Vasana Chinvarakorn
Bangkok Post
May 14, 2002

The findings of the first study into World Bank-financed Pak Moon Dam which directly involved local people are soon to be released. Is it, like previous reports critical of the project, doomed to fall on deaf ears?

He’s nothing if not a humble man. His given name is Suwan Khluikaew but all his fellow fishermen along the Moon River know him as Phor Sua.

He’s always quick to point out how “limited,”  how small is the scope of his knowledge. And yet what he does know about geology and zoology is probably more profound, more comprehensive than what is taught in many graduate schools.

Ask him about the extensive reefs partly submerged by the Moon, and Phor Sua will reel off the names of different kinds of rocks, names specific to their size, width, depth and height. And then he’ll tell you what kinds of fish are to be found in these different habitats. In college they’d call it taxonomy, but Phor Sua probably wouldn’t know that word. For he’s not in the business of showing off knowledge; he and the other fishermen need this information to earn a living. And their survival depends on the survival of the fish. The blasting of even a few of these reefs could disrupt the entire riverine food chain.

A crevice is classified according to its size, and the way Phor Sua recites the different terms, for everything from the smallest crack to the largest opening, he could almost be reading poetry. Hoo jing ping is a tiny, tiny hole; its diameter no more than half a centimetre. Hoo jong pong is slightly bigger – about two centimetres across. Then there’s Hoo joorng poorng – also called hoo jeng peng – which can be as much as a metre wide, big enough to allow water and certain species of fish to flow and glide in and out. The largest opening in these partly submerged reefs, hoo kuerk wuerk, is more akin to an underwater cave since its mouth can up to four metres wide.

Pedantic precision is not the name of the game here. Phor Sua has never bothered to use a ruler or a measuring tape to work out exactly how many centimetres across each crevice is. But the degree of sophistication he demonstrates – it must have required years of observation – is surely comparable to that of an engineer who has specialised in hydraulics. Just a quick glance at an opening in a reef and Phor Sua can tell you which class of crevice it is, and what function it performs in the overall riverine ecology.

More, even though it has never been put down on paper, the “cosmology” of each type of reef has long been common knowledge to the fisherfolk of the Moon.

And what a complex web of knowledge it is! That ordinary looking mass of rocks which Phor Sua points out, turns out to consist of a myriad of underwater labyrinths, a succession of slopes, faults, clefts, trenches, navigable passages, whirls, tidal currents. Whereas academic studies of rapids are still in their infancy, Phor Sua can confirm right off that these porous stretches of rock are vital for the oxygenation of the Moon and the enrichment of downstream habitats for aquatic insects and other invertebrates as well as for fish.

And that’s still only the tip of this mountain of folk knowledge.

With a pair of eyes that could beat the most state-of-the-art mapping system, Phor Sua can estimate how deep and how large an underwater hole (khum) is, whether it’s composed of solid rock, or mud, or both, what kind of fishes congregate there, and how to catch them.

“But I can only tell you about the places where I usually fish,” he said in characteristically humble vein. “Other spots will have different features, perhaps. You’ll have to ask the other fishermen.”

“Please don’t call me phlarn pla – that would mean I’m a guru who knows everything and that I’m definitely not. I only know a bit here and there. Personally, I’d rather be called khon ha pla [someone who searches for fish].”

Phor Sua may not rate the knowledge he’s gleaned during four decades of fishing the Moon very highly but it is this self-taught epistemology that has enabled him and thousands of other Isan fishermen to feed themselves and their families as well as sustain an extremely rich culture – a culture that’s now on the brink of extinction thanks to the building of the Pak Moon Dam.

The dam gates have been opened temporarily pending an evaluation by Ubon Ratchathani University. And a parallel research project dubbed ngarn wijai taiban (grassroots people’s research) has been undertaken by the Chiang Mai-based NGO, Southeast Asia Rivers Network (Searin). Phor Sua and some of his peers have been recruited as “specialists” for the programme.

“Our role was mainly in initiating and supporting the writing process,” explains Searin director Chainarong Sretthachua. “The first research was conducted in the month and a half [in 1999] when the dam’s sluice gates were first opened. We went around collecting the names of fish species that were returning to the river. But our methodology back then was very simple – only a few people were involved – and thus highly prone to error. Each fisherman is an expert on his own area but our staff, our research assistants, weren’t even familiar with the names of all the different fish. We had to revise the name of one fish no less than 10 times!”

“But gradually, we have tightened our protocol, in order to ensure that the information is accurate, can be verified and has been passed by all the fishermen involved.”

The latter point, the stamp of approval from the locals themselves, is of the utmost significance.

The research covers three broad areas: fish species, flora species, and fishing gear. To study each category, a panel of “experts” was appointed, numbering about 18 individuals – enough to cover the different zones of the Moon’s diverse topography.

“Over a hundred villagers participated in nominating and choosing who they considered to be the most knowledgeable on each area,” Chainarong continues. “The people appointed to a panel are asked to attend a round of meetings to share their knowledge on this and that species of flora and fauna, and so on.”

This “grassroots people’s research” is certainly an innovative idea but it has had to overcome several obstacles already. Synchronising the timetables of all these “experts” has been far from easy; for when they’re not out fishing to feed their family, they are often taking part in the on-going campaign to persuade the government to decommission the dam permanently. An even greater challenge, according to Chainarong, is reaching a consensus, finding a way for people from diverse backgrounds to arrive at some common ground – agreeing, for instance, on fishing techniques and riverine vegetation.

