Changing Customary Marine Resource Management Practice and Institutions: The Case of Sasi Lola in the Kei Islands, Indonesia

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World Development Vol. 28, No. 8, pp. 1461±1479, 2000 Ó 2000 Published by Elsevier Science Ltd. All rights reserved Printed in Great Britain 0305-750X/00/$ - see front matter

PII: S0305-750X(00)00039-5

Changing Customary Marine Resource Management Practice and Institutions: The Case of Sasi Lola in the Kei Islands, Indonesia CRAIG C. THORBURN * University of California, Los Angeles, USA Summary. Ð Sasi, the spatial and temporal closure of ®elds, forests, reefs and ®shing grounds, is a conspicuous feature of many Moluccan societies. Despite increasing domestic and international awareness and praise of what is considered by many analysts to be an exemplary indigenous resource conservation tradition, the practice is in decline in many parts of the Thousand Island province, and in many villages has disappeared altogether. This study examines the practice of managing Trochus niloticus (Topshell) harvests in Ohoirenan, a village on the eastern coast of Kei Besar in the District of Southeast Maluku. Trochus is one of the most important sources of cash income for Kei villagers, and until recently, for the district government as well. Since 1987, trochus has been classi®ed as a protected species in Indonesia, and regulations have been issued to regulate the cultivation, harvest and transport of this and other protected species. This article brie¯y introduces Kei customary law and property relations, followed by a description of sasi and its application to reef habitats and trochus harvests. Examining a territorial con¯ict between Ohoirenan and a neighboring village, and more recent contention arising from government e€orts to protect the species, the article explores issues of society±nature and state±society relations as pertain to natural resource management in Indonesia. Sasi continues to function as an exemplary common property resource (CPR) management institution in Ohoirenan, assuring equitable distribution of the bene®ts deriving from controlled extraction of a local resource. But, erratic and uneven enforcement of ``one-size-®ts-all'' centralized conservation policy and law, combined with collusion and self-interest on the part of various parties, combine to threaten both the resource and the institutions that have successfully and sustainably managed it in this region. Within the context of a centralized, state-led natural resource management system, the national species protection precludes the establishment of sensible, mutually bene®cial co-management regimes that could serve the interests and employ the inherent knowledge and capabilities of local communities, traders, and government agents. Ó 2000 Published by Elsevier Science Ltd. All rights reserved. Key words Ð Asia, Indonesia, coral reefs, common property, indigenous knowledge

1. INTRODUCTION Indigenous knowledge systems, traditional resource management institutions and common property regimes are increasingly viewed as important and underutilized resources to help curb or reverse the environmental destruction that often accompanies economic development in Third World countries (Posey, 1992; Gadgil, Berkes & Folke, 1993; Alcorn, 1994, 1995; Ciriacy-Wantrup & Bishop, 1975; Berkes, 1989). These same analysts assert that increasing state control over territory and resources and/or increased integration into larger circuits of production and trade undermine these venerable institutions, with grievous social and environmental consequences.

The champions of indigenous knowledge systems contend that generations of accrued experience has generated knowledge based on trial and error and an intimate understanding of the intricacies and particularities of local environments. Di€ering epistemological and classi®catory orderings are not cause to dismiss this knowledge as unscienti®c or irrational. Redford and Padoch (1992) explicitly reject a

* The author would like to thank Judith Carney, Nancy Peluso, Charles Zerner, Ian Dutton, Lore Ruttan and two anonymous reviewers for their comments on earlier drafts of this article. I am solely responsible for any remaining errors, and for the opinions expressed here. Final revision accepted: 15 January 2000.

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view that places modern and rational at one end of a continuum of progressive change opposite traditional (and, by comparison, backward and unchanging). Rather, they de®ne traditional resource management as ``historically constituted practices that respond to the local environment, to internal cultural demands and values, and to external forces.'' When institutions are unable to adapt to changing situations, they lose their vitality and legitimacy, and become irrelevant. Nor do all these historically constituted practices necessarily boast roots reaching far back into antiquity. Bolstered by a burgeoning literature on developmentÕs failures (Sachs, 1992; Escobar, 1992; Amin, 1996; Norgaard, 1994), and endowed theoretical heft from postmodern conceptions of ``counter-hegemonic regional discourses,'' the indigenous knowledge discourse is gaining new currency (Peet & Watts, 1996, pp. 15±16). The indigenous knowledge systems argument meshes with a broader discourse on common property regimesÐbasically a sustained, multidisciplinary rebuttal of Garret HardinÕs grim vision of impending tragedy if the worldÕs commons are not privatized or otherwise regulated by strong states (Hardin, 1968). Common property, a ``well-de®ned set of institutional arrangements concerning who may make use of a resource, who may not make use of a resource, and the rules governing how the accepted users shall conduct themselves'' (Bromley & Cernea, 1989, p. 15), must be distinguished from open access. Champions of common property argue that HardinÕs simplistic reduction con¯ates the commons with ``open access,'' neglecting the existence of an array of institutions, regulations, norms and traditions that mediate access to shared resources and territories in many places throughout the world. Like indigenous knowledge systems, common property institutions are vulnerable to destruction by state e€orts to exert centralized authority over resources, or loss of local control through integration into capitalist circuits of production and trade (Monbiot, 1993). Long before Hardin coined the tragedy metaphor, natural resource economists studying ``the ®sheries problem'' formalized what has come to be known as common property theory (Warming, 1911; Gordon, 1954; Scott, 1955). 1 Fisheries inherently lends itself to this sort of reasoning, involving multiple users exploiting the same ®nite resource. Lately, ®sheries again

®nds itself at the forefront of the natural resource management policy debate, this time as source of co-management schemes involving sharing of authority and responsibility between state agencies and stakeholder groups. Comanagement is described as a partnership wherein the national government and local communities share authority and responsibility for ®sheries management (Pinkerton, 1989; Dale, 1989; Ward & Weeks, 1994; McCay & Jentoft, 1996; Schlager & Ostrom, 1993). ``The ®sheries problem'' has proven particularly unresponsive to centralized state management and conservation e€orts. Due to their physical proximity and vested interest in the long-term viability of the resource, the argument goes, local communities should play a major role in controlling access to and exploitation of local ®shing grounds. The International Center for Living Aquatic Resource Management (ICLARM) is conducting a multiyear study of ®sheries comanagement in some 40 sites in Asia, Africa and the Paci®c, aiming to provide a set of globally or regionally applicable ®sheries comanagement models in selected aquatic resource systems, toward the goal of sustainable and equitable management of ®sheries in developing countries. According to ICLARM researchers, Indonesia has the greatest number of, and longest-enduring, traditional community-based coastal resource management systems in Southeast Asia (Pomeroy, personal communication, 1998; Suara Maluku, 1998). Furthermore, many of these systems are still operational, whereas in other countries in the region, they have for the most part disappeared. That these local community institutions continue to pertain and adapt in an era of rapid socioeconomic change is a subject of intense interest to ICLARM and many other domestic and international research establishments. 2. THE KEI ISLANDS The Kei Islands in Southeast Maluku comprise three main islands: Kei Kecil, Kei Besar, and Dullah, plus another hundred or so small, mostly uninhabited islands scattered to the west and north of the three large islands (see Figures 1 and 2). Tual, the administrative capital of the Southeast Maluku district, is located on the island of Dullah. Tual is located 528 kilometers southeast of Ambon, the provincial capital, and thousands of kilometers

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Figure 1. Indonesia (source: David Lindroth, Inc.).

