that institutional
separation of research and extension is a historically contingent fact rather than an
intrinsic feature of agronomic science, and seek therefore to rethink the division of
labour between researchers and agricultural extension officers.
In the next sections, we consider the case of SRI as an illustration of our argument.
Both SRI and the controversy that surrounds it serve to illustrate the continuing
disconnection between formal agricultural research, extension and farming practice.
The case of SRI also illustrates our argument that agronomic science, technological
innovation and changes in farming practice occur through historically situated and
contingent engagements between farmers, extension officers and scientists, where the
experimentation and demonstration functions are not neatly separated.
 Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 139

The emergence of SRI

SRI is a method of rice cultivation which involves a number of principles or practices
that can be concisely summarised as follows: the transplanting of single, very young,
widely spaced seedlings; irrigation using very limited amounts of water during the
vegetative growth period, sometimes including short periods when the soil is allowed
to dry; and careful control of weeds, ideally by disturbing the soil so as to increase
aeration. Application of substantial quantities of organic fertiliser is encouraged in
order to stimulate microbial activity in the soil.
These principles are said to allow rice plants to achieve significantly higher levels of
growth and grain yield, while consuming much less water. SRI’s advocates position it
as an agro-ecological, low external-input farming method, which is peculiarly accessible
to resource-poor farmers since it does not require the adoption of new rice varieties
or expensive chemical inputs (Uphoff 1999, 2003, 2007; Stoop et al 2002; Mishra
et al 2006).
SRI was first elaborated by Father Henri de Laulanié, a French missionary of the
Catholic Jesuit order who earned a diploma in agronomy from the National Agronomic
Research Institute (INRA) in Paris. When he was sent to Madagascar in 1961, de
Laulanié was unfamiliar with rice and therefore depended heavily on his own obser-
vations and the handful of manuals and handbooks available to him. He examined
rice plants closely, studied their growth patterns in detail, and paid attention to the
cultivation methods he saw being used by Malagasy farmers, including atypical practices
he observed in certain locations. One year, he observed something remarkable that
was not explained by the information available in his handbooks: rice seedlings
transplanted at only 15 days old (a strategy to cope with an early season drought)
seemed to grow with surprising vigour, leading to a higher grain yield.
Unfortunately, in the Madagascar of the 1970s and 1980s, de Laulanié was largely
cut off from any agricultural research or extension system that could either provide
him with scientific advice or incorporate his observations and experiences into existing
research programmes. He seized upon the few sources of scientific information that
came his way and, in the absence of more systematic support, he relied heavily on the
simple trial-and-error experiments carried out by students in his own training fields.
His professional judgements were informed not only by his agronomic training, but
also by his experience and intentions as a development worker. The local success of
his inductive scientific methods depended on close engagement with small-scale
Malagasy farmers and on his combined status as scientist and priest (Berkhout and
Glover 2011; Glover 2011).

SRI as contested agronomy

The disconnection between de Laulanié’s inductive scientific practice in the
Madagascar highlands and formal agricultural research helps to explain not only the
nature of the rice production system he devised, but also the controversy that surrounds
it today.
140 H. Maat and D. Glover

Since de Laulanié had based SRI partly on field manuals and on the physiological
characteristics of rice, it is not surprising that some of the practices he advocated
resemble aspects of ‘best management practices’ recommended by rice science insti-
tutions such as the International Rice Research Institute (IRRI). At the same time,
because de Laulanié’s scientific method was inductive, and because SRI was based on
farmers’ existing practices and optimised for a particular agro-ecological setting and
community of farmers, it is also not surprising that SRI is somewhat distinct from the
recommendations of mainstream rice science. Under the Green Revolution regime,
international rice research and development were organised in line with a single,
standardising template for rice improvement that took relatively little account of
diverse local variations in growing conditions (Harwood 2009; Smith 2009). In contrast,
the distinctive features of SRI reflect the special characteristics of the time and place
in which it emerged, as well as the subjective judgements of the individual who played a
dominant role in its development (Berkhout and Glover 2011; Glover 2011).
Together, these similarities and differences help to explain why SRI received a
hostile reception from mainstream rice scientists when it began to spread beyond
Madagascar in the late 1990s. How, they must have asked, could a missionary based
in the Madagascar highlands have developed a method of rice cultivation that was
superior to the systems recommended by the foremost national and international
centres of rice research? The fact that SRI combined well established good management
practices (such as the application of organic fertiliser) with unorthodox elements made
this question all the more explosive.
The arguments for and against SRI published in agronomic journals confirm that
the controversy is partly about rice biology and physiology, and partly about the
proper organisation and conduct of agronomic research. Scientists associated with
IRRI have dismissed SRI as a delusion based on mistaken theory and inaccurate
measurement. Some of their most trenchant critiques of SRI have taken the form of
theoretical and modelling analyses, using estimates based on existing scientific knowl-
edge, which have led them to conclude that the claims made on behalf of SRI were
implausible because they breached the known physiological limits of rice growth and
productivity. The authors of these papers insisted that SRI had nothing to offer in the
quest to increase the yield potential of rice, which, in their view, would require
advanced biotechnology-based breeding methods (Dobermann 2004; Sheehy et al
2004).
In response, supporters of SRI argued that it was inappropriate to use scientific
theory to dismiss remarkable empirical observations from farmers’ fields; instead, it
should be the role of agronomic science to investigate and explain these surprising
field observations. Second, they challenged the IRRI scientists’ implicit assumption
that increasing rice yields should be the primary goal of rice research. They pointed
out that what poor and marginal farmers really need is locally adapted and accessible
cultivation methods based on the intensification of labour, rather than standardised
high-yielding technology packages that depend on expensive external inputs. Indeed,
SRI proponents have argued that it is spreading spontaneously from farmer to
farmer and country to country precisely because of its intrinsic attractiveness and
 Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 141

accessibility to resource-poor farmers (Stoop and Kassam 2005; Uphoff 2007). Third,
SRI’s proponents argue that conventional methods of evaluation are inadequate for
assessing a technology whose most powerful effects are produced, they believe, through
synergetic interactions among several different practices. They believe that these
synergetic relationships extend the physiological potential of the rice plant, which
explains why spectacular yield increases have been reported in farmers’ fields (Uphoff
1999; Stoop et al 2002; Uphoff et al 2008). It is interesting to note that, with the
latter two arguments, SRI advocates assert both that yield should not be the exclusive
centre of attention, and that SRI can unlock a higher yield potential compared with
conventional methods.
Although statistical techniques developed for field experiments typically test for
effects within a single set of treatments (e.g. different rice varieties), depending on the
experimental design, the interactions between different sets of treatments such as
varieties and N fertiliser can also be analysed. Some of the data cited by SRI propo-
nents to support their claims have been derived from rather simple side-by-side
comparisons of rice performance under SRI and an alternative management practice.
Unless such comparisons are designed and replicated very carefully, the interactions
among variables and the benefits or disadvantages of particular practices or combina-
tions of practices are impossible to discern (Berkhout and Glover 2011).
SRI’s proponents take a different view, arguing that SRI represents a particular
type of field-level innovation, discovered and developed through practical experience
“and grounded empiricism rather than formal scientific experimentation. They also
suggest that the impact of SRI is crucially related to it having been grounded in
situated farming practice, because it exploits the cumulative effects of a steady
improvement in soil quality through the addition of organic fertilisers and altered
water management practices. They argue that these features of SRI are liable to be
systematically underestimated by short-term field trials carried out on research stations
(Stoop and Kassam 2005).
By focusing on the practical experiences of farmers in this way, the advocates of
SRI draw attention to the visibility of its effects as a key factor in its development and
spread. While the impacts of SRI methods on yield and productivity continue to be
disputed, one consistent observation is that SRI typically produces significant changes
in the growth and morphology of individual rice plants, which are visible to the
naked eye. The plants generally produce more luxuriant vegetative growth and often
a large number of panicles. When the plants are pulled out of the ground, they often
reveal long and visibly healthy root systems (Berkhout and Glover 2011).
In farmers’ fields, this dramatic demonstration of the impact of SRI can create a
powerful impression. Numerous photographs showing side-by-side comparisons of
rice fields and rice plants grown under SRI and conventional management have
circulated in cyberspace, creating a vivid impression of the difference between the
two. Rice scientists pose questions about such images, however. They point out that
the rapid and vigorous growth of rice plants grown under SRI does not necessarily or
consistently lead to a higher grain yield. In particular, it has often been observed that there
is a trade-off between planting density and the size and productivity of individual
142 H. Maat and D. Glover

plants. For instance, when planted at low densities, individual rice plants tend
to produce a large number of panicles per plant, but the number of panicles per
square metre may not be any greater than with more densely spaced plants, even if
these densely packed plants are visibly less productive on an individual basis
(Angladette 1966).
Instead of having an impact on yield (land productivity), the most attractive effects
of SRI may be a substantial increase in the productivity of other inputs, including
seeds, water and even labour. Such benefits may be extremely attractive to poor rice
farmers, perhaps even more so than an absolute increase in yield. However, these
productivity effects may be subtle and apparent only at the end of the season, after
reflection, measurement and calculation. To demonstrate such subtle effects, sophis-
ticated experimental designs and statistical methods may be required; few of the
studies published to date have met these standards (Berkhout and Glover 2011;
Glover 2011).
Compared with such methods, the visual impression created by comparing obvious
differences between two fields, plots or plants can be much more immediate and
powerful. These visible differences appear to play a role in helping SRI to spread,
often through the arrangement of demonstrations designed to show farmers that the
system makes a clear, beneficial difference to the growth of individual rice plants.
Such demonstrations work in the same way as the original observation of the growth
patterns of young transplants that led Henri de Laulanié to develop SRI in the first place.
In both cases, empirical observation of a striking phenomenon stimulates action.
A factor that makes the case of SRI particularly interesting is the extended network
of organisations and individuals promoting it. In the cases typically analysed in the
field of science and technology studies, network building is an activity generally
initiated by scientists, laboratories and research institutes, while other actors such as
entrepreneurs, companies and governments also play important roles. In the SRI case,
a strong lateral network has emerged within and between countries and regions,
involving not only research scientists, but also farmers’ associations, non-governmental
organisations and civil society groups, philanthropic agencies and others. SRI can thus
be ‘understood not merely as a set of crop management principles but as the fruit of a
distinctive socio-technical system of knowledge and innovation that has operated,
at least partly, outside the mainstream circuits of the international agricultural research
system’ (Berkhout and Glover 2011: 137).
This institutional characteristic of the SRI phenomenon may be one important
reason for the dismissive responses of some scientists and research institutes. The bifur-
cation of professional agronomy into separate groups of research scientists and extension
officers, the evolution of extension towards information dissemination and input
distribution, and the establishment of the international agricultural research institutes
in the 1950s and 1960s disrupted the channels for the upward flow of information
from the field to the research station and the laboratory. The substantial stream of
information generated by the SRI network thus confronted national and international
research institutes with a difficult and unfamiliar task: how could this new information be
related to their own knowledge and research practice?
 Alternative configurations of agronomic experimentation 143

Conclusion

Experiments and demonstrations of various kinds play a central role in agronomy,

because they serve to configure the relationship between the worlds of scientific
research and agricultural practice. Field experiments and demonstrations should both
be understood as events conducted in specific historical, social and institutional set-
tings, through which the knowledge and skills of various actors are mobilised and
combined. Historically, however, different norms and standards have been adopted
for experiments and demonstrations. True experiments are considered ‘science-only’
events for the generation or validation of new agronomic knowledge, practices and
technologies. Demonstrations — which can include some kinds of field trials that have
an avowedly investigative character — are seen primarily as mechanisms for promoting
and disseminating these scientific products to farmers.
This division of labour and its linear, top-down information flow emerged from
efforts to solve the practical problem of connecting agronomic research with farmers’
practice. It became a standard institutional model, which was entrenched through choices
made in the formal organisation of agricultural research institutes and extension
organisations. Dissatisfaction with this model led some individuals and organisations
to propose new ways of incorporating information and innovation generated at farm
level, including social agronomy, participatory plant breeding and participatory varietal
selection, crowdsourcing and unsupervised learning. However, these developed (or
.are now being proposed) only on the margins of mainstream agronomy.
The controversy over SRI demonstrates some of the continuing effects of the
disconnection between formal agronomic research and field-level technology devel-
opment and promotion. Our analysis suggests that a resolution of the SRI controversy
will require the interests and activities of farmers to be connected to, and balanced
with, the scientific requirements of researchers. The principal spaces where this is
likely to happen are experimental and demonstration plots. It is here that the
knowledge and practices of laboratory scientists, technicians, extension officers, field
technicians, labourers and farmers can be combined and coordinated to improve the
connections between scientific agronomy and farming practice.

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2
‘THIS FIELD Is OUR CHURCH’
The social and agronomic challenges of :
knowledge generation in a participatory soil
fertility management project

Joshua Ramisch

Contesting the ubiquitous ‘participatory’ label

Certain types of participation have gained legitimacy among agronomists in national
and international research centres, such as ‘farmer field schools’ and other group-based
experimentation or demonstration approaches, and participatory ranking exercises for
identifying constraints or evaluating new crop varieties. In addressing the participation
imperative, on-farm research engages twin — social and agronomic — objectives:
‘empowerment’, knowledge sharing, and improved social capital on the one hand,
and more effective technology development and promotion on the other, visible as
improved crop performance and yields, soil fertility, etc. (Okali et al 1994). However,
it is not clear that the research products and data gained from these activities are
effectively advancing either farmers’ welfare or agronomy.
As participatory, on-farm research has become accepted as ‘mainstream’ (van Asten
et al 2008) and a ‘new orthodoxy’ (Leeuwis et al 1998), even its proponents remain
critical that it has failed to live up to its promised potential (Rola et al 2002; Orr
2003; Nederlof and Dangbégnon 2007). It is indeed worth contesting the ‘participatory’
label when it is so widely applied, especially where it is used without evident reflection to
describe a diversity. of practices (or mere rituals?) in nearly every branch of agricultural
research (Simpson and Owens 2002). More sceptical observers might consider that, in
its ubiquity, the participatory designation is now applied only to give a donor-friendly
gloss to business-as-usual.
However, even if institutions and governments are rhetorically committed to par-
ticipatory research, a project such as the one described in this chapter, which made
‘rigorous’, participatory research central to its efforts to improve soil fertility management
practice, is clearly still at the margins of agricultural research (at least in terms of
budgets and staffing). Critics of the project, and by extension participatory research
more generally, contended that the complexity of on-farm conditions made the
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 147

generation of useful (or publishable) data difficult, and that the social challenges of
conducting and understanding the research products were ‘too time consuming’ and
‘too complicated’ for an agricultural research institute with a finite budget (TSBF—CIAT
2008: 7:25—28; see also Lightfoot and Barker 1988; Davis 2006; Kamau 2007; Braun
and Duveskog 2008).
This chapter applies a political agronomy framework to primary material from the
author’s. own experience with participatory, on-farm research in western Kenya.
The Folk Ecology Initiative (FEI) was a community-based soil fertility management
project that ran from 2001 to 2008, and that explicitly sought to bridge the episte-
mological and power differences between scientists and local communities through
participatory learning and action. This chapter investigates to what extent the FEI was
able to: (i) balance the competing social and scientific demands inherent to a group-based
approach; and (ii) generate data and new knowledge useful to both local communities
(farmers) and outsiders (agronomists, soil and social scientists, etc.). It is written explicitly
from the perspective of a researcher who promoted and defended a participatory project,
against both biophysical scientists who felt that on-farm research was a costly way to
produce ultimately unusable data, and social scientists who challenged the rigour and
depth of the participatory process. The chapter begins by introducing some of the
debates relating to group-based approaches to on-farm technology development, such
as farmer field schools (FFS). The following sections then introduce the FEI, the
politics and implications of its implementation, and the challenges of generating and
interpreting data from collective and individual experimentation within the FEI.

A context for group-based, participatory soil fertility management

research in Africa
Even in the colonial era, extension agents knew to ‘start where farmers are, with what
they have, to help them help themselves’ (Semana 2002: 1). The effectiveness of
contemporary participatory approaches is, however, undermined by a lack of social
science capacity in most national (and now many international) agricultural research
organisations, which should guide the formulation and implementation of such activities
and also analyse their social dimensions and impacts (Johnson et al 2003; German et al
2010). A direct consequence is that most agronomists and other biophysical scientists
conducting participatory research are compelled to become ‘generalists’, learning the
‘

skills of facilitation or participatory appraisal on the job and without the benefit of a
grounding in broader social scientific literatures or debates (Isubikalu 2007; van Asten
et al 2008). It also means that participatory research is often reduced to a limited set of
the most popular or accessible ‘tools’: group-based extension and experimentation in
FFS, wealth ranking, participatory varietal appraisals, etc. (Kamau 2007).
The starting point of most extension approaches is that researchers have knowledge
or technologies that farmers ‘need’ to acquire. The assumption is that farmers who
then acquire this knowledge will benefit from it, and that others in the same situation
will actively seek it out once its utility becomes known (Hagmann et al 1999;
Gallagher 2003). Whereas conventional dissemination or extension methods fill this
148 J. Ramisch

perceived knowledge gap with a unidirectional flow of information (researcher —

extension — farmer), there is an element of participation inasmuch as farmers disin-
terested in the knowledge or technologies on offer will either ignore them, opt out
(cf. Misiko 2010), or try to adapt them to their own uses.
However, advocates of participatory on-farm research suggest that the unidirectionality
of conventional extension approaches (such as Training and Visit, T&V) limits the
effectiveness of knowledge transmission. When the identification and conceptualisation
of knowledge ‘gaps’ as researchable problems begins with researchers’ own priorities
and interests, or their own understanding of farmers’ contexts, these are likely to
correspond only partially (if at all) to the problems or ‘gaps’ identified by farmers. For
example, if a research organisation has expertise in a given crop (e.g. maize), it is entirely
reasonable to assume that its technical solutions will address ways to overcome the
constraints limiting maize yields. However, the importance of maize within the live-
lihood or food security context might not justify farmers investing time, energy or
other scarce resources in making even marginal improvements in their maize yields
(cf. Orr 2003).
Finally, if problems are considered rooted in ‘ignorance’, then the logical solution
is ‘more extension teaching’ (Chambers 1983), with ‘increased adoption’ an expected
indicator of that teaching having produced learning.’ Group-based extension strategies
can actually play into this flawed thinking: if previous approaches failed because they
did not train a ‘critical mass’ of farmers (Witt et al n.d.), then working with groups
rather than individual ‘contact farmers’ can seem a seductively cost-effective way of
accelerating dissemination (cf. Youdeowei 2003; Karungi et al 2005). Even if
approaches such as FFS emphasise ‘adult education’ and ‘co-learning’ by researchers
and farmers, they are structured around curricula that are developed first and foremost
by research teams, not by the communities themselves (Nederlof 2006).. This is not to
say that there is something intrinsic to either researchers or extension agents that predis-
poses them to ‘lecturing’. But the premise of FFS is that there is a great deal that farmers
in particular need to learn about the invisible worlds of plant ecology or soil nutrients
(and indeed about experimental methods) before they can begin to effectively
manipulate and innovate with either their current practices or new technologies that are
introduced to them. It is easy, therefore, for farmer groups associated with participatory
research projects to become conduits for ‘more extension teaching’ and technology
promotion, whether these knowledge ‘gaps’ have been identified by researchers or the
farmers themselves (Isubikalu 2007). It also becomes easy for the success of the FFS
to be evaluated by the degree to which participants have acquired detailed knowledge
about, or adopted, the technologies that were tested (e.g. Bunyatta et al 2006), rather
than evaluating whether participants could test and evaluate new problems and solutions
on their own after leaving the FFS (Braun et al 2006; Gallagher et al 2006).

The Strengthening Folk Ecology Initiative (FEI)

The FEI (‘Strengthening “Folk Ecology”: Community-Based Interactive Farmer Learming
Processes and their Application to Soil Fertility’), was implemented from 2001 to 2008
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 149

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by the Tropical Soil Biology and Fertility Institute (TSBF-CIAT) with local
governmental and non-governmental partners? and funding from the International
Development Research Centre (IDRC). In its first phase (2001—4) it operated in four
sites in western Kenya, and two more sites were added in 2004 (Figure 9.1; Table 9.1).
The sites were situated along an agro-ecological and cultural gradient representative
of the region’s high (but variable) rainfall, low soil fertility (N- and P-depleted), high
population density and history of out-migration.
The intention was specifically to ‘strengthen’ farmers’ existing knowledge rather
than change specific practices. This might seem a nuance, but it meant that activities
focused on disseminating generic scientific principles relating to soil fertility constraints
and plant productivity, rather than promoting specific techniques or technology
‘packages’. The project employed a number of participatory tools, especially joint
farmer—researcher demonstrations, dialogue, and participatory monitoring and eva-
luation (PM&E) to facilitate exchange of knowledge. This adaptive learning process
of dialogue between farmers’ local ecological knowledge (‘folk ecology’) and outside
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 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 151

knowledge systems was intended to develop a shared, ‘dynamic expertise’ of soil

fertility management (Ramisch et al 2007).
Although FEI came to be known (in the study sites, internally to TSBF-CIAT and
within the Kenyan agricultural development research community) for iterative processes
of consultation involving both collective and individual on-farm demonstration trials,
the adaptive learning component was rooted in a desire to understand indigenous
knowledge relating to soil and soil fertility (Otwoma 2004; Mairura 2005; Misiko
2007: ch. 7; Mairura et al 2007, 2008; Ramisch et al 2012). This included both the
agro-ecological knowledge of local soil ‘experts’ as well as the ‘common sense’ about
soil held by the vast majority of people who knew, or only wanted to know, the
basic minimum needed to manage their soils. Attention to the social dynamics of
groups and group-based learning was also crucial to understanding why certain
groups and their research activities thrived (Misiko et al 2011) while others did not
(Misiko 2010). Finally, one of the project’s explicit objectives was to show that folk
knowledge and practice could be strengthened through repeatable, enduring processes
rooted in local institutions, actors and processes that were not inherently reliant on a
project’s presence. If a ‘dynamic expertise’ relating to soil fertility management could
be created and sustained, it would also answer those critics who believed that farmers
were agreeing with scientists only to secure short-term benefits (Misiko 2007: 7).