“These two subjects are quite complicated as they tend to be locality specific and each fisherman usually has his own styles of catching fish,” Chainarong points out. “Consensus is comparatively easier to reach when it comes to fish species.”

“In the course of our studies we have discovered that to verify any topic, unanimous consent from at least 10 fishermen is a must. By the way, a distinct feature of this alternative type of research is the democratic nature of the pursuit of knowledge. The discussion is not tainted by hierarchies, by power or seniority; it’s conducted on the basis of who has a really thorough knowledge of such-and-such subject.”

So far, the panels have identified 135 species of fish, about 200 plants and herbs, and over 60 types of fishing tackle. To the delight of local people, rare fish species like pla nok khao, and herbs like khrai and somkung have slowly returned since the dam gates were opened. Of the four types of fish once common in these riverine reefs, Chainarong says that two – pla poo hin and pla kaek hin – have already been spotted.

But enumeration is only the beginning. The very process of pooling and sharing information is a crucial link between present and past, a way of preserving age-old knowledge (the 13 years that the anti-dam protest has been on-going equals the loss of almost a whole generation’s worth of learning) as well as empowering the villagers to stand up to the Establishment.

“Indigenous knowledge has often been dismissed as backward or as sheer sentimentality,” says Chainarong.  “But actually these villagers know far more than academics. They’ve been catching fish for decades. Can a university professor say the same?”

And just whose expertise has been acknowledged? A look at the fish ladder next to Pak Moon Dam, which few fish have ever negotiated, prompts the question: just how valid is modern science? A study by the World Commission on Dams (WCD) found that this so-called “run-of-river” dam produces only 40 megawatts of electricity during its peak season, in April and May, less than one-third of the output projected in the original feasibility study. The entire dam project cost $265 million – 10.1 billion baht in exchange rates at that time. Has that huge investment yielded benefits of the same scale?

Now, whose account – the academics’ or the fishermen’s – is proving to be false?

Indeed, the controversy over Pak Moon Dam has generated a new discourse revolving around the negative impact of dams. Even at the height of the hype, when the dam was being promoted as a symbol of progress, Soam Wongphan, a “specialist” on the flora panel, was unconvinced; she’s long been sceptical about claims made by the authorities since she witnessed the havoc which Sirindhorn Dam wrought on communities in its vicinity.

Phor Sua puts it very simply: no matter how many fish people catch, without a dam, there are still plenty of them left; with a dam, no matter how much people try to conserve fish stocks, there are still none to catch.

Closely intertwined with the debate on the merits and demerits of dams is a re-examination of the issues of development, poverty and public participation. Unlike economists, who seem totally preoccupied with monetary considerations, villagers stress the importance of food security and the freedom to choose. And, increasingly, they are showing their determination to fight against what they deem to be injustice.

Fong Phukhaothong knows well the high cost of “modernisation”. When his children moved to work in the cities, he was constantly worried about their welfare, about whether they would be lured into drug abuse, prostitution or other vices.

“They said that decommissioning the dam would cost the government two billion baht a year. But let us consider how many thousands of families in southern Isan, from Ubol Ratchathani to Korat, rely every day on on the Moon as a source of food.

“If someone was to offer me a million baht to stop the protest, I wouldn’t take it. They have taken away our land and our forest, and we only have the river left. Please leave us some breathing space. Don’t choke us to death.”

Less clear among villagers negatively affected by the construction of the dam is how best to deal with its legacy – from the proliferation of a giant weed called maiyarap and the loss of certain types of fish and herbs to the break-up of their communities.

Some, though, have found strength in adversity.

Chainarong of Searin says he’s observed how different villages have strengthened their ties through watthanatham huk-paeng (bonds of fraternity), an old custom in which resources – everything from fishing grounds to equipment and techniques – are shared.

“And this leads to peaceful co-existence between river-based communities and those further inland. Each year villagers participate in the clearing of communal fishing grounds called luang.

“Mainstream research is too rough [imprecise] to recognise the complexity of rural modes of production. Say, a villager spends the whole day working in his fields, then borrows a friend’s boat to go fishing for three hours and earns a few hundred baht in the process. Under which category, farmer or fisherman, will you put him? And how will you calculate the value of his investment and his return?”

Judging from the State’s track record – it ignored the WCD’s harsh criticism of Pak Moon Dam – Chainarong does not hold out much hope that the authorities will be convinced by the findings of Searin’s ngarn wijai taiban project.

The real audience for this alternative research is, he says, the general public. But will those in the cities understand and appreciate this unconventional form of knowledge? Or at least understand enough to support the villagers’ attempts to have Pak Moon Dam permanently decommissioned?

Phor Sua is a quiet, observant man who’s caught some wily fish in his day. He’s been involved in the anti-dam protest since it started 13 years ago but getting the dam scrapped is one quarry which has always eluded him. He wouldn’t like to venture a guess as to what the future holds in store. He may very well have to return home empty-handed.

“I’ve spent time and money. I’ve risked my own safety during some of those clashes. I’ve had to borrow money to pay medical bills, and I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay my debts.

“Nor do I know if my skills will survive. Without the river, without fishermen, what can be taught?”