Figure 2. Kei Islands, Indonesia (source: David Lindroth, Inc.).

away from Jakarta. The total population of the Kei Islands is about 106,000. KeiÕs local economy is a mixture of subsistence agriculture and ®shing, with copra and topshell (Trochus niloticus, called lola in Indo-

nesian) exports providing cash income. The other main sources of income on the island are remittance from the large numbers of Kei people who migrate to other provinces, and government projects. Since the 1970s, ®sheries

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has been the fastest growing sector of KeiÕs economy, however much of this is conducted by foreign and national ¯eets, with little participation from local ®shers. Kei Island society shares many characteristics with other parts of the Spice Island province, including a class system, hereditary moieties and nobility, and ``stranger kings.'' 2 There are presently 19 kingdoms in Kei, called Ratschaap. 3 An aspect of Kei and other Moluccan cultures that has gained considerable renown is the practice of sasiÐspatial and temporal prohibitions on harvesting crops, cutting wood or gathering other products from the forest, tidal zone (meti) or village-controlled sea (petuanan laut), also cursing, slander, arguing, ®ghting, harassing or raping women, loud music, and other untoward behavior. 4 In addition to its ritual signi®cance of mediating relations between human communities and spirits of ancestors, the land and seas, sasi serves the very practical functions of making sure that nobody takes what does not belong to them, that fruits ripen before picking, that trochus and other reef invertebrates be allowed to reproduce and grow, that migratory or spawning ®sh are allowed to accumulate, and that sucient food or funds can be gathered for communal events or activities. The Dutch colonial government had little interest in Kei, and maintained no presence there until the end of the 19th century. The ®rst Government Station (Posthouderschap) was established on Dullah in 1882. That same year, a German entrepreneur opened a sawmill to produce timbers for shipyards in Makassar and Batavia. It closed eight years later. The only other commercial endeavor to receive any attention was copra production. Kei islanders had long grown coconuts for local consumption, the government established a few plantations, and encouraged villagers to plant more trees on their own land. By the mid-20th century, copra from Southeast Maluku was considered to be among the highest quality produced in Indonesia. All coconut trees owned by community members are subject to a village-wide sasi (sasi umum or sasi negeri) usually declared once each year for a three or four month period. Leaving fruit on the trees does not a€ect overall yields, the purpose is to prevent people from picking young coconutsÐeven their ownÐto drink the coconut milk. This way, large amounts of copra can be harvested at once. The harvest is traded, and a portion of the proceeds are pooled to pay

tribute, taxes, village government expenses, or for communal activities or projects. 3. LARWUL NGABAL: CUSTOMARY LAW IN KEI Sasi, called hawear or hawear balwirin in the Kei language, is the best known manifestation of customary Kei law known as Larwul Ngabal. According to local legend, this law was proclaimed by newly arrived ``stranger kings'' from Bali in two separate episodes sometime during the 16th or 17th centuries (Rettob, 1987; Renyaan, 1981; Rahail, 1993). The proclamation of law ended a long, dark epoch of KeiÕs history, referred to as ``Dolo Soin Ternat Wahan,'' meaning the age when Kei was on the periphery of the Jailolo and Ternate kingdoms far to the north. This period is described as a time of lawlessness, murder, pillage and intrigue (Rahail, 1993). The articulation of Larwul Ngabal law marks the beginning of Kei civilization in its current form, when people were able to form villages and live in relative peace. Larwul Ngabal is among the most formalized and fully articulated adat law scripts found in the Moluccas. It consists of seven maxims, each further elaborated by numerous speci®c prohibitions and sanctions. Kei people take this law very seriously, believing that the alternative is a return to the mayhem of yesteryear. Most adults can quote the following verses verbatim, and discuss the various subclauses and stipulations. Uud entauk na atvunad (Our head sits on the nape of our neck). Lelad ain fo mahiling (Our neck is respected, esteemed). Uil nit enwil rumud (Skin of earth covers our bodies). Lar nakmot na rumud (Blood is encased within our bodies). Rek fo kilmutun (Marriage relations should occur in a pure, hallowed place). Morjain fo mahiling (A womanÕs place is respected, esteemed). Hira I ni fo I ni, it did fo it did (A personÕs possessions are his own, ours belong to us). As obscure as they may seem, local people believe that these seven edicts form the basis of social relations in the Kei Islands. The ®rst four combine criminal law (i.e.: ``Thou shalt not killÕ) with an elucidation of the proper order of things, while numbers ®ve and six stress the sanctity of marriage and the respect accorded

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women. Number seven forms the basis for Kei property law. Sanctions for those who violate these laws are generally quite severe, ranging from public humiliation, to payment of gongs, brass cannons or gold taels, exile, or death by drowning or being buried alive. 5 While sasi might be the most widely acclaimed facet of Kei adat, it is ``just the tip of a ®ngernail'' of what matters to the Kei people themselves (Rahail, personal communication, 1996). Marriage, inheritance and property relations are the aspects of Larwul Ngabal law most salient in Kei today. Sasi is but a small component of a complex body of indigenous property law. Kei society is divided into three classes, or castes, based on ancestry. Social position and political potentiality are determined by patrilineage. Various rights to land and other resources are heritable as well, and intricately linked to the institution of marriage. Terrestrial and marine territories are encumbered with a variety of rights. The most prominent are ownership (hak milik) and usage rights (hak makan, lit.: ``eating rights''). These span a wide spectrum from highly individual and highly exclusionary, to communal/exclusionary, to something approaching open access. Rahail (1995) describes a system of land holdings characterized by concentric circles, beginning with individually-owned household plots and gardens in the village (ohoi), surrounded by a communal outskirt of old trees and gardens where people burn rubbish (ohoi murin), then a zone of family-owned permanent gardens (rok). Further from the village, land is divided into shifting cultivation zones (kait), communal hunting and gathering zones (varain), sago (Metroxylon spp.) palm forest (meon), and high forest (varain vaeon). In practice, nearly all land in Kei is now subject to private ownership by individuals or clans, there remain almost no village or communal holdings. Marine territory, on the other hand, is still nearly all communally owned and managed, with each village claiming a section of inshore sea called petuanan laut. 6 Petuanan laut boundaries are straight lines running perpendicular to the villagesÕ land boundaries, as far as the blue sea. 7 These boundaries have names replete with legend and meaning, usually there is some conspicuous feature such as a promontory, a stream, or a rock. Crossboundary shared usage rights for land are fairly common in the Kei Islands, originating from earlier migrations, intermarriage,

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assistance in warfare or other hardship, or requests, oaths and contracts between ancestors. Like ownership, these usage rights are inheritable, however can be revoked at any time by the original owners. Often, usage rights for land include the stipulation that the guest tenant may not plant tree crops, because this implies a more permanent claim being established. Disputes over land ownership are very rare in Kei. Conversely, disputes and warfare over marine territory have been a prominent feature of Kei society at least since Dutch explorers and ocials ®rst recorded their observations in the mid-19th century (Lasomer, 1985; Hoevell, 1890). Presently, there are three unresolved boundary disputes simmering in Kei Besar, that occasionally ¯are into pitched battles that result in burned-out neighborhoods, occasional deaths, and arrest and jail sentences for groups of village men. The exact location of the named boundaries is seldom the focus of these intervillage disputes, rather, con¯icts center on di€ering versions of local history and tenure, that place the boundary at a di€erent location altogether and thus confer rights to a section of marine territory to di€erent villages. The arrival of the Dutch in the closing decades of the 19th century brought many changes to Kei society. Social boundaries between the castes strati®ed and hardened, and colonial ocials attempted to shift the locus of governance from genealogical to territorial (Admiraal, 1939; Hoevell, 1890; Laksono, 1990). They only partly succeeded, adding layers of territorial order, but without diminishing the importance of geneology. When the Dutch arrived in Kei, a few villages had already embraced Islam, but most people still practiced their animist faith. Beginning in 1888, the Dutch sent missionaries, ®rst Catholic then later Protestant, to convert the population. Now, KeiÕs population is nearly evenly divided between the three religions, with Catholicism predominating, followed by Islam and then Protestantism. A small number still adhere to the traditional religion, now ocially classi®ed as Hindu. In keeping with the syncretism common to many Indonesian cultures, aspects of Larwul Ngabal soon melded together with colonial and church law. The respective rights and responsibilities of state versus adat village leaders in proclaiming and partaking of the yields of village sasi has been a matter of contention ever