The FEI team and its approach

The core team of the FEI included an anthropologist (Michael Misiko) who was
regularly in the field, a Nairobi-based project leader and anthropologist-geographer
(Joshua Ramisch), as well as field-based staff: an agronomust (John Mukalama) and an
economist (Isaac Ekise), both of whom had worked previously in the FEI sites for a
community-development NGO. The team consulted regularly with soil scientists
within TSBF—CIAT (especially Bernard Vanlauwe and later Pablo Tittonell). At the
community level, pre-existing self-help groups (typically with 15-25 members)
helped provide the FEI with strong community ties, local legitimacy and some
degree of local leadership. One of the project objectives was to understand better
the internal dynamics of farmer groups, and so, with time, the local participants and
the scientific team became better versed in identifying and cultivating appropriate
leaders (Misiko 2007; Ramisch et al 2007).
The farmer groups operated under a variety of different labels, largely informed by
the level of exposure to (and enthusiasm or contempt for) other agricultural devel-
opment activities in the area. In Emuhaya, for example, previous research activity
had organised local groups as farmer field schools, a name that was retained in some
cases, or replaced with ‘farmer research group’. In other sites, groups retained their
existing identities as ‘self-help’, ‘women’s’, or ‘youth’ groups, or added the designation
‘research group’ or ‘field school’.
As discussed below, all the participating groups collectively managed at least one
central ‘demonstration’ site over the life of the project. The FEI often referred to these
sites as the ‘mother’ trials and to individual experiments as ‘baby’ trials, reflecting
152 J. Ramisch

the dominance of the ‘mother-baby’ model for collaborative farmer-—scientist

experimentation (Snapp et al 2002). This model, whose name was coined by a
farmer, originated in Malawi for participatory plant breeding, where data collected on
crop performance under the researcher-controlled ‘mother’ trial could be compared
with the results of the same technologies on satellite ‘baby’ trials on adjacent farms
under farmer-managed conditions. The ‘mother—baby’ model persists in much parti-
cipatory agricultural research, including situations like the FEI’s where the ‘mother’ trial
was jointly designed and controlled by researchers and farmers and was thus not ‘pure’
researcher-controlled trial. The FEI originally adopted the ‘mother—baby’ terminol-
ogy with some trepidation, as it seemed to imply a top-down (or at least vaguely con-
descending) attitude towards farmer experimentation, which clashed with the project’s
stated objective of using the learning embodied by individual experimentation to feed
back into choices made on the ‘mother’ trial sites. However, unlike the research
team, participating farmers had no issue with the terminology, and even noted that
‘babies grow up and have children of their own’ (although no-one suggested that
children can also teach their mothers ... ).

Framing the FEI: indigenous soil knowledge beyond ethnopedology

At its inception, the FEI was not contesting agronomic or participatory practices so
much as arguing that there was a space in research on indigenous soil knowledge that
went beyond ethnopedology (identifying and characterising the local taxonomies of soil
types). The initial activities were therefore geared towards broadening the discussion
of local soil agro-ecological knowledge to see soil management within its local context.
In the terminology of Niemeijer and Mazzucato (2003), identifying and using the
‘grammar’ (local theories) rather than just the ‘sentences’ (taxonomies) of local
knowledge provides a much clearer insight into how farmers will deal with changing
circumstances and new crops than the static way in which local taxonomies are often
treated.
The project was furthermore contesting some of the orthodoxies of the day by being
explicitly agnostic about possible assumptions relating to local soil knowledge, namely
that:

e there are gendered differences in knowledge

e a coherent ‘knowledge’ of soil exists within a given community
e either there is deep knowledge waiting to be found or that local knowledge will
be of limited relevance
e local networks of knowledge generation and sharing exist, and
e these networks can be tapped or enriched with scientific knowledge to ‘scale up’
the impact of current small-scale projects.

Given the possibility of misrepresentations, these agnosticisms are important when

products of different knowledge systems are being ‘translated’. As Geertz (1983) has
pointed out, fitting local knowledge to our [sic] own frame of reference is a ‘translation’
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 153

in which fundamental things will inevitably get lost or distorted. Applying this
notion, an influential study of perceived land degradation in West Africa’s forested zone
specifically referred to the accumulation of misunderstandings and misrepresentations
as The Lie of the Land (Leach and Mearns 1996).
The conflict of epistemologies goes even further, as ‘scientific’ knowledge is often
itself deeply contested. Yet scientists continue to see it as their responsibility to help solve
the environmental problems they observe, even when many of today’s agro-ecological
problems stem, in part, from previous science-driven efforts to ‘modernise’ agriculture
(Leeuwis 1999; Mackenzie 2000). A cyclic pattern therefore emerges that whatever
the farmer knows or is currently practising is at least partly at odds with the dominant
scientific discourse. Examples would be to compare the criticism at Kenyan inde-
pendence that ‘farmers do not use fertilisers’ with today’s critique that they ‘use
fertilisers alone without organic inputs’ and are therefore depleting their soil’s nutrients
(Misiko et al 2011). Similarly, we can contrast the facts that farmers were urged to
adopt iron hoes and ploughs in western Kenya in the 1940s to increase their labour
productivity, while today they are told that such implements cause soil erosion and
therefore undermine productivity (Crowley and Carter 2000). Crops that were hailed
as modern in the post-independence era, such as maize (especially hybrid varieties)
and kale (Kiswahili: sukuma wiki), are now blamed for impoverishing farmers and
their soils because of ‘poor management’ (Mango 2002).
Because many farming communities in rural Kenya have only intermittent contact
with agricultural researchers, most farmers adopt a highly sceptical attitude towards
outsiders’ knowledge. Not only do the visitors from outside continually change, but
so too do their messages. This mutability (and the sceptical response to it) is reinforced by
the political jockeying of local NGOs, who try to win adherents to their projects to
demonstrate ‘impact’ to their donors. In so doing, these outside actors are using polemical
presentations of how their message differs from that of ‘rival’ actors, extolling, for
example, the virtues of ‘organic’ agriculture or agroforestry or farming based on agro-
chemical inputs as the ‘new’, ‘best’ practice. The notion that an existing repertoire of
soil fertility management already exists and should be built on does not enter into the
equation (Goldberger 2008).

The study sites and their context

Western Kenya was historically neglected by central authorities, and today rural
populations contend with poor infrastructure, poor market access, high rates of HIV
and AIDS, and widespread, semi-permanent out-migration of young people (pre-
dominantly young men) (Crowley and Carter 2000). Agriculture is constrained by
both land and labour shortages, while biophysical challenges beyond soil fertility
decline include significant climatic variability and widespread crop pests, weeds and
diseases.
The FEI involved ethnically distinct communities chosen along an agro-ecological
and population density gradient from Vihiga district through Siaya and Butere-
Mumias districts to Busia and Teso districts (Figure 9.1; Table 9.1). All six sites had
154 J. Ramisch

significant, previous engagement with either international or local NGOs working on

soil fertility management. However, notwithstanding this long history of project
work, research and extension agencies consistently identified these as areas with low
adoption rates of new practices such as the use of inorganic fertiliser and improved
germplasm (FEI 2009).
Rainfall at the FEI sites is bimodal, with rains falling in the ‘long’ first season
(March-July) and again during the ‘short’ second season (October-December).
Livelihoods are subsistence-based and (as elsewhere in western Kenya) maize is the
dominant staple food. Other crops include beans, sweet potatoes, sugarcane (most
dominant in Butere-Mumias), bananas, cowpeas, sorghum, millet, cassava, kale and
other green vegetables, groundnut (Teso), cotton (Busia and Teso), French beans,
green grams and tea (Vihiga).

Implementing the FEI

From its launch, the FEI’s scientific team struggled to balance the technical and social
dimensions of on-farm experimentation. On the one hand, the activities had to
introduce to the communities scientific concepts and technologies of potential utility,
in ways that could be meaningfully and rigorously tested by scientists and community
members alike. On the other hand, the social motivations for participation in FEI’s
activities needed to be understood, managed and sustained, even while we followed
the evolution of individual and collective knowledge about soils and soil fertility
management in the study sites. Since participants learned and mastered concepts at
different rates, and consequently made their own decisions about which technologies
to use or modify at different stages of the project, a simple yet flexible schedule of
activities was needed that could respond to and stimulate the interest of a wide range
of participants.

Evolution of activities

The FEI began in 2001 with community interviews held in four sites where TSBF-CIAT
had ongoing or recently completed work. These sessions were convened as barazas
(Kiswahili for official, public meetings called by local authorities) in venues such as
churches, community grounds or schools. The interview sessions were designed to
establish dialogue between TSBF—CIAT and potentially interested participants about
local agricultural opportunities and constraints and soil fertility management, and also
to understand — and manage — general expectations relating to outside development
actors (Misiko 2007: 8-9). Further meetings discussed farmers’ real-life situations to
establish personal rapport with representatives from all sections of the community and
to build support.
Farmer collaborators clearly expressed a preference for a hands-on, interactive
process that would focus on demonstrations and open field events to ensure inclusive
participation and plentiful attendance. The scientific team responded by introducing
demonstrations relating to the concepts of ‘resource quality’ (Swift et al 1979; Palm
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 155

TABLE 9.2 Number of collective (C) and individual (i) experimental plots within the FEI
sites of western Kenya (2002-07)
ee eee eee
Technology 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007
a A
Resource quality (maize-bean 1 C 4C
test crop) >30 i >20 i
Resource quality (addition to >20 i at 42 i 60 i >100 i
compost)
Resource quality (local Gre
vegetable crops) 8 i

Inorganic fertiliser (NPK test IME 4C 4C 4C 6C 6C

strips)

‘Improved’ farmyard manure 31G

6 i 254i 47 i 80 i >100i >100i

New legume varieties Ke 4C 6C ic

(soyabean screening) 10i >60 i >200i >500i >1000i
Legume-—cereal rotations 4c 4C 4C 61E 6C
101 35 i >50 i >60 i
Legume (soyabean)-cereal 40i >100 i >200i >600i
intercropping
Legumes for Striga control Se 4c
(legumes, IR maize*) Si >600i >600i

> Indicates that this count was not exhaustive.

* The seeds of IR (imazapyr-resistant) maize are coated with a Striga-killing herbicide.
Source: Community studies and adapted from Misiko (2007).

et al 2001), which over time developed into testing a wider range of concepts and
technologies that responded to local interests (cf. Misiko 2007: 8-10). Table 9.2
shows how rapidly the numbers of participants and research topics grew. Most new
topics began on collective experimentation sites (‘C’) and often spread in subsequent
seasons as individual experiments (‘i’) on private farms.
This table highlights the twin challenges of keeping up with the complexity
of research results while meeting the needs of an ever-growing population interested
in joining the FEI process. The initial collective trials (an Emuhaya only in 2002, then
in Emuhaya, Butula, Muyafwa and Chakol in 2003) were all researcher-designed
ideas that responded to the interests raised in the community discussions: the ‘resource
quality’ trials on staple crops to show the relative values of different, locally available
organic amendments; the soil nutrient test strips to evaluate the nutrient deficiencies
in each site; ways to manage livestock manure in pits better; and the legume—cereal
rotation trials to showcase legume-based options for building soil fertility.
The initial participants all built on these concepts (as part of the evolving
‘dynamic expertise’ of the dialogue between farmers and scientists) with their own
individual and new collective experiments, particularly by adapting the ‘resource
quality’ concept (2003-05) and the legume—cereal technologies (2004-08). The first
156 J. Ramisch

challenge for the scientific team, therefore, was to support these new activities
with appropriate technical advice and resources. In applying the ‘resource quality’
concept to fertilising indigenous vegetables rather than maize, the experimentation
process stalled within a few seasons because vegetable seeds were nearly impossible
to source in sufficient quantity or quality, and too little was known about how to
control the many pests that attacked the trials (especially the fertilised plots). Farmer-
to-farmer exchange sustained a longer-term interest in individual experiments
that tested the incorporation of different organic materials into compost rather
than directly into the soil, but here the scientific team proved unable to provide
significant technical support for monitoring or evaluation. The scientific team was
best able to support the diverse, individual experiments that adapted the legume—
cereal technologies, since multiple actors in the region (public, private and NGO)
could provide germplasm, crop husbandry, processing and marketing advice.
But even here, there were many technical questions (e.g. about suppression of
the parasitic weed Striga hermonthica) that were at the limits of scientific knowledge.
Farmers’ experiments therefore helped highlight new research questions for the
scientific team, but in many cases the team’s capacity to take these forward was
lacking.
While this learning and adaptation was occurring, there were of course new par-
ticipants attracted by the FEI activities. The second challenge for the project was
therefore to continue to welcome and integrate these new participants while still
maintaining the interest and enthusiasm of the initial participants. These initial parti-
cipants quickly determined that the ‘resource quality’ concept did not need to be
continued in the collective demonstrations after 2003, but the legume—cereal trials
were maintained in every site from 2003 until the project’s end in 2008, even
after most participants felt that they had learned its lessons. As one farmer from
Butula noted in 2004, ‘This field is hike a chalkboard. We can take visitors there
easily and it holds us all together.’ This raises the question, echoed by Braun and
Duveskog (2008), of whether the FEI was truly achieving its goal of developing a
‘dynamic expertise’ of rigorous research skills grounded in the local context or
whether the project was merely institutionalizing the outward symbols and forms of
research.

Rituals of participatory research: field trials as ‘church’

The farmer groups themselves did not hesitate to refer to the symbolic power of their
collective activities or the importance of having consistent, ritualistic practices. As an
example, farmers in Chakol decided in 2007 to replicate their collective legume—
cereal demonstration at a different site 4 km away, an activity which they likened
to ‘building a church of the same denomination’. According to the local group
leader:

This was part of our scaling-out mission. We decided to preach the same
gospel. We liked the trial as designed by TSBF—-CIAT because it showed clear
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 157

lessons. So we replicated it here for ourselves too, even though many of us

already knew the key lessons and some are not practising them.

It is worth noting that the legume—cereal demonstration was copied on this new,
collective site in nearly every degree, including the square plots, row planting, the
‘control plots’ of continuous maize and beans and the fertiliser applications. This
despite the fact that group members who had planted legume—cereal combinations on
their own farms were typically not using row planting or inorganic fertiliser, or testing
their technologies against a formal ‘control’.
That farmers in Chakol who already knew the lessons decided not only to repeat
the same experiments but also to participate consistently in visits to these trials reflects
complex processes of bonding and loyalty that underpin the rituals of most collective
action (Bellah 2005). As one farmer put it, ‘The presence of a church is a sign of
devotion, not salvation.’ Like church attendance, participating in the research group
activities embodied many social functions, strengthened social networks and facilitated
reciprocity beyond the FEI’s knowledge exchanges (Misiko et al 2011). Some farmers’
irregular participation meant that they missed out on key learning moments and
misconstrued the intentions of the project. However, the opportunity of other group
members to bring these people ‘back to the fold’, as one woman put it, ‘Gives us the
chance to hear the Word [a joking reference to the underlying lessons of the
demonstration] again ourselves with fresh ears and perhaps learn something new too.’
~ Learning was thus not a linear process, and the solidarity of the group setting allowed
many farmers to revisit their own decisions about technology (non-)use or adaptation.
Furthermore, as with many African churches, there were other tangible benefits to
participation, including the lunches or sodas provided by researchers, folk arts (songs
and dramas prepared by group members), the convivial atmosphere created by host
farmers, and contact with interesting visitors.
It could be argued that the scientific team also found a comfortable, even mitualistic
focus in the collective trials. The shared history of learning and hardships overcome,
the regularity of the field visits for planning, PM&E or dialogue sessions all built
more than just ‘dynamic expertise’ relating to soil fertility management. Visitors to
the FEI often remarked on the genuine depth of collaboration and understanding,
which was often evident in the ‘open days’ hosted by the FEI at the collective and
individual experiment sites. Follow-up studies showed that many farmers outside the
FEI had gained useful messages and ideas from these events, while group members
reported feeling re-energised to continue experimenting or using the technologies
(FEI 2009; Misiko 2009). By contrast, the field days of FFS elsewhere were report-
edly less successful, even seen by their members as a ‘funeral’ rite to mark the end of
the learning process (Isubikalu 2007: 151). Studies in western Kenya (Duveskog et al
2003; Kiptot 2007; Amudavi et al 2009) and elsewhere (Feder et al 2004a,
2004b; Tripp et al 2005; van den Berg and Jiggins 2007) emphasise that learning
during field visits and open days relies heavily on good facilitation and follow-up,
elements that the FEI had worked hard to institutionalise with both the scientists and
communities.
158 J. Ramisch

Generating and using data

Although the FEI addressed a wide range of soil fertility-related concepts and tech-
nologies (Table 9.2), for simplicity the following sections focus on the project's work
with legume-cereal rotations, which involved both collective demonstrations and
individual experiments.+ The legume—cereal work was one of the more complex and
long-running elements of the FEI, and became well known in the region and with
Kenyan (and Kenya-based) soil scientists. These activities were based on the logic that
testing an array of legumes under a range of management regimes would allow
farmers to select the most appropriate one(s) for various soil, climate and cropping
conditions. The attraction of legumes rests on their multiple potential uses (for food
and fodder, biomass incorporation and nitrogen fixation). These potential multiple
benefits imply reduced costs for investment in soil fertility, soil structure improvement
and erosion control, income generation through marketing and seed production, and
the disruption of crop pest and disease cycles (Misiko et al 2008). Western Kenyan
farming systems already make use of legumes such as common bean (Phaseolus vulgaris),
typically intercropped with maize or other cereals. Other legumes that have been
promoted in the region include soybean (Glycine max) and the inedible cover crop
mucuna (Mucuna pruriens).
The legume—cereal rotation demonstrations were designed to illustrate two different,
new technologies that TSBF-CIAT researchers felt would be useful for improving
soil fertility in western Kenya: (i) the potential of legumes (soybean and mucuna, as
well as locally known crops such as groundnut) for improving crop yields when
grown in rotation with staple cereal crops; and-(ii) the optimal use of mineral fertilisers in
legume-—cereal rotations. While the demonstration approach was considered ideal
for showcasing known legume technologies to farmers, since the actual performance
of these technologies’ under different farm-level circumstances was unknown, an
experimental element was unavoidable (Ramisch 2011).

