In 'Ecuador's Yasuní Biosphere Reserve: a brief modern history and conservation challenges', Matt Finer and colleagues draw from a wide literature to describe the overlapping jurisdictions, confusing designations, and conflicting imperatives that are the Yasuní Biosphere Reserve. Yasuní's complexity is emblematic of 21st-century conservation landscapes world-wide: products of long isolation at the global periphery, they are erstwhile biological and cultural refuges transformed into contested and violent resource frontiers (Peluso and Watts 2001). At stake in how those contests play out in Yasuní is its spectacular biodiversity, and the ability of its indigenous residents (including Waorani and others living in voluntary isolation) to enjoy their rights as enshrined in the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (United Nations 2007).

The authors review several promising recent initiatives for strengthening both conservation and indigenous rights in Yasuní. These include legislative efforts to curtail oil and road development, innovative carbon-marketing schemes, territorial mapping, constitutional amendments, enhanced military presence, and the promotion of sustainable development projects.

Each of these measures is vital and important. But Yasuní's history alerts us to the instability of such measures. Government administrations change, and with them the political commitment to particular programs. Further, carbon markets are economically untested and vulnerable to international price volatility (Ma'anit 2008), militarization of natural areas is a double-edged sword (Sawyer 2003), and tourism-based development projects rely on the goodwill of fickle first-world consumers. Furthermore, such measures as these are largely exogenous. While they may work on behalf of and with Yasuní's indigenous residents, they do not begin with them—that is, Waorani are typically consulted mid-stream (at best) within the project development process.

For conservation and human rights to be advanced in Yasuní, it is imperative that Waorani be meaningfully involved at the very first 'brain-storming' sessions at which particular futures for Yasuní are envisioned—whether those meetings be in the offices of Ecuador's Ministry of Environment, the Wildlife Conservation Society, or UNESCO. After all, a central if implicit message of Finer et al's work is that Waorani goals for their homeland should not only complement but actually take precedence over those of other entities. Indeed, this is their right, as Yasuní's residents and defenders (see Article 26, United Nations 2007). Moreover, ensuring that right is good for biodiversity: there are now innumerable studies showing that the most effective constituents for biodiversity conservation are usually the target area's long-term residents (see, e.g., Nygren 2004).

A major challenge, however, is that Waorani may not always behave like ideal 'forest caretakers'—as Finer et al make clear and as one of us (ZP) has experienced. Some sell bush meat; others live in cities. They are often antagonistic with each other, and in their dealings with outsiders they can be disorganized, unruly, easily co-opted, and unpredictable. How then, can they be taken seriously as central to successful long-term conservation management in Yasuní? We suggest that a way forward begins with a closer look at standard sources of outsiders' frustration with Waorani.

First, there is the need to re-examine preoccupation with Waorani conservation 'transgressions'. Localized overhunting and occasional collusion with loggers does not undermine the fact that Waorani will remain the most invested long-term actors in landscape-level conservation (see Holt 2005). Similarly, it is tempting to see any alliances between Waorani and oil companies as a disavowal of their conservation credentials. But such actions should be assessed dispassionately. Waorani have never been truly 'free' to give or withhold consent to oil company overtures; the outcomes of their negotiations have always been ruthlessly overdetermined by gifts (see Rival 2000). No people can be expected to effectively manage such a spectacularly unequal relationship. Instead, it is the responsibility of the state to ensure that oil companies be held accountable for upholding universal human rights and respect in their dealings with all citizens (see also Martínez et al 2007, Napolitano and Ryan 2007).

Second, it is true that Waorani are far from the 'organized collective' with which outsiders would ideally wish to collaborate (see, e.g., Hale 2001). But it is important to recognize, as Finer et al point out, that Waorani were not historically a cohesive entity; internal divisions run deep. Nevertheless, Waorani have demonstrated considerable political savvy in their ongoing search for territorial justice for all (see, e.g., Kane 1995). Yet marshalling that political acumen within a functional organization has proven very difficult. This is in part due to time: two or three generations since sustained contact is not long enough to competently adopt and adapt the westernized governance models necessary for effective negotiation with outsiders. But this evolving ethno-political process has also been profoundly distorted by the onslaught of powerful parties seeking to influence it (see High 2006/2007). Today, for example, the Spanish oil company Repsol provides most of the operating budget of the Waorani Federation, NAWE. Even such seemingly benign entities such as NGOs and researchers contribute to a vicious cycle that undermines the development of an effective Waorani governing body: in the absence of such a body, external groups tend to work with specific communities or individuals; this process exacerbates Waorani internal divisions through the unequal distribution of project benefits. In addition, some Waorani are actually included in so many different projects that they find it difficult to parse the difference between them, let alone find the time and breathing room to help develop their own collective initiatives and political positions free from outsider influence.

Building on the points above, a third imperative is to be patient. Effective conservation alliances evolve slowly and painstakingly. Flashy, short-term conservation successes are too often eroded in the long term by inattention to the priorities of (indigenous) residents who will collectively endure long beyond the lifespan of any single organization, budget cycle, or state entity. In Yasuní, this means that effective conservation initiatives must be built, from their inception forward, on meaningful dialogue from a range of Waorani to capture the breadth of their priorities. Some conservation groups are making great gains in this direction, but it is important to remember that there is a difference between programmatic inclusion of Waorani (i.e., ensuring their input into a project) and the programmatic prioritization of Waorani's autonomously-defined goals (see also Chapin 2004). The latter is not easy. Collaborators will find their alliances strained, frustrating, contentious, 'political', and probably more trouble than they appear to be worth. But the task will be made more manageable if outsiders accept their actions as the power plays that they are, expect such challenges, budget money and time for them, and enlist personnel trained to facilitate inter-cultural dialogue so that Waorani desires are properly understood. Any other approaches risk long-term alienation of the only stakeholder with a demonstrated multi-generational commitment to Yasuní.

References

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