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since the Dutch ®rst began meddling with village government structure, that still continues today. Closing and opening of sasi in most Christian villages is announced at the beginning of the Sunday services, and traditional ceremonies and oaths to place the sasi totems are followed by prayer and o€erings at the church. Many claim that this further reinforces sasi, that now in addition to tradition, sasi has the blessing and strength of the Christian God. Announcements in church, usually made by the secretary of the congregation at the beginning of the service, are replete with admonitions emphasizing how serious a matter this is. Individuals can also ask the church to sanction a sasi on their own crops. Church sasi (sasi gereja) protects individualsÕ crops and ®elds during those intervals between periods of communal village sasi. This performs the dual function of guarding crops, and paying tithes. When the person who has requested sasi gereja asks that the sasi be opened and harvests the crops, he or she then makes a contribution to the church. Sasi umum is signaled by placing a totem made from the plaited fronds of young coconutÐsometimes decorated with strips of clothÐat special sites designated by the ancestors as hallowed ground (tanah sakti), and sometimes at the edges of the area being placed under sasi. Individuals who have requested sasi gereja hang a coconut in a black plastic bag from a pole at the edge of their garden. The black plastic bag has replaced black cloth as a symbol of death and mourning. This is not a threat, rather a sign that this sasi is placed in respect of GodÐthe dead. In many villages there are also unsanctioned forms of sasi, placed by individuals or clans. These are generally frowned upon by both village and religious leaders, because they conjure dark forces and are redolent of the lawless, pre-Larwul Ngabal days. A common form is pig sasi (sasi babi), signi®ed by a pigÕs jaw hung from a crossbar between two poles. This carries a clear threat: those who violate sasi babi will see their own ®elds ravaged by wild pigs. Moslem villagers sometimes signal individual sasi by erecting a small thatch roof with a bottle of coconut oil hanging from the crossbeam. In some villages, this is condoned by the mosque in the manner of sasi gereja, while in others it is frowned upon as a vestige from the days before religion. Coconut is not the only local commodity subject to sasi. Individuals, clans or villages can

place sasi on sago trees or stands, sasi is used to forbid burning in certain areas or at certain times. Sasi is also invoked to protect sacred groves, or watersheds surrounding springs or streams (Benda-Beckmann, Benda-Beckmann & Brouwer, 1995). There are di€ering rules in many villages for marine sasi. Some villages enact sasi on the intertidal zone (meti), alternately closing portions of the coastal zone to allow plants and other organism to regenerate. This practice is intended to always provide an area where women and children can glean small ®sh, shell®sh and other reef products for their household needs, and appears to be grounded in an innate understanding of modern ecological concepts of natural regeneration and carrying capacity. While one portion of the meti is being utilized, other sections are closed o€ to allow populations of important reef organisms to replenish. There are also examples elsewhere in Maluku of sasi being closed during spawning season for certain locally important ®sh species, or to allow fry to attain optimal size before harvest 8 (Kissya, 1995; Basagio, 1995; Nikijuluw, 1994, 1995). Some villages in Kei close their entire meti for several weeks prior to the annual neap tide (Meti Kei) that occurs in September and October. They claim that this serves to enrich the harvest during the festive season when entire villages converge on the exposed tidal ¯atsÐstretching for more than a kilometer in some areasÐto collect shell®sh, ®sh, seaweed, sea cucumber (teripang or b^ eche de mer), and anything else they can ®nd. Again, these conventions appear grounded in an indigenous sense of population ecology and consumer-resource interaction. 9 4. MANAGEMENT OF THE TROCHUS HARVEST: SASI LOLA For villages on the east coast of Kei Besar, the most important commodity is the trochus shell. Trochus inhabit a well-de®ned area of coral reefs: the windward edge in shallow water generally no deeper than ®ve to eight meters (Nash, 1988). The narrow fringing reefs on the eastern coast of Kei Besar provide an ideal habitat for trochus. It is found in other parts of the Kei islands, but not in the concentrations encountered in the east coast reefs. Trochus shells are used to manufacture mother-of-pearl buttons, the leftovers are ground up and added to automobile paints to provide luster. Trochus grow to marketable size

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(about 6 cm. diameter) in less than two years. They continue to grow throughout their life span, however mortality increases signi®cantly after four or ®ve years. Shells larger than about 10 cm diameter are not good for button manufacture, the walls are too thick, and usually damaged by boring organisms (Amos, 1997). In a simple management regime, taking the easily-harvested adult trochus from a reef at two or three-year intervals should result in continued good harvests. More frequent harvests result in declining returns on e€ort, and can cause local extinction of the mollusc. An Asian market for trochus shells began to emerge in the 1870s, when Japanese men started to adopt western-style clothing fastened with buttons instead of their traditional kimono (Amos, 1997). Japanese buyers began visiting the Kei Islands in the 1920s and 1930s in search of the valuable shell (Rahail, personal communication, 1998). 10 Before that, the snails were eaten, and the shells thrown away. Trochus soon rivaled copra as the major source of income in many villages. Village leaders began to apply sasi to trochus ®sheries, and developed rules and ceremonies. Presently, nearly every village on the eastern coast of Kei Besar applies sasi to control the harvest of this important commodity. Over the past seven decades, the practice of sasi lola has evolved into an elaborate set of rituals replete with chants, invocations and festoonery. Sasi lola is opened for a very brief periodÐ usually only two or three daysÐat intervals ranging between yearly and once every three to ®ve years. The decision to open sasi is made by community elders. They explained that the timing is usually determined by some immediate economic needÐsuch as church or road construction, purchase or repair of a village electric generator, or periodic ®nancial hardship, leading villagers to request that sasi be openedÐand not on ecological considerations per se. 11 Sea and weather conditions are conducive only during certain times of the yearÐaround Christmas or EasterÐand several sources commented that opening sasi every year would be unseemly, greedy. Taking trochus when sasi is closed is a very serious crime, punishable by payment of one bronze canon to the village plus an additional monetary ®ne for the elder (Tuan Sasi) charged with overseeing sasi, and often a reward for the person reporting the theft. Some villages ban the use of goggles in their petuanan laut except during the brief period when sasi is open.