Legume-cereal rotation: collective experimentation

The legume-—cereal rotation component of the FEI began with collectively managed
demonstrations in each participating community, initiated in the first season (the
March—July ‘long rains’) of 2003. Almost immediately thereafter, individual house-
holds began their own experiments, inspired by or adapted from these collectively
managed sites.
In each site, the demonstration trials were hosted by farmers whom their groups
had identified as popular, well integrated into their communities, and having easily
accessible farms representative of local soil types and history of cultivation (e.g. culti-
vated continually for 20-50 years). As scientists, we had hoped the groups would
select sites to demonstrate the new technologies where the soils at least represented
the (low) fertility norm in each community. It turned out, however, that many of the
participating communities had deliberately selected their most extreme, ‘problem
soils’ (Kiswahili: udongo tatanishi), such as fields that were infested with Striga or were
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 159

heavily depleted by decades of continuous cultivation. This might have been because,
in this densely settled and intensely cultivated region, these were the only parcels
available (at least for free, since the project did not pay to use the land). However,
later investigation revealed a local logic that was widespread but initially covert: if
potential solutions could be found for such challenging sites, then the new technologies
would have proven their ability to solve problems of agricultural productivity on
other, less difficult plots (Misiko et al 2011: 30).
Figure 9.2 summarises the design of the legume—cereal rotation trials, which followed
the same model at every site. The legume crops tested were planted and fertilised in the
‘long rains’ of each year. A maize—bean intercrop followed in the second season (the
‘short rains’). The design was kept simple so that all four (fertiliser) treatments for a
given test legume could be compared on 6 X 6 m contiguous plots. While the pattern of
the four cells (no inorganic inputs, N alone, P alone, N+P) was constant across legumes
and between sites, the rates of fertiliser application varied depending on the soil fertility
status and agronomic recommendation for each site. The phosphorus (triple super-
phosphate, TSP) treatments were all on the same (down-slope) side of the path as
one walked into the trial. The nitrogen (urea) treatments (alone or with phosphorus)
were also always opposite each other on either side of the path for easy comparison.
In every site, the first two legumes were the unfamiliar soybean and mucuna, followed
by a local legume chosen by the farmer group (e.g. groundnut, yellow gram, green gram
or cowpea). The final treatment block was always intercropped maize and common beans,
essentially a ‘control’ treatment equivalent to the standard practice of continuous planting
of the region’s staple crops in both long and short rains.
While the compact, simple, unreplicated design was at the request of the participating
farmers, the decision to put all the phosphorus treatments on the same side reflected the

Maize &
Soybean Mucuna Groundnut *
common bean

FIGURE 9.2 Layout of the legume-cereal rotation demonstration trial, Butula site,
2004. The legume treatments were planted in the long rain season (see
also Figure 9.3a). All sixteen plots were planted with intercropped maize
and common beans during the short rain season (Figure 9.3b). Fertiliser
treatments were applied at planting in the long rain season: 0, no inputs;
N, 45 kg urea ha-!; P, 50 kg TSP ha-'; NP, 45 kg urea and 50 TSP Hany
*Groundnut was selected by farmer groups as a locally-favoured legume.
160 J. Ramisch

FIGURE 9.3 Phosphorus responses of the legume-—cereal rotation demonstration trial,

Butula site, 2004. (a) Long rains: legume treatments, June 2004; (b) short
rains: maize—beans only, October 2004.

scientists’ desire to call attention to the fact that soils in the region are quite
phosphorus-depleted. The scientists’ arguments in favour of phosphorus application
(on legumes as well as on the staple crops) were thus bolstered by the dramatic
impacts of phosphorus fertilisation visible in both the legume and cereal phases of the
rotation (Figure 9.3a and b).
However, it should be noted that farmers drew their own, quite different conclusions
about fertilisation from these trials. Although the impacts of phosphorus were noted
in the PM&E at crop emergence, and continued through flowering and crop
maturation, since legumes were being promoted to farmers as a means of improving
soil fertility, a common reaction was that ‘a fertiliser should not itself have to be fer-
tilised!’. Indeed, in the sites where the farmer groups had selected groundnuts as their
third test legume, the fact that the groundnut (unlike the other legumes or the
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 161

maize—bean ‘control’ plots) did not respond strongly to phosphorus was taken as a
very encouraging sign. “This is a crop we know very well and can now see is a good
one, even under low fertility conditions’, a farmer observed in Chakol.

Interpreting the trials: dealing with data

In contrast to a researcher-managed experiment, the demonstration trial plots did not
have randomised treatments or replications. The main reason for not including replications
was an effort to maintain what farmers and researchers alike considered a clean and easy-
to-follow design, a style of demonstration found elsewhere in the region where land
is scarce (Mukhwana and Odera 2006). Plots were not randomised for a similar reason, to
ensure that all the plots of a legume under different fertiliser treatments could be easily
seen and compared side-by-side, rather than scattered within the trial. This was not just
the research team’s version of a simplified, watered-down or farmer-friendly science
(cf. Thrupp 1989), but a layout that was discussed with the participating communities
and corresponded to what appeared to be the experimental style typical of the study
areas (e.g. unreplicated trials of new treatments immediately beside existing, known
practices) (Sumberg and Okali 1997). In the words of the farmers, ‘too many plots’
(or multiple plots that showed the same treatments) were confusing at best and was-
teful of scarce inputs and land at worst. As we were told at a group meeting in
Emuhaya, this demonstration was seen as similar to the science experiments that one
" might conduct at school, ‘If these are things that have been proven after decades of
research, it is better that we use our little land to demonstrate and learn as many of
them as possible.’
One consequence of maximising the number of treatments was that any extra-
polation of crop performance from 6 X 6 m plots was very sensitive to error. For
example, during the 2004 short rain season, the yield of maize on the 16 plots of the
Butula demonstration site (Figure 9.3b) averaged 1.87 kg but ranged from 0.14 to
5.12 kg. To facilitate comparison with performance elsewhere, we would regularly
convert these results into yields per hectare, making each 1 kg of biomass or grain
yield on the sampled area of the treatment plot (once buffers were excluded this was
22.5 m*) equal to 444 kg ha'. However, given the small sizes of most farms in the
study sites (see Table 9.1), the largest stand of any given crop is often on the order of
20-30 x 30-50 m, so farmers were not comfortable with thinking in terms of full
hectares. Instead, farmers typically assessed their crop production volumetrically,
either in ‘2 kg’ cooking oil containers called gorogoro or in the bags that would hold
90 kg of shelled maize, and usually for an entire farm season (‘last long rains I had 10 bags
of maize’) rather than at the level of an individual field’s productivity.
This meant that PM&E of the demonstration trials was conducted in largely sub-
jective terms. The growth characteristics (such as the colour and number of leaves or
flowers, plant height or bushiness, number of pods or cobs, etc.) were assessed
throughout the season by farmers in weekly group meetings that coincided with
weeding or other field tasks (Ramisch et al 2007). Monthly discussions were also organised
with the FEI scientific team, which reviewed the concepts behind the demonstration,
162 |. Ramisch

FIGURE 9.4 Harvesting a demonstration trial, Emuhaya site, August 2002. (a) Group
members count plants in a treatment plot before harvesting; (b) husked
maize cobs ready for inspection and weighing.

and whether, how or why those concepts could explain the observed differences in
plot performance. Even at harvest, farmers were comparing relatively modest numbers of
cobs (Figure 9.4), looking not just at their overall (fresh) weight, but also the size of
kernels and the number of rows per cob as indicators of plant vigour.
The use of these local logics for evaluating ‘good’ results at different points in the
growing season proved much more robust than relying solely on the researchers’ criteria
(Ramisch et al 2007). This is certainly what has been observed elsewhere with more
standard ‘mother—baby’ trials (Snapp et al 2002). While the FEI scientists expected
the demonstrations would show tangible effects of mineral P fertiliser (in particular) on
legume productivity, the PM&E activities revealed that farmers were not always impres-
sed by these effects. Rather, they commented on the continuing and visible importance of
constraints other than soil fertility (e.g. crop diseases like maize streak virus, erratic rainfall
and Sfriga infestation), which were also beyond the control ofeither farmers or researchers.
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 163

Without replication or randomisation, the impacts of localised phenomena on crop

performance could be amplified in ways that were hard to quantify. While occa-
sionally yields were positively enhanced by ‘hotspots’ of increased fertility (e.g. from
charcoal burning, tree stump clearance, termite mounds or, in one case in Muyafwa
in 2003 where cleared weeds had been heaped and burnt on the plots that were meant
to be the ‘control’), most often the effects were negative. Both the number of plants
and their vigour (and ultimate grain or biomass yields) could be undermined by factors
such as late and uneven germination (discussed below), seeds being eaten by chickens or
wild animals, erosion, hailstones, Striga infestation, or attack by crop pests and dis-
eases. Farmers unfamiliar with row planting also often found it difficult (at least at
first) to maintain even spacing within rows (e.g. between 17 and 25 holes in a maize
planting that should have been 20 holes per row), an error which was not always easily
corrected at thinning or weeding given the other sources of potential plant losses
mentioned above.
Many of the expected treatment effects were simply overshadowed by this variability,
or difficult to discern and often ‘taken on faith’ pending future seasons’ results. The
harvest data presented in Table 9.3, from the legume treatment phase grown in
Butula during the 2004 long rains (the same plots as in Figures 9.2 and 9.3a), show
that the expected pattern of NP > P > N > ‘no inputs’ is evident only for the grain
yields of the continuous maize—bean plots and for the fresh biomass yields of soy-
beans. For mucuna and groundnuts, the urea-treated plots appeared to have lower
yields of biomass and grain than the neighbouring input-free and TSP-only plots.
Interpretation of the legume plots was often compromised by the major and unpre-
dictable variation in the numbers of plants surviving until harvest, particularly in the
‘plots where N and P had been combined.
Although the Butula site had been continuously cultivated for 50 years, its conditions
and crop performance were not unique. While the high levels of variability, the lack
of replication and the difficulty in extrapolating larger-scale performance from a few
kilograms of seed or a handful of cobs meant that the research team often left the sites
feeling that their technologies were not actually being ‘demonstrated’, the farmers
had more tools at their disposal for interpreting performance. The legume treatment
performance in the long rains, and particularly the cereal response in the short rains,
were compared with memories of both previous crop (and weed!) yields in the same
sites and of equivalent crop stands on local farms. This type of intuitive covariance
analysis (Sumberg and Okali 1997: 100) eventually formed the basis for the emerging
‘dynamic expertise’ of the FEI collaborators through the accumulated experience of
multiple seasons of collective experimentation. Indeed, the data from these multi-year
trials were eventually even accepted for publication in agronomic journals (e.g. Misiko
et al 2008, 2011).The experience of difficult-to-explain variability on the collective sites
convinced most FEI participants of the need to repeat the trials either collectively, or
modified as individual experiments, to see whether the technology would work
under different conditions and also whether over time it would visibly improve the
soil or crop performance (particularly on the very degraded sites like those in Butula
or Emuhaya).
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 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 165

Interpreting the trials: scientists as ‘not very good farmers’

While some literature on farmer-managed experiments suggests that farmers will
‘assist’ poorly performing control (or other) plots by secretly fertilising or otherwise
tending them, this was not something we observed. Farmers were, however, embarrassed
by, or openly critical of, plots with technologies that appeared not to deliver the
promused benefits. Echoing our research team’s own language of ‘validated technologies’
or ‘best bet options’, farmers in Emuhaya told us, ‘We are counting on you to bring
us new, good things that you have seen elsewhere and that can make a difference for
us here.’ This assumption that all the treatments on display in the demonstrations —
including the miserable performance of unfertilised control treatments — were ‘good
things’ inherently worth using had some participants trying to rationalise the outcomes,
but left many others initially disappointed with the project (Ramisch 2011):

When I saw those stems without any cobs, looking so dry, I thought: if [you, the]
researchers can’t grow maize here — ayi! — what can we do. We were counting
on the project for help but even me I can grow better looking maize than that.
(Female farmer, Emuhaya 2003)

A more persistent and problematic reason why many farmers (especially those not
participating in the FEI) were disappointed by the performance of the demonstrations
related to logistical challenges of jointly managed, participatory research. Because of
the group-centred approach, all decisions about land preparation and planting required
consultation within the groups, and between groups and the scientific team. Mobile
telephony (which became widely available even in rural Kenya over the lifetime of the
project) greatly assisted in communication, but nevertheless any gathering of community
members (to work on the collective plots or to visit them for PM&E) required substantial
coordination. Add to this the need for a relatively small project staff to requisition
vehicles and drivers from the regional office, to coordinate activities in four (and later six)
sites that were as far as 150 km apart, and the institutional bureaucracy of deploying
finances to purchase seed or the necessary inputs, and it was little wonder that the
demonstration trials were regularly planted several weeks later than the communities
(or scientists) considered to be ideal. Frustrations with the late planting (and in several
seasons the poor-quality seed that had been acquired by the project team) were
always met with vows to do better next time, but were systematically hard to overcome.

Individual experiments: creative complexity

The Kiswahili term for ‘experiments’ (majaribio) means ‘things that are tried’. The
collectively managed ‘demonstrations’ were referred to typically as majaribio ya kuelimisha,
‘things that are tried for purposes of teaching’, a special case of the general category of
‘things that are tried’. The contrast between this Kiswahili terminology (which was
jointly agreed between farmers and researchers) and the English word ‘demonstration’
is important. In English, we were merely showing farmers a range of previously
166 J. Ramisch

validated technologies (often referred to within TSBF—CIAT project documents as a

‘basket of options’) with the objective that farmers would choose the most appealing
ones. The Kiswahili term belies a deeper level of trying (kujaribu) and therefore con-
tingent experimentation. As noted above, these technologies had yet to prove themselves
in the local context, and for most participants the collectively managed demonstrations
were the first opportunity to see legume-—cereal rotations in operation.
However, the process nature of how the experiments were being evaluated can be
seen in the shift in group behaviour over the life of the FEI. By 2006, the farmer groups
in most sites were combining their routine PM&E visits to the collective demon-
strations with visits to experiments that individuals were conducting on their own farms.
By the end of the FEI project-in 2008, the collective demonstrations still retained the
symbolic and instructional roles discussed earlier but the centre of attention had very
clearly shifted toward assessing the viability and utility of the technologies on offer in
a broader range of ‘real-life’ contexts over multiple seasons.
These individual experiments played a number of different roles (explored in
more depth by Ramisch et al 2007 and Ramisch 2011): (i) ‘validating’ what had
been seen on the collective site, as would be expected from the ‘mother—baby’ model
(Snapp et al 2002); (i) adapting the technology or concept more comprehensively for
use; (iii) exploring new or alternate uses for the technology; and (iv) a more ritualistic
use of the technology to symbolically reaffirm ‘participation’ in the research project.
These individual experimental sites also had the virtue of effectively showcasing the
performance of the currently most favoured technologies (e.g. the growing popularity
of soybean 2006-08), whereas the demonstration sites retained the role of testing and
promoting additional new and unfamiliar technologies.

Adapting and innovating with technologies

In a 2006 study, the vast majority of farmer experiments (186 of 201; 93 per cent) were
adaptations or new uses of the concepts and technologies from the collective demon-
strations (Misiko 2009: 410). For example, the temporal, ‘rotation’ element of the legume—
cereal trials was modified to test spatial, ‘intercropping’ combinations of the crops.
Farmers who had appreciated the benefits of inorganic fertilisers observed that it was
more economic to purchase diammonium phosphate (DAP), which combines N and P
(18:46:0), than to use urea and the harder-to-locate TSP that the collective demon-
stration had featured to show the distinct impacts of the nutrients. Finally, many
farmers had observed that the new legumes appeared to suppress Striga germination
on the collective sites, and they developed individual experiments to test this
hypothesis.
Figure 9.5 shows the layout of one household’s adaptation of the legume—cereal
rotation concept in Muyafwa in 2004, the year following the first demonstration. The
farmer explained her design as simultaneously testing the following ideas:

Would soybean suppress Striga? She noted some Striga germinating and dying
before flowering in the soybean plot in the long rains season. Striga infestation of
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 167

the maize—bean crop in the short rains appeared to be milder than in 2003, but not
reduced by the 75 per cent that had been her target for success.
Could maize and soybean be intercropped? She tried one row of maize planted
between three rows of soybean in both seasons of 2004, and found that maize grew
without too much competition from the soybean, which also yielded well. In
2005, she and other farmers in the study sites tested two rows maize to two rows of
legume, which was promoted by an NGO in the region as the mbili (Kiswahili for
‘two’) system (Tungani et al 2002).
Does DAP improve the performance of maize? In comparison with previous
years, the answer appeared to be yes, although the incorporation of soybean residue
after the first season harvest was considered to be a contributing factor. For financial
reasons, the household did not apply DAP in 2005.
Is it better to plant the maize rotation in the more reliable, long rains (this is
the normal, local practice) or in the short rains (as had been the case on the
demonstration trial)? The harvest of maize after the short rains was noticeably
higher than it had been in 2003 (she attributed this to the effects of DAP, soybean,
and reduced Striga) but less that the yield after the 2003 long rains, which suggested
to her that maize is best grown in the longer season.

This experiment (and others like it) stimulated a lot of discussion about inter-
cropping versus rotation, about the appropriate timing of a legume in a rotation, and
“about Striga suppression. Farmers made comparisons and drew parallels with their
own farms or experiments using only crude quantification. Unlike the demonstration
trials, which included a ‘control’ that was supposed to represent the local farmer

Long rains (Mar-July), 2004 Short rains (Oct-Dec), 2004

Maize + beans 3 rows Soybean

(planted in same hole) 1 line of Maize + beans
+ DAP + DAP

3 rows Soybean Maize + beans

1 line of Maize + beans (planted in same hole)
+ DAP + DAP

FIGURE 9.5 Layout of a Muyafwa household’s individual experiment in the long and
short rain seasons of 2004. Both plots (above and below the terrace bund)
were roughly 10 m long and 35 m wide. The lower plot was heavily infested
with Striga hermonthica. DAP = diammonium phosphate (18:46:0) fertiliser
applied at planting.
168 J. Ramisch

practice, individual experiments only tested the new technologies or concepts and
compared their performance against either remembered yields on the same plot in
previous season or the crop performance on surrounding farms. As one farmer in Chakol
put it, ‘ ... we know control; simply look around if you wish to know the poor plant
growth we are trying to reverse’.
The scientific team did its best to follow these individual trials but, as the designs and
data collection (if any) did not follow a uniform protocol, this documentation was largely
anecdotal. This meant that they were difficult to draw statistical conclusions from to aid
the individual farmers or their groups, and even more difficult to publish. Describing a
similar situation of diverse, farmer-run experiments, an agronomist working in the Kenya
Agricultural Research Institute (KARI) commented, ‘If I can’t show it at headquarters
[because of its non-standard design and lack of quantification], then it doesn’t exist.’

Challenges and implications of the FEI experience

The FEI spent over eight years working to foster a ‘dynamic expertise’ of soil fertility
management that incorporated both scientists’ and local farmers’ knowledge and
experience. It did so during the same time period that FFS were promoted by KARI
as the favoured model for technology development and promotion throughout Kenya
(Bunyatta et al 2006). As a project of an international agricultural research centre within
the CGIAR, the FEI addressed the participation imperative of the time (Ashby et al
2000), and was regularly presented as evidence that soil management could be an
entry point for participatory research on natural resource issues (e.g. CIAT 2005: 16).
However, as this chapter shows, both participation and research elements of the
participatory research had their ambiguities and challenges. While personally and
professionally satisfying to the FEI’s team (scientists and farmers alike), in terms of
broader impact the number of farmers influenced was relatively modest: growing
from roughly 200 participants in 2001 to no more than 2500 in 2008. Group-based
participatory research is not meant to be a substitute for extension (Davis 2006), but
in the absence of a functional national extension service, and with the proliferation of
KARI- or NGO-run field schools to both test and promote innovations (Duveskog
et al 2003), it was easy for critics to fault the FEI as an expensive way to interact with
a small number of communities.
At the same time, despite the groups’ language of ‘churches’ and the ritualised
practices, there was enough evidence of both a ‘dynamic expertise’ of soil fertility
management and experimentation and a social cohesion to sustain the groups’ activ-
ities after the project’s end (FEI 2009; Misiko 2009). In other words, the groups were
not simply mechanically repeating elements of an outsiders’ curriculum (Braun et al
2006; Isubikalu 2007) nor strategically parroting the project’s attitudes in the hopes of
further patronage (Misiko 2007).
Indeed, the processes of collective and individual experimentation, PM&E and
dialogue within the FEI helped both farmers and scientists to adapt their ‘normal’
experimentation and learning styles towards shared language and practice (Table 9.4).
This ‘dynamic expertise’ relied heavily on site- and season-specific observation and
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170 J. Ramisch

explanation, and the accumulation of (at least partially quantified?) memories of pre-
vious seasons’ results. In the case of farmers’ experiments, these were not rehearsals
for future practice — rather, they were being lived in real time and played out with
the resources that could actually be managed that season. The FEI’s collective
experiments became similar, real-time performances that were tied to the seasons and
circumstances of each site, with all the messiness of data and interpretation that that
entailed (Ramisch 2011). Farmers made decisions to use or reject technologies and
concepts that the scientific team often felt were ‘hasty’, based on very partial or
interim results. But even the FEI’s more formal interpretations of the collective trials
often relied heavily on contextual explanations (e.g. of rotation effects or the impacts
of burning or late planting) that farmers did not always find convincing.
In the end, neither participation nor soil science emerged from the FEI unaltered.
The social research findings continue to bear fruitful investigation, for example
relating to the dynamics of participation (Misiko 2010) or experimentation as per-
formance (Ramisch 2011). Elements of the FEI’s approach — such as its diagnostic
(Chianu et al 2006) and consultative processes (Tittonell et al 2005) — were even
applied by non-social scientists within TSBF—-CIAT as part of efforts to build
‘dynamic expertise’ in collaboration with other communities. However, the most
cited papers emerging from the FEI remain rather utilitarian ones about using local
indicators of soil fertility status (Barrios et al 2006; Mairura et al 2007, 2008) rather
than those that discuss the challenge of applying soil scientific procedures to respond
to farmers’ priorities (e.g. Misiko et al 2008; Misiko 2009). As this chapter shows, the
challenge for participatory research projects is not only learning how to listen to
farmers, or to learn how to farm (or experiment) like them, but to be able to respond
effectively with relevant technologies, inputs and advice. Farmers in the study sites
effectively used the rituals of the participatory approach to sustain elements of the FEI
and its technology generation process that they believed were worthwhile. The
research team, and perhaps even the host institute, were humbled by the difficulty of
keeping pace with the enthusiasm of that local participation.

Notes
1 Of course, this is too narrow a metric to explain technology choices. Critics will point
out that it is more likely that farmers do not adopt technologies because they are wise,
not because they are ignorant (Asiabaka 2002).
2 The culture of deference to extension agents (greeted in Swahili as Bwana Officer) is often
deeply entrenched, even among younger farmers who did not necessarily live through
the colonial or state-run T&V eras (Oniang’o 2002). Active facilitation efforts are needed to
transcend such deferential attitudes, but such efforts are easily undermined if the curriculum
or the topics identified require long periods of exposition and demonstration of ‘education’
by outsiders.
3 Partners included African Highlands Initiative (AHI), the Kenyan Agricultural and For-
estry Research Institutes (KARI, KEFRI), Ministry of Agriculture (MoA), and local
NGOs such as the Appropriate Rural Development Agricultural Programme (ARDAP),
Kenya Agricultural Productivity Project (KAPP), Farm Inputs Promotion Services (FIPS),
World Neighbours, and the Sustainable Community Based Input Credit Scheme
(SCOBICS).
 Social and agronomic challenges of knowledge generation 171

4 For analysis of local knowledge and attitudes towards soil nutrients and inorganic fertilisers,
see Misiko et al (2011). For discussion of the local logic of organic resource use, see
Ramisch et al (2007) and Misiko (2007: ch 4). For discussion of participatory research
and soybean screening in the FEI sites, see Misiko et al (2008)

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 10
CONTESTING AGRONOMY
THROUGH DISSENT
Experiences from India

C. Shambu Prasad, T.M. Thiyagarjan, O.P. Rupela,

Amod Thakur and G.V. Ramanjaneyulu

Introduction

This chapter reflects on current agronomic controversies in India by exploring debates

around two agroecological innovations — the System of Rice Intensification (SRI) and
~ Non-Pesticidal Management (NPM). We present these innovations as sites of contestation
and focus on the practices and contributions of a group that we refer to as ‘dissenting
agronomists’ (Shambu Prasad 2009a, 2009b, 2011; Quartz 2010). Specifically, we
reflect on our own experiences as agricultural scientists who have been active in research
on and promotion of these innovations. We argue that important insights into the
contribution of agronomic research to sustainability and development objectives can
emerge from the study of dissenting agronomists. Of particular interest is their position
at the boundaries of the discipline, which means frequent work and collaboration
with farmers, civil society organisations, natural and social scientists, and networks
outside formal research organisations. Further, we argue that the study of agricultural
science ‘at the margins’, and the dissent that is integral to it, can add significant new
insights to our understanding of dynamics of contestation within agronomy.
In the next part of this chapter, we explore the changing context of agricultural
science in India through the recent contestation around Bt Brinjal. Following this, we
describe the research pathways of four dissenting agronomists (who are also co-authors of
this chapter) and their roles vis-a-vis the development and promotion of SRI and
NPM. The chapter ends with a brief conclusion arguing that an understanding of
dissent must be a central element of the contested agronomy research agenda.

The new context of agricultural science in India

2010 was a year of opening up of debates about Indian agriculture. The decision by
the Minister of Environment and Forests, Jairam Ramesh, to declare a moratorium
176 C. Shambu Prasad et al

on further trials of Bt Brinjal (eggplant, Solanum melongena) after a series of widely

attended and contested public meetings was unprecedented. The Indian scientific
establishment was largely in favour of continuing with the field trials, a position
supported (and funded) by private sector organisations and the government’s
Department of Biotechnology. On the other side were farmers’ groups, civil society
organisations, and a few sceptical scientists who orchestrated a public outcry over
extending genetic engineering to food crops, successfully labelling Bt Brinjal a ‘risk
technology’ and calling for the application of the precautionary principle. Explaining
the rationale of a decision that he said was ‘both responsive to science and responsible
to society’, Ramesh quoted extensively from the views of the various state govern-
ments. In an important subtext of relevance to this chapter, he also suggested that
there could be other ways of reducing the use of pesticides while simultaneously
meeting food security objectives. He specifically referred to the spread of NPM to
over 600,000 farmers and 2 million acres in the state of Andhra Pradesh (Andhra
Pradesh), but fell short of suggesting that this was a successful agroecological method
of pest control. !
The decision was met with resistance from researchers, the genetic engineering
lobby, and the Ministry of Agriculture and Ministry of Science and Technology.
In response, the Department of Biotechnology introduced the Biotechnology
Regulatory Authority (BRAI) Bill that would empower the government to fine or
imprison people protesting against genetic engineering. The draft bill was critiqued
for being unconstitutional and unethical (Bhargava 2011).
Following this, Ramesh urged the Indian science academies to undertake a com-
prehensive review of the Bt Brinjal question. In the event, the review panel refused
to consider evidence provided by civil society groups and rejected an offer of dialogue.
The report that carried the names of the top six academies was released. in September
2010 and recommended limited release of Bt Brinjal. Citizens’ groups pointed out
that the report not only revealed conflicts of interest, but also breached accepted
ethical standards by plagiarising substantial extracts from a newsletter supportive of
genetic engineering. The report has since been criticised for not being a thorough
‘scrutiny of science’* and for neither presenting new evidence nor providing a useful
synthesis of existing evidence.
We are not interested in judging the merits or otherwise of genetic engineering in
general, or of Bt Brinjal in particular. Rather, the Bt Brinjal case simply helps contextualise
the present-day dynamics of agricultural research and technolegy promotion in India.
On one hand, this context is characterised by a dominant view within the scientific
establishment that favours pathways that are in line with national and international
corporate interests, leaving little space for consideration of alternatives. For example,
genetic engineering is projected as the only way to meet food security objectives, and
there is resistance to any suggestion that society at large should have an opportunity
to debate these questions openly. On the other hand, there is increasing push-back from
civil society groups, who are demanding a say on key science and technology issues.
While the crisis in agriculture has received a fair amount of media attention, the response
of the Indian agricultural establishment has not been sufficiently discussed or critiqued.
 Experiences from India 177

With one of the largest agricultural research systems in the world, Indian research
suffers from stifling hierarchy, over-specialisation and isolation. India has over 40
specialised crop, horticulture and livestock research centres and directorates, which
labour under a culture that discourages interdisciplinary research and engagement with
actors outside the R&D system.> As a result there are few formal spaces for discussion
of different models of research. It is ironic that, while the country has been divided
into several agroecological zones, agroecology as a field has no presence or profile
within the research establishment.
It is within this context that current research on SRI and NPM in India needs to
be situated. Despite the over-specialisation and isolation of the Indian agricultural
research establishment, the diverse contexts of its local operations allow for some
surprises. In the Indian research system, plant breeders have always had pride of place,
but the fact that plant breeding is not central to either SRI or NPM challenged the
established hierarchy of knowledge and opened new spaces for other disciplines to
take a leading role in their development. In what follows, we explore two examples
where dissenting agronomists have gone out of their way to carry out unconventional
research and, in so doing, engaged effectively with broader debates.

Research pathways

. Dissenting agronomists
Two of the authors of this chapter, Thakur and Thiyagrajan (referred to as T.M.T.
henceforth), have conducted research on SRI. T.M.T. was the first researcher from
India to become involved with SRI, and one of the first internationally as well.
His association with rice and SRI has been captured in his autobiographical essay
‘My destiny, my profession’ (Thiyagarajan 2010).* Thakur continues to work within
an Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR) centre, while T.M.T. is retired
from Tamil Nadu Agricultural University (Tamil Nadu AU). Two of the other
authors, Rupela and Ramanjaneyulu (referred to as Ramoo henceforth) have worked
primarily with NPM, but have also had some involvement with SRI. Rupela is
retired from ICRISAT (an India-based CGIAR centre) but remains active in pro-
moting low-cost, bio-intensive agriculture relevant to smallholder farmers (referred
to as organic farming henceforth). Along with others, he has been actively involved
in shaping the NPM work in Andhra Pradesh. Ramoo previously worked for
the ICAR and now leads a civil society organisation, the Centre for Sustainable
Agriculture (CSA).
While Thakur, T.M.T., Rupela and Ramoo consider themselves to be agronomists,
they came to agronomic research via different routes. Thakur was trained as a plant
physiologist and did not do any work on rice before joining the Directorate of Water
Development, an ICAR research centre at Bhubaneswar (Orissa). T.M.T. is a soil
scientist but had only an indirect connection with agronomy in his MSc and PhD
work; Rupela is a soil microbiologist; and Ramoo did his PhD on agricultural
extension. Curiosity rather than disciplinary background shaped our later research
178 CC. Shambu Prasad et al

interests: curiosity about fertiliser wastage in irrigated rice (IT.M.T.); about fruit and
plant growth (Thakur); about microorganisms and their interaction with fertilisers and
pesticides (Rupela); and about the gap between research and farming during the
Rural Agricultural Work Experience Programme (Ramoo). Except in the cases of
Ramoo and T.M.T., the institutional contexts within which we worked did not
encourage learning from farmers. We have all used unconventional modes of outreach to
circumvent lack of interest in our work on the part of our colleagues within the
research establishment.

The System of Rice Intensification

SRI is a methodology for increasing the productivity of irrigated rice by changing the
management of the plants, soil, water and nutrients. SRI involves careful planting of
young single seedlings (8-12 days old) at a wide spacing (25 cm or more), keeping
the soil moist but well drained and well aerated and adding as much compost or
other organic material to the soil as possible. Proponents claim that, together, these
principles produce ‘more with less’ due to synergistic effects of plant-soil interactions,
and that SRI can make a significant contribution to food security (Guya and Thiyagarajan
2009). SRI is being promoted or is in use in over 40 countries, with reported benefits
including increased yield (50-100 per cent or more), a reduction in seed requirements
(up to 90 per cent) and water savings (50 per cent or more). Many SRI users also
report a reduction in pests, diseases, grain shattering, unfilled grains and lodging.
Promoters such as the SRI International Network and Resources Center suggest that
SRI also delivers a whole range of environmental benefits, including reduced use of
agricultural chemicals and water, and lower methane emissions.
Observing a serious water crisis in the state of Tamil Nadu, T.M.T. believed that
the unconventional approach to water management that is central to SRI deserved to
be researched. As Director of Soil and Crop Management, he was able to pursue this
and proceeded to create a ‘research ecosystem’ around SRI. Specifically, he engaged
MSc students, conceiving of their research as an integrated series of sub-projects on
soil science, agronomy, crop physiology and microbiology, and actively linking them
to the nascent international SRI community. T.M.T. was the only Indian scientist at
the first international SRI conference in Sanya, China in 2002. He presented some
initial findings at the annual meeting of rice scientists in his university in 2001, and
followed up after the Sanya conference with large-scale adaptive research trials. SRI
had begun to attract the attention of others, including policy-makers and senior
research administrators, and by 2004 SRI was integrated into the policy of the Tamil
Nadu state government. We estimate that approximately 50 researchers in India have
worked on SRI, 20 of whom have worked on it consistently.
It is important to note that T.M.T. chose to work initially on creating a
research ecosystem by linking with diverse actors — students, researchers in other
disciplines, university administrators, policy-makers and farmers — rather than focus
on journal publications alone. Email communications, policy notes and field visits
by policy-makers were all used to create awareness and knowledge about SRI.
 Experiences from India 179

Through this approach, T.M.T. was ultimately successful in attracting funds for a
series of adaptive research trials across the state (there were over 100 such trials
in 2004).
Similarly to many others working on or interested in SRI, T.M.T. was one of the
members of a growing international SRI network. T.M.T.’s colleague during a visit
to Sn Lanka in 2002 was Dr Alapati Satyanarayana, then Director of Extension at the
Acharya NG Ranga Agricultural University (ANGRAU) in the neighbouring state of
Andhra Pradesh. This introduction to SRI debates led Satyanarayana to extend it to
all of Andhra Pradesh’s 23 districts in 2003, and gave rise to an extension-led research
movement in the state. Satyanarayana contributed to the ‘Rice Wars’ controversy in
2004, and was one of the respondents to the debate in Nature (Shambu Prasad 2006,
2008). However, SRI has not taken off in Andhra Pradesh as it has in Tamil Nadu
(Shambu Prasad 2009c). Part of the reason for this is continued resistance on the part
of university researchers at ANGRAU, but there are also important ecological dif-
ferences between the two states. There was a decline in research interest and pub-
lications on SRI from ANGRAU following Satyanarayana’s retirement.
It was the Rice Wars controversy that attracted Thakur’s attention. Thakur first
heard of SRI in 2003, a few years after he completed his PhD at IARI. Although
his doctoral thesis had nothing to do with rice science or agronomy (it was on the
regulation of tomato fruit ripening and enhancement of shelf life), Thakur
first became interested in rice while working at an engineering-oriented ICAR
~ research centre in Bhubaneswar. The debates in Science (Surridge 2004) and Rice
Today between Norman Uphoff (2004) and Thomas Sinclair (2004), and journal
articles by Stoop et al (2002), Dobermann (2004) and Sheehy et al (2004), stirred his
interest in SRI. He was keen to experiment with a practice that promised such
impressive yield levels with few inputs. In January 2003, he performed a first pot
experiment on SRI, and a year later initiated a field trial experiment on planting
density. By 2005, trial results were showing the connections between planting density
and the optimal environment for canopy growth and light interception. He pursued
his research by experimenting with different varieties, water management systems and
so forth.
It was not until 2008 that Thakur met with other SRI researchers. The occasion
was a meeting of the SRI Learning Alliance at the Xavier Institute of Management,
Bhubaneswar. In the absence of any coordinated research on SRI, it was not
uncommon for papers presented at some national symposia to be repetitive, seeking
essentially to prove the worth of SRI and its components. In contrast, Thakur’s pre-
sentation was warmly received because he had worked systematically over several
seasons, albeit in isolation. Thakur met Uphoff for the first time at Bhubaneswar,
though they had already corresponded via email. Uphoff helped integrate Thakur into
the international SRI community. Several of his subsequent publications contributed
to the ongoing debates around SRI (Thakur 2010; Thakur et al 2010a, 2101b).
Some parts of the research community have been resistant to SRI because it challenges
long-established tenets of rice science. Sinclair (2004) argued that SRI results in poor
light interception because of low plant densities, and that the emphasis on organic
180 C. Shambu Prasad et al

nutrients to the exclusion of mineral fertiliser makes it difficult to supply sufficient

nutrients to achieve high yields. He also argued that the physiology and physics of
plant water use have been researched for more than 300 years, with the conclusion
that ‘ample water maximizes rice yields’. What constitutes ‘ample’ remains unspecified,
but since he defended the inundation of rice paddies, the implication is that keeping
them flooded is ideal. The practice of flooding may well be more productive than
simple rainfed rice production; however, little is known about the physiology of rice
when it is grown under conditions of low plant density and shallow irrigation with
alternate wetting and drying.
This scepticism has been countered by a small group of Indian researchers. Detailed
studies conducted by Thakur-et al (2010a, 2010b) showed that alterations in man-
agement practices can induce multiple, significant and positive changes in phenotype
from a given rice genotype. For example, the increase in yield with SRI when compared
with recommended management practices reached 42 per cent, and was associated
with various phenotypic changes such as longer panicles, more panicles, higher per-
centage of grain filling, increased productivity per plant, deeper and better distributed
root systems, higher xylem exudation rates, etc. Increased water productivity to the
extent of 96 per cent due to water-saving irrigation without detrimental effect on
grain yield has been reported by Thiyagarajan et al (2002). Ceesay et al (2006)
observed nearly three times higher grain yield with SRI (7.3 t ha!) compared with
continuous flooding (2.5 t ha~!). In Tamil Nadu, adaptive research trials (Rajendran
et al 2005; Thiyagarajan et al 2005) have established that lower plant density can
result in higher yields from several rice varieties. The merits of lower plant density
have been known in Tamil Nadu for about a century: Madan and Smith (1928) state
that 120,000 copies of a leaflet on ‘single seedling method of paddy cultivation’ were
distributed in the Madras Presidency.
The fact that SRI was dismissed by scientists from the International Rice Research
Institute (IRRI) (Sheehy et al 2004) made it ‘untouchable’ for many researchers in
India. Nevertheless, the research ecosystem in India around SRI has grown in the
past four to five years. After a lull in research following the retirement of T.M.T. and
Alapati Satyanarayana, a second-generation research community is emerging through
the work of a team at the Directorate of Water Development at Tamil Nadu AU and
at the Directorate of Rice Research (ORR). Suprisingly, the opportunities for these
researchers to meet and discuss SRI or agroecology have arisen largely through the
intervention of actors outside the formal research establishment.

Non-Pesticidal Management
NPM can be seen as sitting between integrated pest management (IPM), which allows
the use of pesticides (in principle as a last resort but in practice often more regularly),
and organic farming, which shuns both inorganic fertilisers and pesticides. NPM seeks
to shift crop pest management away from conventional chemical pesticides and towards
safer biological methods and biopesticides. Preventative pest management is empha-
sised through the use of deep summer ploughing, bonfires and pheromone traps (Vijay
 Experiences from India 181

Kumar et al 2009). The research trajectory of NPM has been quite different from
that of SRI. While the scientific controversy surrounding SRI pitted an international
research centre and some of its scientists against a dispersed community of scientists
and practitioners, for NPM, researchers from ICRISAT have been quietly collaborating
with national scientists and civil society organisations.
Over the past decades, international agricultural research centres such as ICRISAT
have seen their funding change from core to project-based. This change places the onus
on scientists to obtain their own funding, but it also gives them some scope to shape
the direction of research. Research that supports self-sufficiency of farmers and farming
communities often receives less support than that which provides marketing oppor-
tunities for agri-input companies. Rupela’s work on biopesticides at ICRISAT is an
example of this.
Unlike some of his colleagues, Rupela had difficulty raising research funds. Since
1999, his interest was in articulating the science behind the products and processes of
crop production used by organic farmers. He visited many organic farms and interacted
with a large number of practitioners through workshops and meetings with groups
like Prayog Parivar.? Rupela was convinced that many of the practices used by organic
farmers were scientifically sound, even though few researchers within the mainstream
system took them seriously. The Honey Bee grassroots innovation network was a
source of inspiration for him, and the large numbers of innovations it has identified
helped firm up his resolve. He embarked on a ten-year study on organic farming.
A small grant of Rs 100,000 ($2200) to study the microbiology of some bio-products
developed by the Society for Research and Initiatives for Sustainable Technologies and
Institutions (SRISTI), based on farmers’ innovations, helped convince the ICRISAT
management that there was a market for his approach. This enabled him to explore
further funding opportunities, with the outcome that he worked as a consultant for
several bio-products companies under the Biopesticides Research Consortium (BRC).
Rupela had to live with a dilemma. The outputs of the work he was doing under
the BRC, while potentially leading to quality products, would make farmers even more
dependent on markets. He was, however, also able to pursue research on the bio-
pesticidal properties of cattle dung and urine. The consortium helped shield him from
comments by peers about doing research on low-status objects like gobar (cow dung) and
peshab (urine). He also had difficulty in attracting funds that would allow him to validate
these practices using modern molecular biology tools. Scientists and farmers alike were
more attracted to new products than to traditional ones. ICRISAT management was
hoping its researchers would identify a super-functioning microorganism, rather than
be told that cow dung, in combination with other things, could promote nitrogen
fixing, provide P-solubilisers, promote plant growth and retard disease-causing fungi.
In addition to the work with the BRC, Rupela also conducted training programmes
on organic farming to raise funds and ensure greater visibility. He ran four such five-day
programmes from 2005 to 2007, each attracting 10-20 participants. The participants were
from ICAR, state agricultural departments, central agencies and NGOs. It was important
that the term ‘organic’ farming was avoided in any of the brochures or presentations.
Indeed it was successfully camouflaged as ‘low-cost bio-intensive farming’.
182 CC. Shambu Prasad et al

The research atmosphere at ICRISAT was more supportive of Rupela’s approach

than in the national agricultural research centres, where hierarchies are stronger. One
of his strategies was to use MSc student projects to address some of the research
questions (at least 20 between 1999 and 2007). A list of research questions was developed
along with planning for long-term experiments. These questions were continually
revised through interaction with visitors to the experiments and farm visits. Some of
this work has been published (Rupela et al 2003; Sriveni et al 2004; Hameeda et al
2006); however, much remains unpublished because the primary objective was to
answer as many questions as possible before Rupela retired.
The difficulty that Rupela had was not so much in getting the work published, but
the criticism of peers and seniors, who at times scoffed at the work the team was
doing (e.g. looking at the microbiology of cow dung, urine and related products
while everyone else was moving towards biotechnology and molecular biology).
At times, even getting students was difficult because they were willing to accept a
studentship only if the assigned topic involved hands-on use of molecular biology
tools. Faced with this negativity, he used daily meetings of research staff to maintain
the level of morale, and specifically to emphasise that through their work they were
helping smallholder farmers in poor countries.
Based largely on the collaboration between ICRISAT, national researchers and civil
society organisations, NPM went to scale through civil society organisations such as
the Centre for World Solidarity (CWS) and later the concerted efforts of CSA. From 2003,
CSA worked with its partners to establish ‘pesticide-free villages’ in Andhra Pradesh
and then worked through a strategic partnership with the Society for Elimination of
Rural Poverty (SERP) to upscale NPM to over 2 million acres. While NPM has been
recognised by policy-makers, including Jairam Ramesh (mentioned above), it has been
less controversial than SRI. Only recently was NPM officially recognised by the
Andhra Pradesh Agriculture Department, despite thousands of farmers practising it.
This paradox of a system that was ‘upscaled’ and accepted by a million farmers but not
‘mainstreamed’ was discussed at a workshop in March 2010. Discussions highlighted
the difficulty, even inability, of the agricultural system to accept innovations that emerge
outside the formal sector, especially when they came from farmers and civil society.