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Others allow them, so that villagers can spear octopus, lobster and ®sh, but with a strict admonition to leave any trochus where they lie. Some also ban ®shing with nets in their village petuanan. Many villages are also attempting to ban the use of a local poisonous root (Garcinia dulcis, Bhs. Indonesia: akar tuba) to catch ®sh, because of the damage it in¯icts on trochus and other reef organisms. 5. OHOIRENAN The village of Ohoirenan is located on the southeast coast of Kei Besar, about 18 km from Elat, the port and seat of the subdistrict government. It is a large village by Kei standards, with a population approaching 1,000 people. Founded in 1815, Ohoirenan is a relatively prosperous village. It has a ®ne white church and ministerÕs house, many dwellings are constructed of masonry, several have asbestos roofs. It sits perched in a small bowl facing the sea, with steep mountains rising on the other three sides. Houses cling to the hillsides, supported by lovely stonework terraces. During the eastern monsoon (May±September) Ohoirenan, like all the other villages on the islandÕs eastern coast, is pounded by high waves. Sea transportation and ®shing cease. Villagers must cross a steep ridge to neighboring Nerong, where they can ®sh, glean, or catch boats to Elat or Tual. During the past decade, the Government completed an all-weather road connecting Elat with the southern part of the island, but villagers in Ohoirenan still had to hike up a steep stairway and path to wait for the occasional minibus or truck. Recently, villagers built a road connecting the village to the main artery, that curves down the northern precipice at a hair-raising angle. They have also installed a four-kilometer pipeline to bring water from a stream in a neighboring village. Ohoirenan has only one very small spring, located near the top of the ridge. The primary reason for OhoirenanÕs prosperity is trochus. Ohoirenan has the longest coastlineÐsix kilometersÐof any trochus-producing village in Kei. Harvests average between seven and 10 tons each time they open sasi, the highest in memory was 16 tons in 1986. That harvest coincided with the best price ever paid for trochus in Kei: Rp. 16,000 per kilo. The total came out to just over Rp. 250 million, or about Rp. 285,000 (about US$140 at that time) for every man, woman and child in the village.

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For comparison purposes, the District of Southeast Maluku (this includes Kei, Aru, Tanimbar, and the Pulau-Pulau Terselatan, with a total population of over 265,000 people) local income (PAD) from taxes, user fees and government enterprises was slightly less than Rp. 1 billion that year (SE Maluku District Govt., 1987). Ohoirenan divides its reef territory (petuanan laut) into four equal-size zones. One of these, located just south of the village itself, is called the kongsi, 12 and all trochus harvested from here are used to ®nance village or church projects. The others are controlled by each of the three major ruling clans in Ohoirenan: Ubro, Ubra, and Rahakbau. The communal kongsi section is harvested more frequently than the others, nearly every year there is some project that requires money. 13 The entire petuanan is harvested at two or three-year intervals, during the Western Monsoon when the waters are calm. Beginning in the north, the elder of the clan responsible for that portion of the petuanan opens sasi with a brief ceremony thanking God and the ancestors, pleading for continued good harvests, and reviewing sasi rules. Following this, he dives, retrieves one shell, and with three cries of ``Hura!'' declares the sasi to be open. All village men and male youthsÐnot just those from the particular clan responsible for that section of the petuananÐ then rush into the water to search for trochus. They wear homemade goggles fashioned of wood or bamboo and pieces of glass, fastened with a strip of inner tube. A few years ago, the rules were changed allowing women and children to paddle canoes for the men to deposit trochus and catch their breath, but only men and teenage boys dive. A skilled diver can retrieve 20 or 30 kg of shells on a good day. The following day, the next section of the petuanan is opened with a similar ceremony, and the process is repeated from north to south, then again for a second round of sweeping up. In the evenings, villagers feast on chewy trochus meat. Each household collects its own shells for weighing later. Sasi is closed again until two or three years hence. Traders come to bargain for the trochus. Villages used to hold a silent auction, with the entire catch going to the highest bidder. Buyers are local merchants, usually Sino-Indonesians with shops in Elat or Tual. Di€erent villages have di€erent systems to divide up the catch. In Ohoirenan, the year this research was conducted, the catch was divided as follows:

Ulu hasil: every diverÕs ®rst shell from each day is donated to the village or church. Lola kongsi: all shells collected from the kongsi also belong to the village and church. Lola umum: shells collected from the other four sections of the petuanan are apportioned as follow: Ð60% of the total is pooled for redistribution to all households; Ð40% is allocated for the individual who collected the shells. 14 The 60% of the lola umum were pooled, and the proceeds divided evenly between villagers, with two shares going to each married couple, a single share to unmarried adults, widows and widowers, and a half share to each youth old enough to participate in village self-help (gotong-royong) projects. Younger children receive no shares. Ohoirenan villagers who live abroad are entitled to a share, if they are present when the proceeds are divided. Since sasi was opened in December during the year this research was conducted, many villagers who work in nearby Irian Jaya were home for the holidays. A few families from the neighboring villages of Nerong and Weduar, whose responsibility it is to manage boundary lands or whose ancestors assisted Ohoirenan in some long-ago war, are also entitled to receive shares. 6. THE OHOIRENAN±OHOIWAIT CONFLICT OhoirenanÕs northern neighbor is the village of Ohoiwait. Ohoirenan and Ohoiwait are both part of the kingdom (Ratschaap) of Lo-Ohoitel. The Raja of Lo-Ohoitel lives in Nerong. Larat, further south on the west coast, is the other village making up this domain. The name LoOhoitel means ``three villages.'' Ohoiwait, which means ``new village,'' is the fourthÐit was established during the late 19th century, much later the other three villages forming this kingdom, by people who migrated from northern Kei Besar and joined with a few local families to form a new settlement. Ohoiwait is a large village, with territory stretching across the narrow waist of the island. Ohoiwait comprises four separate hamlets: Kampung Atas and Bawah are located on top of and immediately below a steep blu€ on the eastern shore just north of Ohoirenan, two others named Matahollat and Wetuar are located on the west coast. OhoiwaitÕs territory forms a triangle, with only a small stretch of coast on the eastern

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shore. Its western coastline is much longer, but the shallow, sandy-bottom seas of Kei BesarÕs west coast yield very few trochus. In addition, a stream runs through Kampung Bawah, suppressing coral growth and diminishing trochus yields. When Ohoiwait opens sasi, they harvest only 400±700 kg of trochus, compared to OhoirenanÕs 7±16 tons. Over the years, people from Ohoiwait and Ohoirenan have intermarried. BridegroomsÕ families pay a bride price of cannons, gongs and gold, in return they are usually granted usage rights (hak makan) to plots from the bride familyÕs land. The hills between Ohoirenan and Ohoiwait are more easily accessible from the latter village, many Ohoiwait families have opened ®elds there. This is common practice in Kei, and not at all problematic, so long as the true boundary is acknowledged by both parties. Villagers in Ohoirenan can point out several old coconut trees planted by the Ubra clan just a few meters behind the church in Ohoiwait, as proof that this is OhoirenanÕs land. On the coast, a stone named Haorbob demarcates the border between the two villages. 15 Ohoiwait villagers also began using the shallow inshore area (meti) that fronts the area of land they now cultivate. They gleaned for ®sh and shell®sh, and installed stone weirs called bubu batu to entrap ®sh as the tide goes out. During the calm months of November through January, these were often supplemented with brush pile ®sh aggregating devices constructed of coconut fronds (karau or sero daun kelapa) 16 to entice and guide ®sh into the weir. As far as trochus was concerned, however, the area was still ®rmly controlled by Ohoirenan. As long as no one from Ohoiwait tried to take any trochus from OhoirenanÕs meti area, this situation of crossboundary resource use presented no problems. Trouble began during the Japanese occupation during 1942±45. WW II was a time of great privation in the Kei islands. Many villagers stopped farming and ¯ed their villages for forests in the interior. In Ohoirenan and Ohoiwait, Japanese troops forced villagers to gather trochus, which they stored in a warehouse on their base in OhoiwaitÕs Kampung Bawah. When the war ended, these shells had still not been shipped to Japan. A delegation from Ohoirenan came to Ohoiwait to request that their trochus be returned. OhoiwaitÕs leaders, reasoning perhaps that these shells were spoils left behind by a defeated army, refused and sold the shells themselves.

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Relations soured between the two villages, and Ohoirenan inhabitants began accusing Ohoiwait villagers of stealing trochus from their petuanan. In 1957, men from Ohoirenan demolished weirs and ®sh stakes constructed by Ohoiwait villagers in the petuanan area, and captured several men from Ohoiwait they suspected of stealing OhoirenanÕs trochus. OhoirenanÕs current Village Head, who was a young boy at the time, remembers these hostages being jostled by crowds and poked with spears and parang until they were ``bathed in blood'' (Rahallus, personal communication, 1998). That incident passed, but relations did not improve; 1964 and 1965 was a time of great political tumult in Indonesia, compounded in Kei by a series of long dry seasons. Ohoiwait c ame under attack from two sides. Ohoi El, OhoiwaitÕs northern neighbor and part of the rival Ratschaap of Mau Um®t, claimed that their ancestors had planted coconuts in land now controlled by Ohoiwait, and began ransacking ®elds. Ohoiwait, who countered that their ancestors had long ago paid compensation for those trees, went to war against its northern neighbor. Three villagers died, two from Ohoi El and one from Ohoiwait. Ohoiwait prevailed in the ®ghting, and again when the police arrived and deemed that Ohoiwait was the wronged party. Not long thereafter, Ohoirenan attacked to push Ohoiwait out of its petuanan once and for all. A brief ®ght ensued, but both sides retreated when War Captains from both sides received minor injuries. OhoiwaitÕs elders decided to sue. They demanded that the two villagesÕ respective rights and responsibilities be resolved by a higher authority. Southeast Maluku had no state court at the time, so the subdistrict Head (Camat) convened an Adat Court 17 comprised of several respected Raja and hereditary village leaders (Orang Kaya). The council decided that Ohoirenan controlled the land, but that families from both sides were entitled to use it, based on the well-established tradition of temporary usage rights (hak makan). That had never been the problem. Regarding the petuanan laut, they decided the best solution was a system of shared eating rights (hak makan bersama), with the two villages taking turns managing the sasi and harvesting the trochus. A descendant of one of the village elders who requested the hearing maintains that they were not seeking that Ohoiwait be granted

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ownership of the disputed territory, merely that the respective rights and responsibilities of each side be clari®ed and enforced (Koedoeboen, personal communication, 1998). The adat councilÕs decision provided considerable economic bene®t to Ohoiwait. They accepted it, and continue to argue that it is legal and binding. Ohoirenan villagers and leaders rejected it out of hand, calling it a travesty of justice and an a€ront to the ancestors (Rahallus, personal communication, 1998). The village government of Ohoirenan swore to appeal the 1965 decision. They never have, and that section of petuanan has been disputed (disengketa) ever since. For more than three decades, neither side has harvested trochus from the 1.2 km stretch of petuanan sengketa. According to villagers in Ohoirenan, this is some of the richest, most productive reef they own, potentially yielding as much as three or four tons of trochus each time they open sasi. Both sides warily watch over the area, making sure that no one attempts to harvest trochus or anything else there. Paradoxically, biologists from the Indonesian National Institute for Science (LIPI) speculate that this situation has created an unintentional marine protected area, or breeding reserve, that may help account for OhoirenanÕs continued good trochus harvest year after year (Dwiono, personal communication, 1998). 7. A COMMERCIALLY ENDANGERED INVERTEBRATE Trochus harvests in Kei have declined during the 1980s and 1990s, as they have in many other parts of the Indo-Paci®c region. As recently as the 1970s, traders purchased as much as 100±110 tons of trochus each year from Kei Besar, today the ®gure is only 60±70 tons (Liemen, personal communication, 1998). There are several reasons that help explain this decline. One major cause has been the abandonment of the coconut frond ®sh aggregating devices (karau) mentioned above. As the coconut leaves decompose, they disburse nutrients to the surrounding waters and reef, encouraging algae and plankton growth. Trochus niloticus graze on ®lamentous algae, and tend to congregate around these karau as they begin to decay. In addition, decomposing karau provide an ideal habitat for larval and juvenile snails. Villagers in Kei are aware of this connection, however, the availability of relatively inexpen-

sive nylon ®shing nets provides a far more ecient means of catching ®sh. Building a karau is a rather arduous task, and several people stand to bene®t from a single individualÕs e€ort. With nets, the ®sherman catches more, and retains the entire payo€ from his labor. Today, one hardly sees karau in Kei anymore. Another important factor is the declining condition of coral reefs in the area, caused by blast ®shing, potassium cyanide and local plant poison (akar tuba) use, and coral mining for construction. Live coral cover has been reduced by 20±40% in some villages on KeiÕs eastern coast, much more in other areas (Thorburn, ®eld notes, 1998). Blast ®shing is less pervasive along the eastern coast than in other parts of the Kei Islands nearer to local markets, but is still a factor. Recently, cyanide use for the hugely pro®table live reef ®sh trade has caused more damage. The large companies that engaged in this practice have left the Kei Islands, and the local entrepreneurs who have taken over the trade to date concentrate their e€orts in the more easily accessible coasts of Kei Kecil and western Kei Besar (Thorburn, forthcoming). A third factor is theft. Fishermen from other parts of the archipelago who are granted permission to harvest sea cucumbers often take trochus as well. Local villagers, too, are not above taking a trochus or two if the opportunity presents itself, despite the serious consequences of such an act. It is for this reason that Ohoirenan and some other villages ban the use of goggles altogether in their petuanan when sasi is closed. In 1984 IUCN added Trochus niloticus to its list of ``commercially endangered invertebrates,'' and recommended that steps be taken by countries in the South Paci®c and Indian Ocean regions to conserve remaining populations (Groombridge, 1993; Heslinga, Orak & Ngiramengior, 1984). Indonesia responded in 1987 by granting protected status to Trochus niloticus, along with 17 other marine species including black coral, giant clams, triton, robber crabs and chambered nautilus. 18 As a protected species, trochus could no longer be legally harvested and traded. In the Moluccas and other parts of the archipelago, the trade continued, though with each passing year, sporadic seizures, harassment, and increasing unocial levies rendered it less pro®table and more risky. In 1989 the District Head (Bupati) of Southeast Maluku