Conclusion

This chapter highlights the role of dissenting agronomists in the development of two
agroecological innovations. These dissenters have demonstrated that it is in working
across disciplinary boundaries and engaging with broad networks that agronomy and
farming practice can be reshaped. We have also shown that proactive engagement by
agronomists with civil society organisations and social scientists can help rework
some of the axioms of agronomic research, making it more relevant to current dis-
cussions on the increasing ecological footprint of agriculture and the need to have
a small-farmer focus. Rather than being mere ‘extension agents’ of a one-way transfer
of knowledge, they have enabled creative dissenters to better articulate their
own research questions, facilitate knowledge transfers within the innovation
 Experiences from India 183

system, and even challenge researchers with newer ideas that could lead to important
insights.
The examples of SRI and NPM demonstrate that, along with the broad-brush of
neoliberalism and the participation and environmental agendas (see Chapter 1 in this
volume), an understanding of the dynamics of contestation within agronomy requires
that detailed attention be given to knowledge conflicts and dialogues that take place
on farmers’ fields in India and elsewhere. Thus researchers interested in political
agronomy should seek scientific controversies, but not as journalists in search of the
latest scoop. Rather, they should draw from science studies and focus on the everyday
practice of agronomists, some of the most interesting of which take place at the very
periphery of the discipline.

Notes

1 Centre for Environment Education (CEE) and Ministry of Environment and Forests, National
Consultations on Bt Brinjal, Nehru Foundation for Development, Ahmedabad, 2010.
2 Shiv Visvanathan (2010) ‘Scrutiny of science’, The New Indian Express, 8 October, http://
[Link]/opinion/columnists/scrutiny-of-science/[Link]. The Report has
since been rejected, with the Scientific Advisor to the Prime Minister also embarrassed by
the whole plagiarism issue, suggesting that it does not augur well for science. See Pallava
Bagla (2010) ‘Plagiarized report presents new hurdle to GM eggplant in India’, http://
[Link]/scienceinsider/2010/09/[Link].
3 [Link]/node/325
4 We thank Sabarmatee for sharing with us the English translation of Willem Stoops’
address to the Dutch Social Science Association titled “From soil scientist to agronomist
to agricultural systems researcher’. This served as an inspiration for T.M.T. to write his
_ own story, ‘My destiny, my profession’.
5 For more on Prayog Parivar see [Link]

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17
SUCCESS-MAKING AND
SUCCESS STORIES
Agronomic research in the spotlight'

James Sumberg, Robin Irving, Elisabeth Adams and

John Thompson

Introduction

But the question is whether Africa has the technologies that can do this [allow
the 300 million Africans living on less than a dollar a day to produce food,
generate incomes, employment and higher savings]. The answer is a resounding yes.
The International Food Policy Research Institute (IFPRI) in its book Successes
in African Agriculture says Africa has developed technologies with transformative
potential for turning around the fight against hunger.*

Over the past decade or so there has been much interest in the gathering, analysis and
telling of ‘success stories’ about agriculture and agricultural development in sub-
Saharan Africa (SSA) (see special issue of International Journal ofAgricultural Sustainability
2011, 9(1); also Tiffen et al 1994; Snrech 1995; Dijkstra 1997; Roper 1999; Wiggins
2000; Uphoff 2002; Gabre-Madhin and Haggblade 2004; Mortimore 2005; Wiggins
2005; Baffes and Baghdadli 2007; Reij and Smaling 2008; Jacovelli 2009; Spielman
and Pandya-Lorch 2009b; Haggblade and Hazell 2010; Pretty et al 2011).° The
websites and publicity materials of development actors ranging from international
funders to local NGOs feature hundreds of agricultural success stories.
At one level the interest in success stories can be understood as part of the larger
‘development fight-back’, an effort to change negative public perceptions of Africa
and of development assistance more broadly. The focus on success stories also
links directly to ongoing academic and policy debates around aid effectiveness
(Bourguignon and Sundberg 2007) and impact evaluation (Ravallion 2009), as well as
the role and importance of development narratives within policy processes (Roe
1994; Keeley and Scoones 2003). At another level, success stories are also one of the
ways that research and development organisations justify their existence and seek to
secure larger budget allocations in an increasingly competitive funding environment.
 Success-making and success stories 187

It is important to note that the recent interest in success stories about African agri-
culture coincides with the apparent movement of agriculture up the public policy
agenda (de Janvry and Sadoulet 2010).
Wiggins (2005) provides an analysis of the lessons that can be gleaned from success
stories about African agriculture, stories generated either through the synthesis of
published case studies (Turner et al 1993; Snrech 1995; Wiggins 1995; Wiggins 2000)
or through the nomination of individual cases (Gabre-Madhin and Haggblade 2004).
The focus of Wiggins’ analysis is on what the stories say about the factors required to
achieve successful agricultural development: for example, the need to reduce trans-
port costs; the need for institutional innovation in agricultural supply chains; and the
need for a better understanding of markets and market failures. On the other hand,
he says little about the stories themselves.
In this chapter, our focus is on the stories as opposed to the underlying research
results, technology, change, ‘progress’ or ‘success’ that they describe and (in some
cases) attempt to explain. We are not setting out to evaluate the validity of particular
success claims, but rather to understand why and how such claims are constructed and
promoted. Ultimately we seek to throw light on the dynamic between success stories
and agronomic research.
The act of styling a project, programme or experience a ‘success’ and communicating
this through a story draws attention to two closely related sets of questions: What is
. success, and how and by whom was it defined? Who is telling the story, to whom,
how and why? Addressing these questions creates the basis for an analysis of the
politics around development success stories. By exploring the proposition that
these “good news stories’ must be read as innately political, it is not our intention to
be churlish or reinforce the stereotype of inward-looking, complexifying, success-
denying academics. Rather, we want to use the burgeoning interest in success stories
about agriculture in SSA to open up a more nuanced consideration of how the results
of agronomic research are used within public policy processes, and the implications of
these dynamics for agricultural research, agricultural development and rural livelihoods.
Two common sayings draw attention to the politics of success. The first, “Nothing
succeeds like success’, suggests that success reproduces itself, or in other words, that it is
possible (and obviously desirable) to enter into a virtuous circle of success. If this is so,
then there should be a strong motivation for claiming success and by doing so,
placing oneself within the virtuous circle. The second saying, “Success has many parents
but failure is an orphan’, highlights the idea that given such a strong motivation, the
competition to be associated with success is keen. With so much at stake, it should
not be surprising that parental claims to particular successes can be strongly contested.
The argument we make is that in the realm of African agriculture (and more
broadly within development), success stories are becoming an increasingly important
instrument in the competition for policy attention and financial resources. We also argue
that these success stories are becoming integral to policy processes: they legitimise new
kinds of ‘evidence’, and because of their story format, that evidence can be particu-
larly potent. As a result, success stories are playing an important role in the tactical
dynamics within agricultural policy processes, allowing actors to breathe new life into
188 J. Sumberg et al

their advocacy for particular policy positions. Again we want to emphasise that we
are in no way disputing the proposition that agronomic research has delivered sig-
nificant and tangible benefits to (some) farmers in (some parts of) SSA, as well as to
consumers, food processors, national economies and so on.
The remainder of this chapter is organised in four sections. The next section
explores the meanings of success. Then we present a simple theoretical framework for
understanding the dynamics of ‘success making’. Following this, we examine these
dynamics primarily through the success stories generated by the Millions Fed project.
The final section discusses some implications of this analysis for agronomic research
in Africa.

Defining success
Success is the achievement of a good or desirable outcome, and a successful project,
technology or policy is one that contributes to that outcome. For most people
involved in agricultural development, reductions in the incidence of hunger and
poverty are good and desirable outcomes. Similarly, most would consider growth of
the agricultural economy, increased rural incomes and productivity gains as desirable
outcomes. Along these lines, in his consideration of agricultural success stories from
SSA, Wiggins (2005) defined success as periods of sustained agricultural growth.
Similarly, for the Millions Fed project, Spielman and Pandya-Lorch (2009b) measured
success in terms of feeding additional people and eliminating hunger.*
However, for some observers of rural development, the notion of success is open
to interpretation, manipulation and contestation. The work of David Mosse (2004a,
2004b) probably best exemplifies this approach, with success being actively produced,
constructed and reconstructed by, and to meet the evolving needs of, individuals,
implementing organisations, local officials and funders. Mosse’s analysis of his 10 years
of engagement with the Indo-British Rainfed Farming Project led him to a definition
of success that is unlikely to be to everyone’s taste: to ‘conceal ideological differences,
to allow compromise and the enrolment of different interests, to build coalitions, to
distribute agency and to multiply criteria of success within project systems’ (Mosse 2004b).
But are these two approaches to success really so far apart? We don’t have to be
card-carrying post-modernists or social constructivists to accept the proposition that
in any particular. situation there will likely be some ambiguity and contestation
around the meaning of success. An acknowledgment of social difference and a
nuanced, multi-dimensional understanding of poverty demand an equally nuanced,
multi-dimensional understanding of success; and there are legitimate differences of
opinion regarding the weight that should be given to the different dimensions. Thus
there will be winners and losers associated with every development intervention, no
matter how strong or well articulated its claims to success. The differential impacts of
‘successful’ technical change within agriculture are an important theme of feminist
and gendered analyses of agriculture in SSA (Stamp 1989; World Bank et al 2009).
It is also important to remember that in the world of agricultural development it is
appropriate to see success as both emergent and contingent, which means that claims
 Success-making and success stories 189

of success must be re-evaluated in the light of changing circumstances. For example,

while the ‘maize revolution’ in Zimbabwe in the early 1990s was repeatedly declared
a success (Eicher and Rukuni 1994; Eicher 1995), seen from the vantage point of 2011,
following a decade of political and economic chaos, the meaning and significance of
this particular success must surely be re-examined. Sara Berry (1993) reminds us that
in rural SSA, ‘no condition is permanent’, to which we must add ‘even success’.
Finally, any consideration of success must also take failure into account. Here we
suggest that, from a development perspective, ‘learning’ should be one of the ‘good
and desirable’ outcomes associated with every policy, initiative or project. It is
undoubtedly true that successful learning does not require broader project success: a
project that fails to deliver on any of its main objectives may nevertheless provide
invaluable learning (and other unanticipated benefits). Fenichel and Smith (1992)
refer to these as ‘successful failures’. For example, in his analysis of the disastrous Niger
Agricultural Project in Nigeria, Baldwin (1957) clearly and systematically highlighted
the importance (for future projects) of recognising and making full use of the detailed
agricultural and environmental knowledge of local people. If this ‘learning’ had fallen
on fertile ground at the time (in fact it took another 25 years to germinate), the cost of
this ‘failed’ project would have been repaid many times over. Does a single-minded
focus on the demonstration and celebration of success, which incentivises a dynamic
of ‘success making’ (and the burying of all that cannot easily be construed as success),
significantly reduce the opportunity to learn and benefit from ‘successful failures’?>

Success making
In this section, we introduce a simple theoretical framework for understanding the
process and dynamics of ‘success making’. Drawing from securitisation theory in the
field of international relations (Taureck 2006), we suggest that success making is first
and foremost a speech act: simply by proclaiming ‘success’ something is being done.
In other words, labelling something a success is a critical first step in the construction
of a success story. Success making requires a ‘success maker’, an actor who is moti-
vated and able to proclaim a particular project, programme, innovation, technology,
policy or organisation a success. By proclaiming something a success, the success
maker initiates a process that in time may shelter the claim from normal scrutiny and
critical evaluation (although in some cases this may backfire and instead draw increased
attention to it). As outlined here, success has no objective meaning, and claims of
success do not arise through an objective process of evaluating results, outcomes or
impacts. Rather, success is what the success maker says it is, what he or she can make
stick. Success stories are an integral element of success making.
We hypothesise that the main driver of the recent spate of success making is the
increasing pressure on development actors at all levels to demonstrate results, effective-
ness, impacts, value-added and/or ‘value for money’ in order to justify their existence
and continued financial support. We also hypothesise that there are two further
conditions that’lend themselves to high levels of success making. First, when the desired
outcomes are complex and/or expected to emerge over the long term (e.g. ‘sustainable
190 J. Sumberg et al

rural livelihoods’; ‘sustainable farming systems’; ‘climate-resilient cropping systems’; or

‘empowerment’) and it is therefore difficult to identify meaningful and measurable
outcome indicators. Second, when an organisational imperative is such that it swings
the communications balance towards simple, compelling messages at the expense of
nuanced or critical analysis.
Not all attempts at success making yield the desired result, which in the first instance is
the widespread recognition of the particular project, technology or programme as a
success. We hypothesise that attempts at success making are more likely to gain traction
in cases where the proclaimed success is framed in a way that does not challenge
mainstream thinking and sits comfortably within a dominant narrative; and where the
success story is told in a simplistic way and promoted using a range of easily accessible
media.
Like researchers all over the world, individuals and organisations involved in agri-
cultural research have long sought to create an air of expectation around particular lines
of research. The agronomic literature from SSA is full of claims that particular tech-
nologies, often still at the experimental stage, are ‘promising’ or have ‘potential’:
examples include alley cropping (Kang et al 1981); black sigatoka-resistant plantain
(Vuylsteke et al 1993); fodder legumes (Tarawali 1994); organic matter technologies
for soil management (Snapp et al 1998; Fischler et al 1999); agricultural biotechnology
(Wambugu 1999); conservation agriculture (Fowler and Rockstrom 2001); and vegetable
soybeans (Chadha and Oluoch 2004). The incentives to present research findings in
the best possible light are clearly long-standing, yet claims such as these can be seen as
a first, tentative step in a process of success making.
Orr et al (2008) used the case of NERICA rice to explore some of the dynamics of
success making identified above. The name NERICA was derived from the phrase
‘New Rice for Africa’: selected following a process of inter-specific hybridisation,
these varieties have received much media attention and are now being heavily promoted
in rice growing areas of SSA. In tracing the origin of claims made about the agronomic
characteristics, performance, spread and impacts of the NERICA varieties, Orr et al
showed that the making of success claims began very early in the technology devel-
opment process, so that most of the initial claims were based on data that were at best
preliminary and limited. Through repetition (by WARDA)® and propagation (by
WARDA’s funders, partners, development-oriented news sites, etc) these early claims
became deeply embedded in both narratives about NERICA and the World Wide
Web. Orr et al concluded that, even as a more nuanced picture of the performance
characteristics and potential of these varieties began to emerge, the continuation of
this dynamic suited WARDA, as the simple story line, accompanying publicity and
international accolades’ helped buttress the organisation’s precarious financial position.
Perhaps not surprisingly, these conclusions were contested by WARDA (Wopereis
et al 2008).
Over the past decade, interest in the potential for ‘scaling up’ and achieving ‘impact at
scale’ — despite the acknowledged importance of location specificity and Wiggins’
conclusion that developments in African agriculture have generally been ‘a cumulative
effect of a series of quite small improvements for any given crop or locality’ (Wiggins
 Success-making and success stories 191

2005: 18) — have changed the game for all development actors. Specifically, the need
for ever more impressive success stories, combined with new communications oppor-
tunities, has super-charged the dynamics around, and the implications of, success
making.

Writing success
Success stories about African agriculture fall into two broad categories. In the first are
stories that are told primarily for non-specialists, but also speak to policy makers.
These include some outputs from the recent Millions Fed project (Spielman and
Pandya-Lorch 2009a) as well as the hundreds of stories that appear in the publicity
materials and websites of bi- and multi-lateral funding agencies, research institutions,
continent-wide initiatives, NGOs and agri-business companies.* Some common features
of this genre of success story include simplified language; general descriptions and
overviews often formatted as summaries or highlights; the use of compelling images;
and a dissemination approach that draws on a marketing ‘push strategy’ (Hair et al
2009: 413), where demand for information is created through broad promotion and
accessibility.
The second category includes success stories that are primarily for professional and
academic audiences, and where the policy messages are more explicit (Tiffen et al
- 1994; Dijkstra 1997; Uphoff 2002; Gabre-Madhin and Haggblade 2004; Mortimore
2005; Baffes and Baghdadli 2007; Reij and Smaling 2008; Spielman and Pandya-Lorch
2009b; Haggblade and Hazell 2010). The (largely) internally generated results
demonstrating high returns to investment in CGIAR research could also be seen as
falling within this category (e.g. Plucknett 1991; Collinson and Tollens 1994; Maredia
and Eicher 1995; Maredia and Byerlee 2000; Zeddies et al 2001; Alene et al 2009;
Alene 2010; Nalley et al 2010). Some common features of these success stories
include language that is acceptable and popular within particular academic and pro-
fessional communities; an emphasis on the application of an established or emerging
theoretical or conceptual framework; dissemination through a means or media that 1s
respected within the community (a peer-reviewed journal or professional publication)
and that often has restricted accessibility; and a dissemination approach that builds on
a marketing ‘pull strategy’ (Hair et al 2009: 413) where the audience is more engaged
in a process of seeking out new information. Related to this second category is a
small body of work aimed at academic and professional audiences that explores failure
(e.g. Baldwin 1957; Hogendorn and Scott 1981; Webb 1991; Gibbon 1992; Filipovich
2001; Orr and Ritchie 2004; Zoomers 2005).
An important recent initiative to identify and disseminate success stories about
agriculture was the Millions Fed project. Millions Fed was designed to ‘assess the
evidence on what works in agriculture’ (Spielman and Pandya-Lorch 2009b: vii) in
an effort to leverage initiatives to address issues of hunger and malnutrition. The
project was initiated and funded by the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation (BMGF),
which approached the International Food Policy Research Institute (IFPRI) to
‘examine successes in agricultural development and draw out the lessons they offer’
192 J. Sumberg et al

(Spielman and Pandya-Lorch 2009b: vii). A few years earlier, BMGF funded a similar
project — Millions Saved: Proven Successes in Global Health (Levine 2004, 2007) — in
partnership with the Center for Global Development.
Drawing on the work of Gabre-Madhin and Haggblade (2004) and Levine (2004,
2007), Spielman and Pandya-Lorch (2009b: 154) developed a methodology for the
Millions Fed project with the objective of selecting 20 case studies representative of
‘relatively large-scale and long-term success ... backed by strong evidence of positive
impact’. This involved a global ‘call for nominations’ that drew on case submissions,
suggestions of experts and desk research. With over 250 nominations, the project
team sorted the cases according to two qualifying criteria (that the intervention had
been conducted in at least one developing country; and that the intervention related
to agricultural development directly) and three primary evaluative criteria (relevance to
improving food security among vulnerable groups; a scale appropriate at least to
the national level; and implementation within the past 50 years). Additional evaluative
criteria relating to proven impact and sustainability were also considered, but in a
more informal manner to allow consideration of non-traditional evidence. A final set was
compiled of 20 stories (five relating exclusively to SSA) — each drawing on a synthesis
of multiple sources including first-hand accounts and impact assessments — and an
overview of general lessons learned, including what worked and why.
A strategic communications package was produced by IFPRI to disseminate the
stories. A primary output was the book titled Millions Fed: Proven Successes in Agricultural
Development (Spielman and Pandya-Lorch 2009b), which features an opening overview
chapter, 20 chapters profiling the individual success stories, and several appendices
relating to methodology and references. This 184-page publication is glossy, colourful
and attractive, containing many photographic images. However, some of the stories
have enough data and technical detail to put them beyond a general readership.”
Thus this book straddles the two categories of success stories identified above: some
parts appear to be primarily for non-specialists, but others would present a challenge
to this group. It is available only in English.
A smaller booklet version, Highlights from Millions Fed, was also produced (Spielman
and Pandya-Lorch 2009a), in addition to an 11-minute video.'° In the booklet, the
success stories are presented in relatively little detail and are grouped under six
headings, including ‘Intensifying staple food production’, ‘Integrating people and the
environment’ and ‘Expanding the role of markets’. The booklet then addresses two
questions — “Why did it work?’ and ‘What can we learn?’ — and ends with a section titled
‘Looking ahead’. In an appendix titled “Case studies’, a brief summary of each success
story is presented; the summaries for the three stories having a link to agronomic
research in SSA are reproduced in Box 11.1. In terms of the level of technical detail
and overall presentation, it is fair to conclude that Highlights from Millions Fed and the
accompanying video are meant primarily for consumption by non-specialists. They
nevertheless promote more or less explicit policy messages. The 24-page booklet is
available in English, Spanish, simplified Chinese, French and Hindi.
The Millions Fed outputs were presented at ‘book launch events’ in Nairobi, Dhaka,
Seattle, Addis Ababa and Washington, in which audiences were provided opportunities
 Success-making and success stories 193

for questions and dialogue relating to the project and agricultural development more
generally (IFPRI 2009). Additional communications outputs of the project include
online content within IFPRI’s website, and various media and public relations tools.
In August 2010, the Millions Fed book was awarded the Quality of Communications
Award by the Agricultural and Applied Economics Association (IFPRI 2010).