MARINE RESOURCE MANAGEMENT

sent a letter to the Provincial Bureau of Natural Resource Conservation (BKSDA, a branch of the Forestry Department) urging that the region be granted special status, in order that the harvest of trochus, an important component of the local economy, be allowed to continue. He reasoned that local sasi traditions were e€ectively conserving the resource, and that the communities of Southeast Maluku should not be unduly punished for other regionsÕ carelessness in managing their stocks. 19 Soon thereafter, LIPI biologists designated Southeast Maluku as an area with a high potential for trochus cultivation (budidaya), but stopped short of granting an ocial stamp of approval for local sasi practice. 20 During 1989±96, the Director General of Forest Protection and Resource Preservation (PHPA) issued guidelines for the legal capture, cultivation and transport of protected species. 21 Now, permits can be acquired by accredited businesses to harvest and trade trochus and other species produced by cultivation. For trochus, this involves fencing o€ a section of reef, and stocking it with 100,000 juvenile snails. The fence slowly disintegrates, and the trochus fan out across the surrounding reef area. Three years later, they can be harvested. The district Nature Conservation oce will then issue a permit for the transport and export of trochus procured in this manner. 8. TROCHUS CULTIVATION IN KEI Forestry ocials in Ambon and Tual encouraged local traders to apply for cultivation permits. In Kei, only one responded. In 1995, a local trading company named CV Multi Mutiara 22 was granted the ®rst such permit in the region. The cultivation scheme is a stratagem to circumvent the ban, all involved parties (including the Nature Conservation ocials who approved it) know this. Multi MutiaraÕs operation is located in the village of LerOhoilim, on the west coast of Kei Besar. LerOhoilimÕs shallow, protected, sandy-bottom seas, however, do not provide a good habitat for trochus. Villagers once attempted to enact sasi during the 1980s. After closing their meti for two years, they harvested a mere half-ton of shells from the six kilometers of sea fronting the village. They agreed it was not worth the e€ort, and have not tried since. In 1995, CV Multi Mutiara installed a fenced pen in a small cove at Ler-Ohoilim, that they stocked with about

1471

1,000 juvenile trochus snails purchased from another village. Provincial Nature Conservation ocials from Ambon arrived, took pictures, and issued a recommendation that CV Multi Mutiara be granted a trochus cultivation permit. No one from CV Multi Mutiara has been back to Ler-Ohoilim since. Armed with this impressive document signed by the Minister of Forestry, Multi MutiaraÕs owner managed to convince most villagers and traders in Kei that he possessed the sole legal right to purchase and ship trochus, e€ectively establishing a monopoly that allows the company to buy at whatever price they set. In fact, neither the district Nature Conservation oce, nor any other agency, has ever issued a single trochus shipping permit to CV Multi Mutiara since it received the cultivation permit in 1995. Ocially, all trochus leaving Kei are contraband, but to date the company has encountered no problems shipping the shells from Tual. Multi Mutiara had gradually been acquiring a monopoly even before the permit was issued. Its owner enjoys close relations with many government ocials in Tual and Ambon, and the company possesses its own ¯eet of boats, greatly facilitating loading and unloading. Many other traders had abandoned the trochus business during the years since the ban. Toko Asia Baru, previously the largest buyer in Kei Besar with annual purchases of 60±70 tons, stopped trading trochus altogether in 1993, preferring to concentrate on other, safer ventures. Provincial Nature Conservation ocials in Ambon are aware of the situation, but avow that their intention is to provide at least a semilegal window in order that the trade may continue (Rampelemba, personal communication, 1988). They protest that they had no intention of creating a monopoly situation, and that they have encouraged other local entrepreneurs to apply for permits. By the end of 1997, they still had received no new applications. In December 1997, Ohoirenan opened sasi and harvested 7,343.5 kg of trochus shells. They were the ®rst village in Kei to open sasi in the 1997±98 season. Multi Mutiara o€ered to purchase the lot for Rp. 11,500 per kilogram, the same price as the previous year. During the intervening year, the value of the Indonesian Rupiah had plummeted 85% against major currencies, and in¯ation was already seriously a€ecting its local purchasing power. Village

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leaders in Ohoirenan refused the o€er. Toko Kawan, a dry goods store in Elat that purchases all copra from Ohoirenan and supplies basic goods and construction materialsÐoften on creditÐto the village and villagers, made a slightly better o€er of Rp. 14,000 per kilogram. 23 The di€erence between the two o€ers came to nearly 18.5 million Rupiah. Ohoirenan accepted. Soon, a group, of provincial Nature Conservation ocials and district police and army ocers arrived in Elat, with the stated aim of ``providing guidance.'' CV Multi Mutiara paid all local transport and accommodation expenses for the provincial ocials. The group did not visit OhoirenanÐit was clear that their guidance would not be welcome. The Village Head had warned, ``If those people come to my village, they will not go home until this matter is resolved satisfactorily'' (Rahallus, personal communication, 1998). Ohoirenan then sent a delegation to meet with politicians and ocials in Tual, to seek redress. They only wanted to sell their harvest for a fair price, to the buyer of their choice. The head of Southeast Maluku District Government (Bupati) agreed to provide a Letter of Recommendation that Toko Kawan be allowed to purchase and ship the shells, a short-term expedient. The BupatiÕs letter, signed on January 26, 1998, stipulated that Toko Kawan must ``ful®ll, obey and adhere to all obligations according to regulations in e€ect,'' and ``coordinate with the relevant agencies regarding the development and continuation of this endeavor,'' and the recommendation expired three months after the date of issue. This letter comprised a rather serious breach of government procedure: trade in protected species is clearly the Directorate General of Forest Conservation and Nature PreservationÕs concern, the District Government has no formal authority in this realm. The letter generated a storm of controversy among local forestry, security, and elected ocials, constituting the Southeast Maluku District GovernmentÕs stamp of approval for an activity that is not only illegal, but also outside of its jurisdiction. Toko Kawan weighed and paid for the trochus, and in turn sold them to a buyer from Surabaya for Rp. 17,000, a gross pro®t of 22 million Rupiah. 24 Getting them out of Tual and into Surabaya became the buyerÕs problem. Between December 1997 and March 1998, another six villages in Kei BesarÐWeduar,

Keluair, Wako, Haar, Ngefuit and OhoielÐ opened sasi and harvested trochus. CV Multi Mutiara purchased them all, at prices ranging between Rp. 14,000 and 17,500 per kilo. These were shipped from Tual without diculty. Following this incident, two local entities, Toko Kawan and a Village Cooperative located in the (non-trochus producing) village of Dullah across the straits on Dullah Island, initiated application procedures to acquire Trochus niloticus cultivation permits. Both have letters granting permission to install nurseries from the Village Heads of bona ®de trochus-producing villages in Kei Besar: Toko Kawan from Ohoirenan, and the Cooperative from Haar, and both are following procedures as set down in the MinisterÕs and Director GeneralÕs guidelines. Just like Multi Mutiara, their reason is to obtain a semi-legal pretext that will allow them to purchase and ship (wild harvested) trochus from villages in Kei Besar. Ecologically and economically, this entire exercise is clearly unnecessary, but under the present legislation represents the only alternative to out-and-out smuggling. 9. CONCLUSION For all its renown and academic adulation, sasi is waning throughout much of Maluku (Novaczek and Harkes, 1999). Ohoirenan and the other villages of eastern Kei Besar present one of the best examples of functioning marine sasi in the entire region. Communal management of trochus stocks provides an important source of income for individual families and village community works, and to date, the trochus population remains robust. The coincidence of functioning sasi institutions and the continued viability of trochus populations in Ohoirenan is not, however, sucient to surmise that sasi conserves trochus or coral reef ecosystems. Causal relations, if they exist, surely move in both directions. In Central Maluku, where most sasi research has been conducted, the abandonment of sasi practices is often cited as a primary cause of the decimation of local trochus populations (e.g., Retraubun, 1996; Evans et al., n.d.; Lokollo, 1988). Conversely, a decline in local stocks exerts pressure on sasi institutions, contributing as much or more to their demise as other, external pressures. In many places in Central Maluku, villagers often have a hard time remembering which disappeared ®rstÐsasi or