Box 11.1 Case studies from Highlights from Millions Fed with a
link to agronomic research in SSA (source: Spielman and
Pandya-Lorch 2009a: 18-19).
Breeding an ‘Amaizing’ crop: improved maize in Kenya,
Malawi, Zambia, and Zimbabwe

Melinda Smale and T.S. Jayne

Key Period: 1965-90
Geographic region: Kenya, Malawi, Zambia, Zimbabwe
The intervention: Sustained investments in innovative breeding programs,
dedicated scientists, and supportive public policies drove the development and
spread of more productive maize that translated into better livelihoods for mil-
lions of farm households. By expanding access to modern (improved) maize
seeds among smallholder farmers, yields multiplied several-fold and contributed
significantly to improving food production and food security in the region.
While the fiscal burdens of state-led marketing and credit policies rendered
the growth unsustainable, by 2000-2005, maize, most of it modern maize,
- covered more than three-quarters of the land under cereal cultivation in the four
countries.

Resisting viruses and bugs: cassava in sub-Saharan Africa

Felix Nweke
Key period: 1971-89
Geographic region: Sub-Saharan Africa
The intervention: Two major control programs were designed to combat serious
threats to cassava production in Sub-Saharan Africa — the cassava mosaic dis-
ease and the cassava mealybug. These programs played a critical role in raising
cassava yields beginning in the 1970s, turning cassava into a cash crop that is
now spreading throughout Africa. In the early 1970s, the introduction of bio-
control strategies to destroy mealybug infestations reduced yield losses by
2.5 tons per hectare. In the late 1970s, the introduction of improved, disease-
resistant varieties controlled cassava mosaic disease while contributing to yield
increases of 40 per cent. These two programs played a particularly critical role
in countries such as Nigeria and Ghana, and have contributed to improvements
in food security for at least 29 million people.
194 |. Sumberg et al

Re-greening the Sahel: farmer-led innovation in Burkina Faso and Niger

Chris Reij, Gray Tappan, and Melinda Smale
Key period: 1980-present
Geographic region: Burkina Faso and Niger
The intervention: The rediscovery and diffusion of traditional agroforestry,
water, and soil management practices in Burkina Faso and Niger has trans-
formed large swathes of the region’s arid landscape into productive agricultural
land. In Burkina Faso’s Central Plateau, the rehabilitation of between 200,000
and 300,000 hectares translated into roughly 80,000 tons of additional food
per year, enough to sustain about half a million people in the region. In southern
Niger, farmer investments in agriculture are estimated to have transformed
approximately 5 million hectares of land, improving food security for at least
2.5 million people.

Reading success

First reading
The seven chapters of the Millions Fed book focusing on SSA, while reflecting some
diversity in their internal organisation (as reflected in the non-uniformity of sub-
headings), are distinctly structured in a chronological narrative scenario format that
features discussion of a problem, the solution and the successful results (Roe 1994).
Although less explicit than in the opening chapter, the individual chapters also
contain a call to action, which is most often embedded within the solution or
results section of the narrative. The Millions Fed booklet features the same headings
and sub-headings as the opening chapter of the book, with the exception of a section
in the book titled “Caveats’, which offers several qualifications relating to the successes
outlined.
Key vocabulary within the titles of the success story chapters reflects a strong
military or battle reference. Title words include fighting, enemy, unlocking, conquering,
resisting and navigating. The use of words such as these can serve as signifiers reflecting
a cultural construction that links military references to crisis, mobilisation and a call to
unified action (Eisenburg 1984).
The covers of both the book and booklet feature two horizontal bands of images.
The top band is made up of six close-up images of people’s faces. The subjects of
these six images are diverse in terms of gender, age, ethnicity and dress. As argued by
Deacon et al. (1999), the informal composition of images like these — reflected in
the different image angles and backgrounds — could be seen to suggest familiarity.
The subject of each image makes direct eye contact with the camera, which from a
Western cultural perspective signals equality of status and personal connection
(Deacon et al 1999: 194). The bottom band of the cover features images of food
items that have been blurred through image enhancement. These cover images, as
 Success-making and success stories 195

iconic signs that resemble what they represent, help to anchor the issues of people
and food as key themes of the book and the booklet.
Women feature in a high proportion of the images in the opening chapter of the
book, as well as in those in the seven chapters relating directly to SSA. Of the
40 images in total, 23 feature people as their primary subjects.!' Of these images,
13 depict only women, seven feature only men, and three depict men and women
together. The preference for images featuring women is even more evident in the
booklet, where nine of the ten internal images that feature people have women as the
subject.!? This could reflect an acceptance of the dominant narrative which suggests
that women are particularly vulnerable to poverty, hunger and malnutrition; play
a significant role in smallholder and subsistence farming; yet have generally been
neglected by agricultural research and development (World Bank 2007a). At the
same time, the high proportion of images depicting women in Millions Fed might
prompt a reader to conclude that women are the key benefactors of the successes
outlined.
In the 17 images in which people’s facial features are identifiable, they are all either
smiling or looking content or focused. Within the field of social psychology, these
types of facial expression tend to be considered symbolic of happiness, enthusiasm and
progress (Rashotte 2002). In all but one of the SSA success story chapters, there is at
least one image, often prominent, that depicts action or movement.’* It is also of
interest that the majority of the images depicting people (23 in total) tend to focus on
.an individual or apparent household group (15) rather than larger or mixed groups
(eight). It could be argued that these images are in line with a policy narrative that
emphasises the significance of individuals, particularly women, taking action individually
or in small family groups to increase their agricultural productivity.
In summary, the African success stories in Millions Fed are based on a linear or
process model of communication (Fiske 1990); are closely aligned with dominant
narratives about agriculture in SSA and how the challenges it faces should be
addressed; and use photographic images to try to create a personal, if not emotional,
link to the reader. The main message in these stories is that while African agriculture
faces many problems, rigorous analysis of the evidence shows that these challenges
can be successfully overcome through investment in the right kinds of research and
development activities.

Second reading
As noted above, Millions Fed built directly on work by Gabre-Madhin and Haggblade
(2004), in which experts were surveyed in order to identify “emerging successes’ in
African agriculture. This study was published in the highly respected World Development
journal, and earlier as an IFPRI discussion paper (Gabre-Madhin and Haggblade
2003) — both very much oriented toward academic and professional audiences. There
are also crossovers between Millions Fed and the 2010 monograph Successes in African
Agriculture: Lessons for the Future, edited by Steve Haggblade and Peter Hazell (2010),
which is also aimed at professional and academic readers.
196 J. Sumberg et al

efforts to
There are several important linkages and commonalities between these
were central
identify and publicise success stories. First, the World Bank and IFPRI
to all three, and individuals working for or closely associated with these organisations
played major roles in project conception and management, the associated research,
writing case studies, and editing and producing the collected stories. Second, all put
considerable emphasis on using ‘evidence’ and ‘rigorous analysis’ to identify ‘what
works’ and ‘lessons’ that will lead to ‘sound agricultural investments’ and ultimately
poverty and hunger reduction. Finally, one is struck by the degree to which a limited
number of examples — maize breeding, cassava pest control, soil fertility management
and small-holder cotton production — are fashioned and refashioned as success by the
different studies (Table 11.1). On the other hand, some other examples, such as
adaptive on-farm breeding of bananas and increased rice production in Mali, have not
been re-used to the same degree. Did they not stand up to close scrutiny and rigorous
analysis, or were they deemed less amenable to the simple messaging inherent in the
success story format?
In the earlier presentation of the success making framework, a number of
hypotheses about the factors associated with this process were identified. Here we
return to these and ask: What is driving the dynamic of success making that we argue
is discernible in efforts such as Millions Fed and Successes in African Agriculture, and why do
the different actors contribute to and engage with this dynamic in the ways they do?
Historically, the World Bank has been a major funder of agricultural research and
development activities in SSA, both through national governments and via the
CGIAR. While the priority given to agriculture has declined over the past decade,
there is some indication that agriculture is moving up the policy and funding agenda
(de Janvry and Sadoulet 2010). However, some World Bank activities in agriculture
have been heavily critiqued (e.g. Harrigan 2003; Fortin 2005), and the Bank’s own
evaluations of its agricultural investments in SSA make sobering reading (World Bank
2007b, 2010). Given this record and the difficulties of reducing poverty and food
insecurity in SSA, the Bank must be under ever-increasing pressure to demonstrate
positive impact from its strategy of investing in agricultural growth via market reform
and liberalisation, technology development and infrastructure. With the exception of
the “Re-greening the Sahel’ story, with its focus on farmer innovation, food security
and adaptation, the success stories are framed by and support the narrative that
underpins this strategy: if you allow the market to work and provide access to
modern technology, the farmers themselves can deal with the poverty problem.
IFPRI, through the CGIAR, is both funded by the World Bank and closely
associated with much of the Bank’s thinking about agricultural development in SSA.
The CGIAR is also under pressure to demonstrate the value of the ‘global public
goods’ it produces, and to produce these more cost-effectively. The pressure for more
coordinated action and greater impact, particularly in SSA, was one factor driving the
latest in a series of exercises to reorganise the CGIAR international agricultural
research system (CGIAR 2009).
In the space of just a few years, the BMGE has become an important and influ-
ential funder of agricultural development in SSA, primarily through the Alliance
for a
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198 |. Sumberg et al

Green Revolution in Africa (AGRA) initiative (Toenniessen et al 2008). The approach

taken by BMGF and AGRA, based essentially around technology development and
promotion, and greater market engagement by family farmers, fits well with that
espoused by the Comprehensive Africa Agriculture Development Programme
(CAADP) and the World Bank, and is underpinned by research from the CGIAR.
BMGE makes clear its belief that coordinated, strategic investment can pay handsome
dividends — or, in their terms, can be transformative — even over the relatively short
term. The identification and dissemination of success stories that can demonstrate
these transformative effects (to governments, other donors and development actors) is
an important part of this strategy.
Finally, the dynamic of success making depends on the fact that individuals and
organisations that are actually involved in agricultural research and development on
the ground are strongly incentivised to have one of ‘their’ technologies or projects
named and recognised as a success. The validation by recognised international orga-
nisations such as IFPRI through the ‘rigorous analysis’ of ‘evidence’ would be a public
relations coup for most organisations. If handled properly, such an endorsement
should increase the influence of the organisation and help secure additional financial
resources. The potential benefits of being associated with a success story must explain
why so many successes were identified in the early stages of Millions Fed (some 250,
of which an unknown number were ‘nominated’).

Discussion and conclusions

We began this chapter by noting the growing interest in success stories around agri-
culture in SSA. We then proposed a framework for analysing the dynamic of success
making, and used this framework to ‘read’ success stories from the recent Millions
Fed project relating to agronomic research.
If, indeed, the motivation for and dynamic around success making are as we suggest
above, it raises important questions for those involved in the funding, management
and implementation of agronomic research, and for those who use the results of such
research. For example, with pressure to demonstrate impact being felt by development
actors at all levels, and with success making being an increasingly important (and
understandable) response, we can well imagine that in relation to agronomic research
there could be important effects on the following.

e The choice of research areas, problems and questions (e.g. away from per-
ennial crops, complex cropping systems and technologies likely to exhibit a high
degree of site specificity; and toward major crops, commercial crops, simple systems
and technologies with high spatial transferability).
e The choice of research methods (e.g. away from multi-year, multi-site, multi-
treatment, multi-disciplinary, appropriately participatory studies; and foward short-term,
single-site, simplistic studies amenable to ‘rigorous’ impact evaluation).
e The choice of how results are analysed and communicated (e.g. away from a
focus on understanding variability, heterogeneity, interactions, contingent outcomes,
 Success-making and success stories 199

site and year effects and ‘failure’; and toward a focus on averages, main effects and
inferred impacts with future scaling-up).

This initial exploration of the dynamics of success making also raises important and
perhaps uncomfortable questions about the new generation of funders of agricultural
research and development in SSA. The framings and narratives employed by some
of these new funders and initiatives (including AGRA) foreground notions of
rapid, technology-led transformation, effectiveness, payment by results, public—private
partnerships and public engagement. But in so doing, are they in effect setting the bar
for agronomic research at an unrealistic height? Are they simply adding more fuel to
the fire that already has the success making pot at rapid boil; and if so, will this not
force research organisations into even more aggressive success making? In this respect,
it is important to note that the Millions Fed success stories relating to SSA are built
on agricultural research that was conceived and undertaken before the success making
imperative became so strong. Would this same long-term research, with its focus on
incremental improvements and uncertain ‘impact pathways’, be funded if it was
proposed for the first time today?
We also find ourselves wondering whether the dynamic of success making has the
potential to crowd out any possibility of learning from ‘unsuccessful’ agronomic research
(to allow, or even celebrate, ‘successful failures’). With a deeply ingrained disciplinary
aversion to ‘negative results’ and a growing premium on success, the temptation to
- ‘big-up’ some results while burying research that cannot easily be construed as suc-
cessful will undoubtedly grow. Acknowledging and finding a way around this trap
will be critical if agronomic research is to remain both a useful and a learning-based
enterprise.
It was not our purpose to evaluate or contest the success stories put forward by
Millions Fed. We do, however, note that around each of the three stories most closely
related to agronomic research in SSA — maize breeding, cassava pest control and soil
management — there is a considerable body of scholarship. Given that these literatures
address agronomic, social and economic concerns, it should not be surprising that
they present mixed and often contradictory pictures. In other words, except perhaps
for the cassava pest control example, the research literature does not generally point
to the kind of unequivocal success alluded to in the success stories, particularly those
aimed at non-professional audiences. Analysis (or even simple recognition) of the
ambiguities, of the winners and losers associated with agricultural change, goes against
the grain in success making. Nevertheless, it must surely remain a central concern of
agronomic and rural development research.
Finally, it will be important to analyse the life cycles of the emerging cohort of
success stories, and specifically to ask how they will play out on the ground over
time. Perhaps even more critical will be careful analyses of if and how these stories
are used to influence policy processes around agriculture and rural development, and
development assistance more broadly. Do the success stories become ‘evidence’ in
their own right? Do the ‘lessons’ that are so carefully woven into these stores
become central to ongoing contestation and negotiation around agricultural research
200 Jj. Sumberg et al

policy and practice; and how do they ultimately affect the narratives that drive the
politics of these processes?

Notes
1 Parts of this chapter draw on Irving, R. (2010) “Narrating success: an analysis of the
process and politics of success stories in African agricultural development’, MA dissertation,
Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, Bnghton.
2 A Green Revolution for Africa: Fulfilling the Borlaug Dream, Keynote speech delivered by
Dr Akinwumi A. Adesina, Vice President, Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa
(AGRA), Feeding the Future Borlaug Symposium 2010, 13-14 July, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
([Link]/content/news/detail/1172)
3 For a variant — termed ‘progress stories’ — see [Link]. The
interest in development success stories is not limited to African agriculture, but can also
be seen in relation to health (Levine 2004, 2007).
4 Operationally this becomes less elegant, with potential successes being judged against
criteria relating to importance, scale, time and duration, proven impact and sustainability
(Spielman and Pandya-Lorch 2009b: Annex B. Methodology).
5 In this regard the Failure Report published annually by the NGO Engineers Without
Borders Canada is an interesting initiative: [Link]/en/whoweare/accountable/
failure. html.
6 WARDA (now the Africa Rice Centre or AfricaRice) is the CGIAR-supported research
institute where work on the NERICA varieties was initiated.
7 Monty Jones, who was instrumental in the development of NERICA rice, was awarded
the World Food Prize in 2004; WARDA received the King Baudouin Award in 2000
for the NERICA work.
8 For example, DFID (currently [Link]/Media~Room/Press/?tab=2; past http://
[Link]/+/[Link]/aboutdfid/[Link]);
USAID ([Link]/stories/[Link]); BMGF ([Link]/
agriculturaldevelopment/Pages/[Link]); ICRISAT ([Link]/icrisat-impacts.
htm); Africa Bio ([Link]/pages/[Link]); AGRA (www.
[Link]/section/people/stories); FARMAfrica ([Link]/[Link]?
page=3; [Link]/profile?user=FarmA frica#p/u/12/z ZY TCAOQHk); Pioneer
([Link]/web/site/portal/menuitem.07de136cde40c7ff21332133d10093a0/)
9 The chapter on maize breeding, for example, contains a full-page box labelled ‘The
techniques and technologies of breeding better maize’ that distinguishes between single-
cross hybrids, double-cross hybrids, three-way hybrids, top-cross hybrids and varietal
hybrids.
10 IFPRI video: Millions Fed: Proven Successes in Agricultural Development ([Link].
com/watch?v=xHZqtIWi-I8); on 23 August 2010 YouTube reported that since 7
November 2009, the Millions Fed video had been viewed 2953 times.
ial Two images (pp. 5 and 14) were excluded from this count as the gender of the image
subject was not identifiable.
One image (p. 13) was excluded from this count as the gender of the image subject was
not identifiable.
It is interesting to note that none ofthe three images in the chapter entitled ‘Re-greening
the Sahel: farmer-led innovation in Burkina Faso and Niger’ depicts either people or
action (two depict zai planting pits and one is a landscape shot)

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We
NULLIUS IN VERBA
Contestation, pathways and political agronomy

John Thompson and James Sumberg

Introduction

This book brings together a collection of case studies highlighting contestation

around everyday agronomic research in developing country contexts. In the opening
chapter, we assert that the analysis of this contestation — which we term ‘political
agronomy’ — is important because it can reveal the dynamics between the epistemic
communities involved in and with agronomic research. These dynamics are becoming
increasing discordant and conflicted, which has important implications for the methods,
legitimacy and saliency of agronomic research. We build on these insights in this
concluding chapter to argue that a ‘pathways approach’ — with a focus on directionality,
distribution and diversity within the innovation processes supported by agronomic
research — may be particularly valuable for political agronomy analysis.

Facing up to the politics of agronomy

For most of the twentieth century, agronomy was seen as a technical discipline that
focused on the important but largely practical matter of improving crop production.
In this context, politics was limited mainly to interactions between the state, which
set agricultural policy priorities and funded research; the national research organisa-
tions and universities, where agronomists undertook their research; and farming
communities. The rise of the neoliberal agenda and emergence of environmental and
participation movements from the 1970s onwards served to undermine that comfortable
relationship and the unity of purpose on which it was built (see Chapter 1). New
actors and interests entered the scene, both from the private sector and from civil
society, and began to challenge the ‘normal science’ of agronomy, question long-
established norms and practices, and reorient research priorities. Moreover, these
debates have spilled out of peer-reviewed plant and soil science journals onto the
 Contestation, pathways and political agronomy 205

internet and other public forums. Some agronomists have been taken aback by these
disputes, some of which have been fractious, polarised, and dismissive of their
knowledge and expertise. They have also been surprised by the fact that these con-
testations have introduced normative agendas about values, interests and power into
seemingly technical discussions, whereas normative arguments in agronomic research
have traditionally been restricted to questions of methods and objectives (e.g. increased
productivity).
Some agronomists have responded robustly to these epistemological, ontological
and normative challenges, branding those who express concerns about the introduction
of new agricultural technologies or agronomic practices as ‘naysayers’ or ‘luddites’;
defining arguments in favour of environmental precaution as ‘illegitimate’ and
‘pseudoscience’; and questioning suggestions that agronomy is subject to moral choices
about where investments in research are directed and where they are not (Scoones
and Thompson 2011; Stirling 2011). Unfortunately, in this way they reject not only
what may be irrational, but also entirely reasonable social scepticism concerning
potential risks, costs and benefits associated with the everyday practice of agronomic
science.
It is ironic that recent debates around agro-ecology, the System of Rice Intensifi-
cation, Bt cotton, conservation agriculture, drought-tolerant maize for Africa, crop
biofortification (e.g. Golden Rice) and NERICA rice have become so emotive.
Agronomic science, like science writ large, does not have a monopoly on social
. rationality. Although imperfectly realised, the principal distinctions between formal
science and, say, politics, religion or journalism are arguably social practices of orga-
nised scepticism. Experimentation, critical respect for evidence, peer review and open
publication help promote reasoned argument. But rational scepticism is important
outside as well as inside the social practices of science: hence the motto of Britain’s
Royal Society, ‘nullius in verba’ (‘take nobody’s word for it’), taken from the Epistles
of Horace, ‘Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistr’ (‘not in bond to any master’ or ‘not
bound to swear allegiance or subservience to any master’) (Sutton 1994; Hunter 1995).
Implicit in this motto is a distrust of authority and the conviction that knowledge
should be sought through careful observation and not connected to any single school
of thought. In other words, take nothing on expert opinion alone — even from
learned agronomists.
In open and democratic societies, where all groups — including poor farmers and
consumers — have a right to be heard, the setting of priorities for agronomic research
and directions for agricultural development result from the interplay of contending
visions, interests and values. Agricultural innovations are partly shaped by social and
political factors, not simply determined by unfolding technical knowledge (Sumberg
2005; Vanloqueren and Baret 2009). Economic, institutional and political pressures
help to push agronomic science in particular directions along particular innovation
pathways. The internal dynamics of agronomic science and its associated disciplines
are not immune to the politics of knowledge, driven by principle and perspective,
but also personality, prejudice and the pursuit of privilege, prestige, profit and power.
Critically, intrinsic scientific uncertainties in agronomy underscore the importance of
206 J. Thompson and J. Sumberg

debate on priorities and directions. Closing down debate around agricultural policy
and agronomic research can foster cynicism, doubt, polarisation and citizens’ resistance to
agricultural technologies. The potential of agronomic research as a progressive force
is therefore supported — not hindered — by greater tolerance for scepticism and
contestation. But this new world of contested agronomy takes some getting used to.
Why is it important for agronomists to take contestation seriously, indeed, to
welcome it? It is because the world’s agri-food systems are facing increasingly dynamic,
uncertain and complex ecological, social and technological challenges (Ingram et al
2010; HLPE 2011). They are also being expected to produce, process and distribute
more food, fibre and ecosystem services, and agronomic science is called upon to
deliver innovations to support this at an ever-faster rate (Foresight 2011). But it is no
longer adequate for research agronomists to deliver these new technologies, practices
and processes effectively and efficiently — they must also be mindful of sustainability and
equity goals. This means embracing a diversity of perspectives and approaches, acknowl-
edging trade-offs and tensions between them, and engaging with a host of different
actors, each with their own interests and agendas. It also means acknowledging the
political economy of food and agriculture and how this is both changing and changed
by the way food is produced, transformed, consumed and researched across the planet.

A pathways approach to political agronomy

The term ‘pathways’ is used to refer to the particular directions in which interacting
social, technological and environmental systems co-evolve over time (Leach et al 2010).
A ‘pathways approach’ recognises that the social, technological and environmental
dimensions of an agri-food system change in interactive and dynamic ways. These
interactions can be complex, uncertain and result in non-linear effects, and can create
multiple potential pathways, some threatening poor people’s livelihoods, others
creating new opportunities for sustainability and social justice. A pathways approach
challenges conventions that treat technical innovation, social and economic development,
and environmental change as separate domains. Within these conventions, interactions,
local specificities and contested values are seldom made explicit (and consequently the
research framed by them can lead to policy recommendations that prove technically
ineffective, politically infeasible, or have adverse impacts on poor people, or the
environment, or both) (Smith and Stirling 2010; Smith et al 2010). In contrast, a
pathways approach recognises that there are numerous possible pathways and out-
comes, which different groups may prioritise differently. What actually happens in
practice will depend on the social, economic and institutional arrangements, policy
processes and governance regimes that prevail in particular contexts. It is the interaction
of potential pathways with these factors that affects whether or not sustainable and
pro-poor outcomes are achieved. A pathways approach can be explicitly normative
by focusing, for example, on reductions in poverty, improved access to land, water
and other productive assets, and enhanced social injustice.
Specific framings and narratives are used by particular actors to promote favoured
responses. Shaped by powerful institutions and interests, some of these favoured
 Contestation, pathways and political agronomy 207

responses become dominant: these are the motorways that channel the bulk of agri-
cultural research and development efforts. Other, alternative framings, narratives and
responses remain as byways and side routes, or simply disappear. To one degree or
another, all pathways — dominant (the motorways) and alternative (the side routes) —
address the challenges of dynamics, incomplete knowledge and the different aspects of
risk, including uncertainty, ambiguity and ignorance (Leach et al 2010).
There are four main reasons why a pathways approach is useful for understanding
agronomy in its new age of contestation. First, dynamics, by which we mean the
internal feedback loops and time delays that affect the behaviour of complex systems,
have often been ignored by agricultural research. The result has been analyses, tech-
nologies and recommendations that are underpinned by linear and equilibrium views
of the world. By way of contrast, a pathways approach recognises the centrality of
dynamics within and between components ofan agri-food system, and most importantly
the impacts of these dynamics on innovation processes, and vice versa.
Second, governments, businesses and others are increasingly preoccupied with risk,
and with the insecurities associated with real and perceived threats, such as climate
change and growing water scarcity (Ingram et al 2010). However, much agronomic
research in the developing world works with a very partial notion of risk. It
concentrates, for example, on risks that can be reliably calculated, controlled and
managed, and so discounts other risks for which understandings of possible outcomes
are more intractable. Some of these risks involve uncertainty, where the possible
_ outcomes are known but there is no basis for assigning probabilities. Others involve
ambiguity, where there is disagreement over the nature of the outcomes, or different
groups prioritise concems that are incommensurable. Finally, some social, technological
and ecological dynamics involve ignorance, where ‘we don’t know what we don’t
know’ (Wynne 1992, 2002), and the possibility of surprise, which cannot be discounted
(Stirling 2009, 2011). Whereas conventional approaches to agronomic research are
steeped in the use of probability and statistical inference, they are inadequate in
situations where other kinds of incomplete knowledge can occur, as is increasingly
found in attempts to predict future changes in global agri-food systems (cf. Foresight
2011). To complicate matters further, risk-based scientific advice to policy-makers is
also usually presented in aggregated and consensual form: there is always pressure on
expert committees or consultative processes, such as the International Assessment of
Agricultural Knowledge, Science and Technology for Development (L[AASTD) and
the Global Conference on Agricultural Research for Development (GCARD), to
reach a ‘consensus’ opinion (Scoones 2009; GFAR 2010). This raises profound
questions over what is most useful for policy. Is it a picture asserting an apparent
agreement, even where one does not exist? Or would it be more helpful to set out a
measured range of contrasting perspectives, explaining underlying reasons for different
interpretations of the evidence? Whatever the political pressures for the former, surely
the latter is more consistent both with scientific rigour and democratic accountability
(Stirling 2010). Thus a wider appreciation of the dimensions of risk and uncertainty 1s
essential if we are to avoid the dangers of creating illusory, control-based approaches
to change within agri-food systems.
208 |. Thompson and J. Sumberg

Third, underlying conventional approaches to agricultural research are often wider

assumptions about what constitutes ‘development’ and ‘sustainability’. Specifically,
the existence of an objective view of a problem and a singular path to ‘progress’ are
often assumed (Thompson and Scoones 2009). However, different people and groups
can have radically different views of both the nature of a problem and the most
desirable responses. They bring diverse kinds of knowledge and experiences to bear,
often combining informal and more experiential ways of knowing in contrast to the
disciplines and procedures associated with formal science (Stirling 2010). Rather than
singular notions of progress, it is increasingly clear that there is a multiplicity of
possible (and often contested) goals. By paying attention to these divergent views —
and the framings and narratives that underpin them — a pathways approach creates
opportunities to advance debates about sustainability and connect them more firmly
with questions of social justice.
Fourth, while concepts like integration, sustainability and resilience have come into
the agricultural mainstream, to some degree casual rhetorical usage has been allowed
to mask a lack of real commitment to change. In addition, the notions of integration,
sustainability and resilience are being co-opted into managerial and bureaucratic
attempts to solve problems that are actually far more complex and political than publicly
acknowledged. This has led some to suggest abandoning these terms altogether.
However, a pathways approach seeks to recast these as more explicitly normative
concepts. Rather than treat them in a general, colloquial sense — implying
the combining of parts or components so that they work together or form a whole
(integration); the maintenance of unspecified features of systems over time (sus-
tainability); or the ability to maintain form and function (resilience) — a pathways
approach is concerned with their specific political implications. Thus, from a pathways
perspective, integration relates to a context in which more and less powerful
actors negotiate and renegotiate roles and rights to resources to achieve sustainable
and equitable agricultural development. The fact that contestation can be expected around
each of these makes it essential to recognise the central roles of public deliberation
and negotiation.
In short, a pathways approach is a response to the pervasive tendency — supported
by professional, institutional and political pressures — for powerful actors and institutions
to try to ‘close down’ around particular ‘framings’ and commit to pathways that
emphasise stability and control. This tendency can, in turn, obscure alternatives that
may work better for poor people in particular situations and places. In contrast,
addressing the full implications of dynamics and incomplete knowledge requires an
‘opening up’ to methods and practices that involve flexibility, diversity, adaptation,
learning and reflexivity, and an alternative politics of integration and sustainability
that highlights and supports the alternative pathways (Millstone et al 2009).

Pathways, systems and political agronomy

As discussed above, competing framings and narratives concerning the challenges
facing agriculture and preferred response pathways are promoted by different actors in
 Contestation, pathways and political agronomy 209

specific contexts. While any explanation of why some of these framings, narratives
and pathways come to dominate while others remain marginal will necessarily
be multifaceted, governance — politics shaped by power relations and institutional
interests — must be a central consideration. This is at the heart of political agronomy
analysis.
To understand the politics around agronomic research and agricultural change, it is
useful to recognise three key dimensions of innovation — directionality, distribution
and diversity — or the ‘3-Ds’ (STEPS Centre 2010; Stirling 2011). With our interest
in political agronomy, we might consider these in relation to four closely related
‘systems’: the cropping system, the farming system, the innovation system, and the
agri-food system. Each of these systems can be characterised as ‘socio-technical’ or
‘socio-ecological’, in that they encompass social, institutional and political economic
elements on the one hand, and technical and agro-ecological elements on the other —
and in some important ways they articulate around agronomic research and practice
(Smith and Stirling 2010).
The notion of directionality is important because innovation in agricultural science
and technology often exhibits characteristics of path-dependency and lock-in. How-
ever, such innovation trajectories are not simple or necessarily linear (e.g. from less
to more technologically advanced agricultural practices). Instead, drivers of, and
constraints on, the directionality of innovation typically arise from historical, social,
institutional and political economy factors. Once directionality is established, how-
. ever, positive feedback can serve to reinforce the particular innovation pathway
taken, as shown in the analysis of maize innovation pathways in Africa (Thompson
et al 2010; McCann 2011) and research on biofortification of rice in the Consultative
Group on International Agricultural Research (see Chapter 5 in this volume). This is
evidence not of inevitability, but of the ‘crowding out’ of potential alternatives.
Likewise, locking-in occurs in the prioritising of certain areas of scientific enquiry
over others. The paths taken are far from inevitable: deliberately or blindly, the
direction of change is inherently a matter of social choice (STEPS Centre 2010).
Thus it is both the promise and the fear of path-dependence and lock-in, reinforced
by positive feedback, that puts much of the heat into contemporary debates about the
introduction and regulation of GM crops (Glover 2009; van Zwanenberg et al 2011).
Directionality matters in part because it helps to shape the distribution of the
various benefits, costs and risks associated with innovation. The fact that descriptors such
as ‘scale-neutral’ and ‘pro-poor’ are commonly used to refer to agricultural innovations
indicates that, to some degree, distributional effects are already within the realm of
agronomic research. On the other hand, debates over conservation agriculture
(Chapters 2 and 3) and SRI (Chapters 8 and 10) illustrate the level of contestation
over distributional issues. Again, the example of GM crops is particularly poignant, as
it has been used by some observers to highlight concerns about the changing dis-
tribution of autonomy and power among farmers, biotechnology companies, the state
and consumers (Scoones 2005; Glover 2009; van Zwanenberg et al 2010).
Finally, it is crucial to focus attention on whether the prevailing forms and levels
of diversity (e.g. in crop gene pools, agronomic practices and the resulting landscapes)
210 J. Thompson and J. Sumberg

are increasing or diminishing. In a world of even more momentum toward globalisation,

harmonisation and standardisation, diversity can easily be seen as retrograde. However,
there are strong arguments for the role of diversity in assuring the resilience and robustness
of agri-food systems (Stirling 2007). Only by nurturing a diversity of innovation path-
ways in agri-food systems can agronomic research contribute to greater food security
for the least advantaged and cultivate more sustainable and equitable food futures.
The argument we make here is that by addressing directionality, distribution and
diversity, a pathways approach can bring important social, technological and ecological
factors — and political actors and interests — into sharp relief. Thus a pathways approach to
political agronomy forces us to ask not only, ‘Yes or no?”, ‘How much?’, “How fast?’ and
‘Who leads?’, but also, ‘Which way?’, ‘What else?’, ‘Who says?’ and ‘Why?’ In so doing,
it can help shed new light on contestation around agricultural change in the developing
world and the role of agronomic research within it.

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INDEX

Page numbers in italics denote a table/illustration

ACT Network 37 agro-inputs industry 5

Africa: addressing of soil productivity crisis agronomic experiments 131—43; distinction
debate 78-79; agro-ecological between demonstrations and 132-33,
approaches to farming 74-76; agronomic 135, 137, 143; and extension officers
research in colonial 3-4; anthropogenic 134-35; and farmers’ practice 135,
dark earths (ADE) and biochar 64-81; 137-38, 143; gaps between science and
colonial agricultural policy 69-70; practice 135-38; Netherlands 135-38;
peri-urban areas of cities 111—12; and network building 134; and SRI 131,
political economy of agronomic research 132 3942S
69; renewed interest in agricultural agronomy/agronomic research 1—2;
intensification 75; water management criticism of 7, 10, 14; definition 1—2;
102-14; see also SSA (sub-Saharan Africa) new spaces for contestation 9-10;
African Biodiversity Network 77 operation within policy context 4;
African Union 1 political see political agronomy; as ‘state
Agenda 21 115 intervention’ 3-4
agenda-setting: and political agronomy Ahn, P.M.: West African Soils 70
IDS alley-cropping 70, 126, 190
agribusiness 3, 8 Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa
agricultural intensification 115-28; in (AGRA) 1, 110, 198, 199
Ambodilaingo 119-21; barriers to in Alternative to Slash-and-Burm (ASB)
Ambodilaingo 121-24; Boserup versus Programme 115
Malthus controversy 117, 124—28; Amazonia: anthropogenic dark earths (ADE)
constraints on 115-16 and biochar 66-67, 68-69, 71-73, 74,
agricultural policy processes 10-11 80; political economy of agronomic
agricultural research 1-15 research 69
Agricultural Systems (journal) 9 Ambodilaingo (Madagascar) 117; barriers to
Agriculture Coordinating Committee 32 agricultural intensification 121-24; cattle
Agritex 25 husbandry 120-21; intensification and
agro-biodiversity 6 extensification 119-21, 123; macro-
agro-ecology 6, 9, 11, 13, 72, 74-76, 81, economic constraints to land-use changes
205 121-22; policy constraints to land-use
agroforestry 70, 81 changes 122-23; poverty 122; relaxation
 Index 213

of ban on forest clearing 123; tavy Biotechnology Regulatory Authority of

cultivation 118-19, 123 India (BRAT) Bill 176
anthrax vaccine 133 BMGF (Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation)
anthropogenic dark earths (ADE) and 1, 9, 93, 191-92, 196, 198
biochar 13, 64-82; and Amazonia 66-67, Boserup, Ester 116, 117, 121, 124-28
68-69, 71-73, 74, 80; benefits 67; Bouis, Howarth 89
biochar projects in Africa 77-78; and Bounneuil, C. 3
carbon sequestering 64, 67, 72, 73, Braun, A. 156
76-77, 79; and climate change 73, 76, Brookfield, H. 127
78, 79, 80; expansion of in Africa and Bt Brinjal 175, 176
reasons 76—80; and fertilisers 79; initial Bt cotton 10, 205
ignoring of in agronomic research and Burkina Faso 109; farmer-led innovation in
reasons 65, 68-71; political agronomy 194
approach 65-66, 80-81; and politics of
scale 78; significance of 67; silence about CAADP (Comprehensive Africa
in Africa 67-68, 73-76 Agriculture Development Programme)
Asian Development Bank (ADB) 91 il, Tiki), “keke
carbon 127; soil organic 26, 39-40, 59, 73
Baglioni, E. 112 Carbon Gold 77
Baldwin, K.D.S. 189 carbon sequestration 12; and anthropogenic
banana breeding 196, 197 dark earths (ADE) and biochar 64, 67,
Baret, P.V. 12—13 HES Ws US VS,
Beard, John 91 GanaSas4
Beforona (Madagascar) 117—18, 122 see also Carson, Rachel: Silent Spring 5
Ambodilaingo cassava pest control 193, 197, 199
Berg Report (1981) 5 CAWMA (Comprehensive Assessment
Berry, Sara 189 of Water Management in Agriculture)
* beta-carotene: biofortification of crops 107
with 88 CAWT (Conservation Agriculture with
Bhaskar, Roy 125, 128 Trees) 40
Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation see Ceesay, M. 180
BMGF cell biology 5
biochar see anthropogenic dark earths Center for Global Development 192
(ADE) and biochar Centre for Sustainable Agriculture see CSA
Biochar Fund 76, 77, 78, 79 Centre for World Solidarity (CWS) 182
BioChar Products 77 CGIAR (Consultative Group on
biodiversity 6, 71, 75, 117, 127 International Agricultural Research) 2, 8,
bioengineering 5 10, 33, 49, 96, 191, 198; and
biofortification 205; definition 86; orange biofortification see biofortification of rice
fleshed sweet potato (OFSP) promotion (CGIAR); HarvestPlus Challenge
88; Quality Protein Maize (QPM) Programme 8, 12, 13, 14, 93-95
programme 87 CGIAR-NGO Partnership Committee 10
biofortification of rice (CGIAR) 12, Chayanoy, A. 126
86-97, 209; establishing feasibility CIAT (International Centre for Tropical
89-91; HarvestPlus Program 88, 93-95; Agriculture) 93
interdisciplinary collaboration 88, 97; CIMMYT (International Maize and Wheat
and IR68144/MS13 (high-iron rice) 90, Improvement Center) 22, S%), SiO), tow!
91-92, 93; negotiating programme-wide clean ripping 25
breeding targets 93-94; as a site of climate change 59; and anthropogenic
contested agronomy 87, 96; zinc- dark earths (ADE) and biochar 73, 76,
biofortified rice 94-96, 97 78, 79, 80
Biofuelwatch 77 collaborative research 13-14
Biopesticides Research Consortium (BRC) Comprehensive Africa Agriculture
181 Development Programme see CAADP
214 Index