MARINE RESOURCE MANAGEMENT

trochus? (Novaczek, personal communication, 1998). In the face of sasiÕs general demise, Ohoirenan, and a few other villages like it, are held up as examples of how things ought to work. There is unanimous admiration and support in Kei for the communityÕs preservation of its customary institutions and its reef ecosystems. Condemnation of CV Multi MutiaraÕs monopolistic practices and the Ministry of Forestry regulations that sanction them is almost equally unanimous, although a few apologists argue that they are simply making the best of a bad situation, indeed, are providing an important service by providing legal, manageable channels for a commodity that uncontrolled trade has driven to extinction in many other areas. The abandonment of sasi often coincides with privatization of access rights, di€erentiation in access to or control of technology and capital, and/or the weakening of a communityÕs ability to regulate entry and use of resources or territories. In many villages throughout Maluku, village government or adat leaders long ago opted for the expediency of contracting access rights to local reefs to itinerant ®shermen from Sulawesi or Madura as a more ecient means of generating revenue (BendaBeckmann et al., 1995; Bandjar & Zerner, 1996). Once community members begin to perceive that certain individualsÐoften outsidersÐare reaping a disproportionate share of the bene®ts from local resource extraction, they are less inclined to participate in communal management arrangements, or obey rules that they feel bene®t others at their expense. In most of these cases, the decision to subcontract access rights was usually made by individual village government leaders, without ®rst consulting the community at large (Novaczek & Harkes, 1999). External factors contributing to sasiÕs demise include economic changes and shifting power relations both within villages, and at higher levels of government. Examples of the former include the boom-bust clove market in Northern and Central Maluku, and the recent crash of the Indonesian economy and concomitant collapse of the Rupiah. With cloves, booming prices and production during the 1970s and 1980s, and the subsequent market failure after the establishment of a legal monopoly by Presidential Decree in the early 1990s both had an impact on marine sasi practice. First, many communities began to abandon communal

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harvest of trochus and other marine commodities, preferring instead to concentrate individual energies on more lucrative clove gardens. When the price of cloves plummeted, these same individuals desperately sought alternate sources of cash income, including trochus and anything else they could extract from the sea (Thorburn, ®eld notes, 1997). More recently, economic hardships following the general disintegration of the national economy led many village communities to waive sasi restrictions to allow village households opportunities to acquire badly needed cash. In Ohoirenan, for example, community leaders chose not to declare a village sasi on coconuts in 1997 and again in 1998, reasoning that everyone needed a source of ready cash to pay school fees and purchase basic supplies (Rahallus, personal communication, 1998). Until now, they still enforce sasi restrictions on trochus, but for how long? Shifting village government structuresÐ particularly after the implementation of the national Village Government Law of 1979 25Ð exert a powerful erosive force on sasi and other customary village institutions. This law was an attempt to establish uniform village government structures throughout Indonesia as the lowest tier in the New Order governmentÕs hierarchical system of territorial organization. At the stroke of a pen, the new law invalidated many traditional village government forms, replacing them with a model based on a combination of an idealized Javanese village government and military command structure (Warren, 1990; MacAndrews, 1986; Kato, 1989; Safa'at, 1996; Rohdewohld, 1995). Selection criteria and term limits for Village Heads (Kepala Desa) under the new law disentitled many traditional leaders from holding the position. In the ensuing power shu‚e, the question of who had authority to declare and enforce sasi or similar strictures became increasingly unclear and con¯icted in many villages. Local acts of civil disobedience and noncompliance were applied to demonstrate villagersÕ nonsupport for village government leadersÐone of the ®rst victims in many Moluccan villages was the practice of sasi. The latter scenario does not apply to OhoirenanÐthe current Village Head is also the genealogical heir to that position according to village adat, and under his leadership all other adat functionaries continue to perform their customary functions, and are accorded positions in the ocial village government

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structure. This is frequently the case in Kei, where the district government has often employed a rather liberal interpretation of the Village Government Law to allow local adat leaders to serve as government Village Heads. 26 In the case presented above, it is the combination of the Government of IndonesiaÕs ``onesize-®ts-all'' species conservation legislation and the implementing agencyÕs inability to accommodate local customs and institutions, combined with the monopolistic practices of the trading house that has been able to obtain legal sanction, that constitute the greatest threat to local sasi institutions, and the species and ecosystems they regulate. In a rapidly polarizing situation, the village community and leaders are loathe to conform to the letter of a law they see as bene®ting others while denying them a fair price for their product, and as disrespecting their own customary law. This exposes them to possible censure by zealous (or in¯uenced) conservation and security ocials, including possible con®scation of their valuable trochus harvest. Outlawing a communityÕs practices interposes a major step in the direction of lawlessness. Add to this the pressures stemming from the ongoing ®nancial and political crisis in the country, and the ability (and willingness) of OhoirenanÕs adat leaders to continue to enforce sound management of the trochus population could diminish. Such an outcome would be a true tragedy of the commons. It is indeed ironic that the vehicle that could potentially destroy a functioning, seemingly sustainable, community-based resource management system is the governmentÕs own e€orts to protect the same resource. This scenario is a signal example of social capital theory, which often portrays the state as one of the culprits in the demise of the community norms and interpersonal networks. According to this view, the expansion of formal regulation and bureaucratic organization tends to ``crowd out'' informal institutions and networks without providing the same range of values and functions, often leaving communities worse o€ (Coleman, 1990). Other theorists, however, writing from a neoinstitutional analysis perspective, stress the potential for synergy between civic engagement and e€ective state institutions (e.g., Putnam, 1993; Nugent, 1993; Evans, 1996; Tendler, 1997). Recalling the co-management concept presented in the introduction of this essay, it is clear that the Government of Indonesia, in

particular the Directorate General of Forest Conservation and Nature Preservation (PHPA), is squandering a rich vein of social capital that could and should be engaged to establish a synergistic co-management of coastal and marine resources in Kei and other areas where the sasi tradition is still maintained. The obvious ®rst step would be for the Indonesian Government to recognize and legalize sasi lola as a bone ®de form of community participation in environmental protection and natural resource management. 27 Once this step is taken, the district Nature Conservation oce, working together with regional universities and the National Institute for Science (LIPI), and with local communities and traders, could introduce modi®cations to sasi practiceÐsuch as more rigid minimum and maximum size standards, protected area or breeding reserve set-asides, altering the timing of harvests, rotating harvest of smaller patches of reef, reseeding of depleted reefs, and the reintroduction of traditional ®sh aggregating devices (karau)Ðto help guarantee the continued health of local trochus populations. The existence of functioning communityrun sasi institutions would signi®cantly increase the likelihood that such improved management technologies could be introduced, adapted and enforced. Asked whether such a scenario was likely, a local Nature Conservation ocer replied, ``Not a chance. Sasi is based on tradition, and on nature. Whereas cultivation is based on science'' (Raharusun, personal communication, 1998). 10. POSTSCRIPT Since this ®eldwork was completed, momentous changes have occurred in Maluku and Indonesia, that will have very profound e€ects on the future of local government as well as natural resource management in the region. In May 1998, the 32-year reign of President Suharto ®nally ended, signaling the close of the New Order period with its obsessive emphasis on narrowly-de®ned security, unity and development. The fall of Suharto signaled the beginning of a disorderly new era of change in Indonesia. Relationships between the state, the military, and civil society, and between the center and regions, have entered a new and unpredictable phase. This author, like so many