Comprehensive Assessment of Water Darwin, Charles 132

Management in Agriculture (CAWMA) DDT (dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane) 5
107 de Laulanié, Father Henri 139-40, 142
Congo 105 De Schlippe, Pierre 138
conservation agenda: and water Deacon, D. 194
management 106-9; see also soil deforestation 71
conservation Del Mundo, Angelita 91, 92
Conservation Agriculture 9, 10, 22, 47, 205, demonstrations: distinction between
209; advantages 24; definition 22, 30-31; experiments and 132-33, 135, 137, 143
in Mexico 61; principles of 22, 24, 50; DED: (OK)i22, 32933053
spread of 24; and sustainability 23, 37 Diemer, G. 108
Conservation Agriculture (Indo-Gangetic dimensions of innovation (the “3-Ds’ —
Plains) 15, 48-61; challenges 50-54; directionality, distribution and diversity)
crop residue management 52-54; 209
problems 61; Rice-Wheat Consortium direct-seeded rice 55, 58, 59
(RWC) 49, 50, 51, 60; zero-tillage (ZT) directionality: and innovation 209
wheat 49, 50, 51, 53, 54-61 Directorate of Rice Research (DRR) 180
Conservation Agriculture (SSA) 22-42; — dissenting agronomists 13, 175-83
contesting suitability of 37-40; and crop diversity 209-10
rotation 40; equation with ‘farming Dobelmann, Jean-Paul 138
God’s way’ 22, 23; formation of double no-till rice-wheat systems 52, 53,
epistemic community 11, 13, 22-23, 32, 55-56
33-35, 37, 41; problem with mulching drought-tolerant maize 10, 205
38; and soil organic carbon 26, 39-40; droughts, Sahel 6, 70, 104
successful diffusion of and reasons 34-37; Dufumier, M. 126
and weeds 38-39; Zambia 33; in Dumont, René 138
Zimbabwe 13, 23-37 Duveskog, D. 156
Conservation Agriculture with Trees dynamics: of agronomic research 209;
(CAWT) 40 of contestation within agronomic
Conservation Farming (CF) 30, 31, 33 research 175; of innovation processes
Conservation Farming Union (Zambia) 40 207; of success 190; tactical dynamics
conservation tillage 51; in Zimbabwe 24, within agricultural policy processes
2529 625, 27287 29-30 187
Consultative Group on International
Agricultural Research see CGIAR Earth Summit conference (1992) 5, 75
Contill project (Zimbabwe) 25-26, 29 East African Groundnut Scheme 3
Convention on Biological Diversity East Timor: Seeds of Life programme
(1993) 6 135
Cotton Research Institute 24 Egypt 67-68
crop pest management see pest Ekise, Isaac 151
management environmental movement 2, 5-6, 15, 47
crop residue management: as challenge to environmental stewardship 22
Conservation Agriculture in Indo- epistemic community 73, 204; and
Gangetic Plains (IGP) 52-54 Conservation Agriculture 11, 13, 22—23,
crop rotation: and Conservation 52, S3-30s vest
Agriculture 22, 24, 54 Epistles of Horace 205
crop variety protection, strengthening of Erenstein, O. 57
laws governing 5 Ethiopia: drought (1980s) 104; lowland
cropping systems 12, 115-17, 125, 190, sorghum breeding programme 13
198, 209 ethnopedology 71
CSA (Centre for Sustainable Agriculture) BU2
177, 182 evidence-based policy 33
cutworms 39-40) evolution, Darwin’s theory of 132
CWS (Centre for World Solidarity) 182 Experimental Agriculture (journal) 9
 Index 215

extensification 127; and Ambodilaingo Gabre-Madhin, E.Z. 192, 195

119-21 Gaia Foundation 77
extension officers 134-35, 136, 137 Gaia theory 73
Geertz, C. 152-53
F1 hybrids 13 gender: gendered analyses of agriculture in
Faidherbia albida 40 SSA 188; gender relations 70, 110;
failure, learning from 189 gender differences in indigenous soil
Fairhead, J. 74, 75, 126 knowledge 152; gender segmentation in
fallowing 24, 70, 71, 74, 75, 116-17, 124 the labour market 58
FAO (Food and Agriculture Organization) genetic engineering/GM crops 5, 11,
22538235 12-13, 86, 90, 176, 209; and Bt Brinjal
farmer field schools (FFS) 146, 168 175, 176; and ‘drought-resistant’ crops
farmer participatory research 7, 138 107; field trials of 134; and Golden Rice
farmer-first approaches 7, 105 87, 205; see also biofortification
farmer-led organic research 23 German Technical Agency (GTZ) 25
farmers: and agronomic experiments 135, germplasm 55
137-38, 143; nghts of 6; and SRI 141 Gezira Scheme (Sudan) 3, 104
Faulkner, E.F. 51 Giller, K.E. 37
Fenichel, A. 189 Global Conference on Agricultural
fertilisers: inorganic 70, 75, 79, 81, 154, Research for Development (GCARD) 207
155, 157, 166, 180; micro-dosing 32, Global Environment Facility 115
33; 35 Global Forum on Agricultural Research 10
Festinger, L.: When Prophecy Fails 35 Global Rice Science Partnership 97
Field Crops Research (journal) 9 Glover, D. 134
field trials 134, 136; ‘as church’ in Folk Golden Rice 10, 87, 205
Ecology Initiative (FEI) 156-58 Graham, Robin 89
Fisher, Ronald 137 Green, G.M. 74
” Folk Ecology Initiative (FEI) 147-70; Green Revolution 3, 6, 7, 9-10, 48, 54,
adaptive learning component 149, 151; 60, 105-6, 140
broadening indigenous soil knowledge Guinea 75
beyond ethnopedology 152-53;
challenges and implications 156, 168-70; Haas, Jere: 22) 91
community interviews (barazas) 154; Haggblade, Steve 192, 195
evolution of activities 154-56, 155; hand hoeing 25-26
experimentation styles 169; farmer Hansen, James 73
groups 150, 151, 156, 160-61, 166; HarvestPlus Biofortification Challenge
field trials as ‘church’ 156—58; Program 14, 88, 93-95
implementation of and funding 148-49; HarvestPlus Global Zinc Fertilizer Project
legume-cereal rotation 155, 155, 156, 96
157, 158-68, 159; and mother-baby Haryana Agricultural University 52
model 152; objectives 151; participatory Hazell, Peter 195,-197
tools used 149; resource quality trials Henderson Research Station 24
155, 155, 156; study sites 149, 150, Henke, C.R. 134
153-54; team and approach 151-52 Highlights from Millions Fed (booklet) 192-94
Food and Agriculture Organization see FAO Honey Bee grassroots innovation network
food crisis (2007-8) 1 181
food prices (2010-11) 1 Horace: Epistles 205
Foundations for Farming (formerly Hudig, Joost 136
Farming God’s Way) 31, 33 hybrid maize 10, 47, 153
framing: and political agronomy 11—12
Freire, Paulo: Pedagogy of the Oppressed 6 IAE (Institute of Agricultural Engineering)
French Centre for Rural Innovations 77 24, 26
Friedrich, T. 22 ICRAF (World Agroforestry Centre) 22,
furrow irrigation 103, 112 40, 115
216 Index

ICRISAT (International Crops Research International Food Policy Research

Institute for the Semi-Arid tropics) 22, Institute see IFPRI
Bil, GPE, Gls, BAO iSill, Ney” International Maize and Wheat
IFPRI (International Food Policy Research Improvement Center see CIMMYT
Institute) 89, 90, 93, 186, 191, 192, 196, International Monetary Fund (IMF) 5
198 International Rice Research Institute see
India 47, 175-83; and Bt Brinjal 175, 176; IRRI
and Conservation Agriculture see International Treaty on Plant Genetic
Conservation Agriculture (Indo- Resources for Food and Agriculture
Gangetic Plains (IGP); dissenting (ITPGRFA) (2004) 6
agronomists 177—78; national maize internet 10
breeding programmes 87; new context IR68144 90, 91-92, 93, 94
of agricultural science in 175-77; and IRRI (International Rice Research Institute)
NPM (non-pesticidal management) 13, 50, 88, 91, 94, 95, 96, 97, 140, 180
180-82; rice-wheat systems 47, 48—49, irrigation: and African agricultural water
BOWS. 53-55). 57, 5S) O0rrand eSRol, management 103-5; furrow 103, 112;
177, 178-80 IGP 54, 59; informal/indigenous 105-8,
indigenous agricultural technology 106, 141 109, 110; reasons for poor performance
indigenous knowledge 7, 69, 70, 71, 72, ofin Africa 104-5; and SRI 139;
79-80 N15 R52 in SSA 12
indigenous soil and water management 6,
70, 71, 103, 106-8, 109, 110 Japan: industrialisation project and
Indo-Gangetic Plains (IGP): and agronomic research 3
Conservation Agriculture see
Conservation Agriculture (Indo- Kassam, A. 22
Gangetic Plains); political economy as Kenya 14, 112; and Folk Ecology Initiative
impediment to change in 60; water crisis see Folk Ecology Initiative; furrow
in north-west 59 ungation 112
informal/indigenous irrigation 105-8, 109, Kenya Agricultural Research Institute
110 (KARI) 168
information and communication knowledge: challenges of knowledge
technologies (ICTs) 9 generation 135, 138, 146ff.; knowledge
innovation: key dimensions of 209-10 conflicts 183; knowledge systems 151,
inorganic fertilisers 70, 75, 79, 81, 154, 152; incomplete knowledge 10, 207-8;
bye). WSL, Wetoy, thkske indigenous 7, 69-72, 74, 79-80, 151
INRA (National Agronomic Research Kumar, Mahender 180
Institute) 139 Kyoto Protocol 76
Institute of Agricultural Engineering (IAE)
24, 26 Lal, Rattan 40
integrated pest management (IPM) 9, 15, Latin America: participation agenda 7
30, 180 Latour, Bruno 133-34
intellectual property regimes (IPRs) 5, 6 Laxmi, V. 57
intercropped maize 158, 159, 159, 163, Leach, M. 74, 75, 126
166, 167 legume-cereal rotation see Folk Ecology
Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Initiative (FEI)
Change 11 Lehmann, Johannes 73
International Assessment of Agricultural Levidow, L. 134
Knowledge, Science and Technology for Levine, R. 192
Development (IAASTD) 11, 207 Liebig, Justus von 132
International Biochar Initiative 73, 77 Lovelock, James 73
International Centre for Tropical
Agriculture see CIAT McGuire, S.J. 13
International Crops Research Institute for Madagascar 12, 121-22, 139; see also
the Semi-Arid tropics see ICRISAT Ambodilaingo
 Index 217

maize: breeding of 87, 148, 154, 189, 193, no-till tied ridging 24, 25, 26, 27, 28
196, 197, 199; and DAP 167; drought- nomenclature: as challenge to CA-based
tolerant 10, 205; hybrid 10, 47, 153; technologies in Indo-Gangetic Plains
intercropped 158, 159, 159, 163, 166, (IGP) 50-51
167; quality protein (QPM) 87; yields 38 non-pesticidal management (NPM) 13,
maize innovation 209 176, 177, 180-82
Malawi 15 nullius in verba 205
Mali 105, 112, 196 Nye, P.H. and Greenland, DJ.: The Soil
Malthus, T. 124-28 Under Shifting Cultivation 70
market gardening: and African cities Nyerges, A.E. 74
111=12
Mazoyer, M. 126 Office due Niger (Mali) 3, 104
Mazzucato, V. 152 Oldreive, Brian 29-32, 33, 35
Mearns, R. 126 opaque2 maize 87
Mexico: Conservation Agriculture 61 orange fleshed sweet potato (OFSP) 88
Millennium Ecosystem Assessment 11 organic farming 6, 180, 181
Millions Fed (book) 192, 194-95, 196 (Ohae, fae 5
Millions Fed project 188, 191, 191-96, Onsa 5190
199 Ostrom, E. 126
Millions Saved project 192
Misiko, Michael 151 Paarlberg, Robert: Starved for Science 75-76
mixed farming model 4, 13, 69 PACA (Professional Alliance for
modernisation: and water management Conservation Agriculture) 52
109-10 Pakistan Punjab: and crop residue retention
Monbiot, George 81 53; and ZT wheat 55
Monsanto 47 Pandya-Lorch, R. 188, 192
Moris, J. 106, 107, 108 participatory research 2, 6-8, 14, 15, 47,
~ Morrison, K.D. 127 204; criticism of 7, 146-47
Mosse, David 188 participatory plant breeding 138, 143, 152
mother-baby model: and Folk Ecology participatory soil fertility management
Initiative (FEI) 152 146-71; context for research 147—48;
Mozambique 103, 112 see also Folk Ecology Initiative
MS13 92, 94 participatory technology development 7
Mukalama, John 151 partnership 13
mulch/mulching 22, 30, 31, 33, 36, 109; Pasteur, Louis 133
benefits 38; problems of 38; retention of path dependency 13
crop residue as 49, 50, 52-53, 59; pathways approach: and political agronomy
understanding of as “God’s blanket’ 23, 204, 206-8, 209-10
30933 peer-reviewed journals 9
mulch ripping 25, 26, 27, 28, 29 Peete ei26
pest management: and cassava 193, 197,
National Agronomic Research Institute 199; integrated 9, 15, 30, 180; and NPM
(INRA) 139 131769 77130—82
natural resource management 7 Phalaris minor 51, 59
neoliberal project 2, 5, 7, 8, 15, 47, 70, Philippine Rice Research Institute
105, 204 (PhilRice) 92
NERICA rice 10, 15, 190, 205 pit systems 31, 38
Netherlands: agronomic experiments Plant, Soil and Nutrition Laboratory
135538 (PSNL) 89
Netherlands Indies 137 planting basins 23, 30-31, 32, 33, 34, 36
NGOs 10 planting pits (tassa) 108-9
Niemeijer, D. 152 political agronomy 2, 11-15, 64, 204-10;
Niger 108; farmer-led innovation in 194 agenda-setting 112-13; framing and
Niger Agricultural Project 3, 189 narratives 11-12; partnership 13;
218 Index

pathways approach 204, 206-8, 209-10; ripping 24, 25, 26

and political ecology 64-65; validation Ritchie, J.M. 15
and use 14-15 River of Life Church 33
political ecology 64-65 Rockstrom, J. 111
political economy 2, 3, 48, 69, 127, 206; rotavator tillage 52
and Conservation Agriculture 47—61; Rothamsted Research 77
and expansion of biochar in Africa 76, Roudart, L. 126
77-18 Royal Society Fellows 133
politics: of humanitarian relief 32; of Rupela, O.P. 177, 178, 181-82
knowledge 65, 66, 68, 69, 73, 76; of rural social movements 8
scale 78; of success 187 RWC (Rice-Wheat Consortium) 49, 50,
populist agronomy 105-9 51, 60
Prayog Parivar 181
Precision Conservation Agriculture (PCA) Sahel drought 6, 70, 104
31 Satyanarayana, Dr Alapati 179, 180
private-sector investment 5, 8-9, 47, 49, science: relationship with farming practice
64, 176, 204 132
Pro-Natura 77, 78 Scoones, I. 11
Professional Alliance for Conservation sebakh 67-68
Agriculture (PACA) 52 Seeds of Life programme (East Timor) 135,
Punjab Agricultural University (India) 52 138
Senadhira, Dharmawansa 90
Quality Protein Maize (QPM) programme Senegal 105
87 Shapin, Steven 133, 134
Sierra Leone 105, 135
Rainfed Farming Project 188 Sinclair, Thomas 179-80
rainfed systems 53, 59, 107-8, 109, 111, slash-and-bum cultivation 12, 115, 117; in
113-14 Ambodilaingo (tavy) 118-19, 123
rainwater harvesting 106 Smith, B. 189
Ramanjaneyulu, G.V. 177-78 social justice: and nghts and empowerment
Ramesh, Jairam 175-76, 182 6; and sustainability 206, 208
Ramisch, Joshua 151 Society for Elimination of Rural Poverty
Ramsay and Innes 69 (SERP) 182
Rap, E. 34 Society for Research and Initiatives for
reduced tillage 38, 39, 40-41, 51-52 Sustainable Technologies and
reflexivity: learning and 208; as a logical Institutions (SRISTI) 181
response to incomplete knowledge 10, soil conservation 24, 29, 37, 69-70,
81 109-10
Renee 108 soil fertility management, participatory seé
religion: and Conservation Agriculture participatory soil fertility management
30-32, 33-34 soil organic carbon (SOC) 26, 39-40, 59,
resilience 111, 208, 210 7S)
rice 52, 53; biofortification of see soil organic matter (SOM): and
biofortification of rice; direct-seeded 55, anthropogenic dark earths (ADE) 67;
58, 59; NERICA 10, 15, 190, 205; and and carbon sequestration 12
System of Rice Intensification see SRI soil research 69-71
rice straw 53 soil and water conservation (SWC)
Race Wars controversy (2004) 179 approaches 6, 25, 30, 106, 107, 109-10,
Race-Wheat Consortium see RWC 111
rice-wheat systems 47, 48-49, 50, 51, Sombroek, W. 68, 72
53-55, 57, 58, 60; double no-till 52, Sourou river valley (Mali): rice planting
53, 55-56 2S
Richards, Paul 135, 138; Indigenous South Asia: absence of long-term trials as
Agricultural Revolution 105 challenge to CA 50; liberalisation in 47;
 Index 219

participatory approaches 47—48; see also terra preta see anthropogenic dark earths
Indo-Gangetic Plains (IGP) (ADE) and biochar
southern corn leaf blight epidemic (1970) 6 TerrAfrica 79
Spielman, DJ. 188, 192 Thakur, A.K. 177-78, 179, 180
SRI (System of Rice Intensification) 9, 10, Third Inter-African Soils Conference
13, 14, 131, 132, 139-42, 183, 205, 209; (Guinea) (1959) 70
benefits 178, 180; as contested Thiyagarajan, T.M. 177—79, 180
agronomy 139-42; emergence of 139; Thom, D. 106, 107, 108
environmental benefits 178; in India tillage: benefits of 38; conservation see
177, 178-80; and network building 142; conservation tillage; effects of on soil 26;
principles of 139, 178; visibility of effects reduced 38, 39, 40-41, 51-52
as key to its development 141—42; Timmer, WJ. 137-38
worldwide promotion of 178 Tittonell, Pablo 151
SRI International Network and Resources tragedy of the commons 126
Center 178 transcendental realism 128
SRI Learning Alliance 179 Tropical Soil Biology and Fertility Institute
SSA (sub-Saharan Africa): agricultural (TSBF-CIAT) 149, 154, 170
success stones 186-200; anthropogenic
dark earth soils and biochar 13, 64-82; UN Framework Convention of Climate
Conservation Agriculture in see Change 76
Conservation Agriculture (SSA); mixed United States: reduced tillage 51;
farming model 4; success stories 186-200; state-funded agricultural research 3
water management 12, 102-14 Uphoff, Norman 179
state: and agronomy 3 USAID Office of Nutrition 89
Striga 155, 156, 159, 162, 163, 166-67
Structural Adjustment Programmes (SAPs) validation and use: and political agronomy
55 8 14-15
~ sub-Saharan Africa see SSA Vanlauwe, Bernard 151
success: contesting of 187, 188; defining Vanloqueren, G. 12-13
188-89; factors associated with 187, 196, Vincent, L. 108
198
success making 189-91; effects of on Waite Agriculture Research Institute 89
agronomic research 198-99 WARDA 190
success stories, agricultural 186-200; Washington Consensus 5
categories 191; important role of in water management 102-14; constraints
policy processes 187-88; linkages in African agriculture 102—3; examples
between efforts to publicise 196; list of of dynamic innovations in 111-13;
197; main message in 195; and Millions in-field 107, 108; informal/indigenous
Fed project 191-96, 199; and irrigation 105-8, 109, 110; large-scale
photographic images 195; reasons for irrigation (1930s-80s) 103-5;
interest in 186-87 modernisation versus conservationist
Successes in African Agriculture 186, 195, 196 framings of rural society 109-11, 113;
Sudan 3, 104, 105 populist agronomy and the conservation
Sumberg, J. 41 agenda 105-9; retreat from investment
sustainability 23, 37, 49, 60, 106, 126, 128, in formal irrigation 105; separation
175, 206, 208 between ‘irrigated’ and ‘rainfed’
System of Rice Intensification see SRI agriculture 107—8, 111, 113-14
systems, socio-ecological/socio-technical Watts, M. 126
209 wealth distribution gap 7
weeds: and Conservation Agriculture 38-39
tavy (slash-and-burn cultivation) 118-19, Welch, Ross 89
128) wheat-rice systems see rice-wheat systems
technology lock-in 13 Wiggins, S. 187, 188
termites 38 Wissuwa, W. 96
220 = Index

women: as beneficiaries 93; role in revolution’ 189; relief programmes for

agriculture 7, 39, 91, 195; vulnerability 32-335
HAO, ali? Zimbabwe Conservation Agriculture
World Agroforestry Centre see ICRAF Taskforce see ZCATF
World Bank 5, 196, 198 zinc-biofortified rice 94—96, 97
World Development (journal) 195 ‘Zinc Saves Kids’ supplementation
World Wide Web 10 campaign 96
zero-tillage wheat (ZT) 49, 53, 54-61;
Zai pit system 31, 38 advantages of 51; dis-adoption 57;
Zambia: Conservation Agriculture 33 environmental aspects 59; equity
Zambia National Farmers Union 33 implications 58-59; impacts of adoption
Zambian Conservation Farming Unit 35 of in Indo-Gangetic Plains (IGP) 54-59;
ZCATFE (Zimbabwe Conservation measuring adoption 56-57; measuring
Agriculture Taskforce) 33, 35 impact 57—58; potential yield
Zimbabwe: Conservation Agriculture in enhancement 55; productivity and
13, 23-37; economic decline 32; land profitability 54-56; success of in IGP 51
redistribution programme 32; ‘maize ZX drills: 52; 53; 56757, 58
 ‘This is an important and necessary book. For too long agronomy has been
used as a means to increase productivity of only a few crops responsive to high
inputs. By contextualizing the science economically, socially and politically,.
we learn of its potential as a system science that can serve more than the
stockholders of major input providers.’
Professor Cornelia Flora, lowa State University, USA

‘Explored through, compelling case studies, this book is a gripping account

of the recent history of agronomy and agricultural research, and how these
disciplines have been shaped by emerging challenges such as climate change,
erratic weather, and increasing food prices.’
Professor Judi W. Wakhungu, Executive Director, African Centre for Technology Studies

The dramatic increases in food prices experienced over the past four years, and
their effects on hunger and food insecurity, as well as human-induced climate
change and its implications for agriculture, food production, food security and
poverty, are key topics within agronomy and agricultural research.

Contested Agronomy: Agricultural Research in a Changing World addresses these

issues, exploring three key developments since the mid-1970s — the emergence
of the neoliberal project, and the rise of the participation and environmental
agendas — and considering their profound impacts on the practice of agronomic
researchin the developing world over the past four decades. Through a series of
case studies, the book explores the basis for a much needed ‘political agronomy’
analysis that highlights the impacts of problem framing and narratives, historical
disjunctures, epistemic communities and the increasing pressure to demonstrate
‘success’ on both agricultural research and the farmers, processors and
consumers it is meant to serve.

While a fascinating and thought-provoking read for professionals in agriculture

and environmental sciences, it will also appeal to students and researchers
wanting to understand more about the dynamics of agronomy, agricultural
science and agricultural policy in the developing world.

James Sumberg joined the Knowledge, Technology and Society Team of the
Institute of Development Studies at the University of Sussex, UK, as a Research
Fellow in 2009. Before that he taught at the University of East Anglia, UK and was
Director of Programmes at the New Economics Foundation.

John Thompson joined the Institute of Development Studies in 2006 as a Research

Fellowin Knowledge, Technology andSociety, where heserves as Joint Coordinator
of the DFID-funded Future Agricultures Consortium, and Co-Convenor of the
Food
and Agriculture Domain of the ESRC-funded Centre for Social Technological and
Environmental Pathways to Sustainability (STEPS) Centre.

ISBN 978-0-415-50714-1

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