MARINE RESOURCE MANAGEMENT

others, long ago learned the pitfalls of attempting to prognosticate about political events in Indonesia, but it can safely be said that the country has embarked on a new era characterized by strong trends toward greater democracy and regional autonomy. During the brief tenure of SuhartoÕs handpicked successor B. J. Hababie, parliament passed sweeping new legislation to replace the regional and village government laws of 1974 and 1979, that grant far greater autonomy to district governments in managing their own a€airs. 28 It will be some time before the full e€ects of this new legislation can be observed. The Ministry of Home A€airs estimates that no less than 1,800 Presidential, Ministerial and Director GeneralsÕ decrees must be revised, revoked and/or replaced to accommodate the changes instituted by replacing these two laws. This number does not yet account for resource management, agricultural, forestry, ®sheries, and environmental conservation regulations, all of which are embedded in New Order power structures. The new government of President Abdulrachman Wahid, and the newly-empowered national parliament, have committed to pushing the regional autonomy agenda forward, and are even contemplating adopting some model of federalism to succeed the unitary state concept that formed the basis of previous governments. The new regional government law grants provinces and districts management authority over coastal seas, for the ®rst time since Dutch colonial legislation was revoked by the Indonesian government in 1960. Combined with entirely new arrangements for ®nancing local government, this could lead to sweeping changes in the way that licenses and permits are issued and regulations are formulated and enforced. Nowhere is this more important than the province of Maluku, which includes the most expansive, and arguably richest, seas in all of Indonesia. Unfortunately, since December 1998, Ambon and surrounding islands in Central Maluku have been engulfed in steadily

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worsening ethnic and religious strife. While Indonesia lurches toward democracy and local autonomy, Maluku is coming under greater military control in an e€ort to contain the escalating violence. Reform of local government and resource management laws are surely quite low on the provincial governmentÕs list of priorities. Martial law seldom coincides with increased opportunities for civil participation in decision-making, nor equitable and just distribution of the fruits of development. The con¯agration brie¯y spread to the Kei islands in April and May of 1999, when local Protestant instigators exploited a personal rivalry between two district ocials to attack Moslem villages in Kei Besar. Men from Ohoirenan and Ohoiwait participated in one of the bloodiest incidents of that con¯ict, when more than 20 men were slaughtered during Friday prayers at the mosque in Larat, on the west coast of Kei Besar. At the time this is being written, the situation in Ambon and Kei is still very unsettled and volatile. New fault lines have irrevocably altered the political map of Kei, and it is nigh impossible to surmise what e€ect these events will have on adat-government and state±society relations in the region, nor on the future of sasi, trochus, or for that matter, practically all facets of Kei livelihoods, production, economy and politics. The unfolding situation in Indonesia and Maluku opens up promising new avenues for research, and for development of new forms of state-adat cooperation. The impact of changes in national and regional government on local institutions and relations, along with the fate of informal networks and customary practices in the wake of recent sectarian violence, could provide new insights into the resilience and adaptability of these local structures. Once it becomes possible to visit the region again, this study can provide a useful benchmark to gauge the direction, form, impact and e€ectiveness of post-New Order transformations in the politics of resource management in IndonesiaÕs outer islands.

NOTES 1. The terminology can be somewhat confounding: McCay (1992) uses the term ``common property theory'' (CPT) to describe the large body of economic theory (or metaphor) most famously put forth by Hardin (1968), that portrays a commons comprised of things, places

and resources, owned by everyone and no one, and therefore peculiarly subject to abuse. CPT theorists argue that private property or some other form of (state) regulatory regime is needed to prevent multiple users from overexploiting ®nite resources. ``CPR,'' on the

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other hand, is used by many authors to designate ``common pool resources,'' ``common property resources'' or ``common property regimes''Ðimplying communal regulatory arrangements grounded in local cultural and normative systems, that are pro€ered as an e€ective alternative to radical privatization or regulation by a Leviathan state. The best-known introductions to CPR theory include Ostrom (1990), McCay and Acheson (1987), and Berkes (1989). 2. Many Moluccan societies are characterized by petty kingdoms established during the 15th±17th centuries by migrants from more highly advanced cultures of Java, Bali or Sulawesi, who were invited by autochthonous inhabitants to protect and govern their settlements (Andaya, 1993, pp. 65±66). 3. Rat is a Kei language term for raja or king, whileÐ schaap is a Dutch sux, equivalent to the EnglishÐship. 4. This is not to imply that these behaviors are allowed during non-sasi times; they are not. The prohibitions are more rigorously enforced when sasi is in e€ect. 5. The latter two have not been practiced for several decades. 6. The term petuanan means territory under oneÕs control, from the root word tuan (master). Laut means sea. 7. Various de®nitions for blue sea include the distance from which one can still see land, the distance one can paddle a piroque in a half day, or the place where waves and current signify the beginning of open sea. 8. (Johannes, 1978, 1981) and others have documented cases of island peoples throughout the Western Paci®c region where local taboos and traditions appear to presage modern principles of population ecology, island biogeography and ecosystem conservation. 9. For a review of the historical roots and development of the sasi institution, see Benda-Beckmann et al. (1995). Zerner (1994) provides a good discussion of how sasi has been recrafted and deployed in response to global and national political, economic and discursive changes through several historical epochs. For a discussion of sasiÕs economic, as opposed to environmental foundations, see Ruttan (1998). 10. International trade in trochus declined during the 1950s and 1960s, due to the availability of cheap massproduced plastic buttons. It has revived since the 1970s

due to haute couture demand for expensive natural materials (Amos, 1997). 11. Ruttan (1998), taking a human ecology approach, posits that preventing free-riding and guaranteeing a long-term source of cash income are primary considerations, and argues that the aim of sasi is ``gain rather than restraint.'' 12. Kongsi is a curious choice of names for this special communal harvesting zone. It means ``commercial association'' in Indonesian, usually implying a Chinese trading house. 13. Yields from the kongsi are much lowerÐonly about 20%Ðcompared to the other sections. This is because this sector is harvested almost every year, suppressing regeneration. 14. These proportions vary at di€erent times, depending on how much money the village needs to raise to fund a particular activity. 15. Bob means vagina in the Kei language, the implication being that if you transgress this boundary, you peer at your motherÕs vagina. 16. A karau combines characteristics of a ``brush pile ®shery''Ða term that describes a shallowwater ®sh aggregating device created by piling branches to provide a conducive habitat, and a ``®sh stake'' trap or lead, usually made of bamboo stakes, that actually entices and entraps ®sh in a corral or ®sh pot. Both techniques are common throughout Indonesia, South and Southeast Asia and Africa. Karau are shaped like traditional Indonesian ®sh stakes (sero), with a fence-like row of stakes (palm fronds, in this case) to invite and direct ®sh into the corral, while the abundant foliage serves attracts. 17. This sort of council, called Raad van Hoofden, was ®rst created by Dutch administrators during the early decades of the 20th century, in an attempt to undermine the ``conservative, arbitrary, and far too powerful'' local kings (Wouden, 1935). District and subdistrict government ocials still occasionally form ad hoc Adat Councils to adjudicate inter-village con¯icts in Kei. 18. Surat Keputusan Menteri Kehutanan Nomor 12/ Kpts-II/1987 tentang Penetapan Tambahan Jenis-Jenis Binatang disamping Jenis-Jenis Binatang Liar yang Telah Dilindungi (Decision of the Minister of Forestry No. 12/ Kpts-II/1987 on the Additional Classi®cation of Protected Animal Species in Addition to those Already Protected.

MARINE RESOURCE MANAGEMENT 19. The Provincial Government of Maluku sent a similar letter directly to the Minister of Forestry in 1994 or 1995. Unfortunately, it seems that all records of this transaction have been lost. 20. The Indonesian National Institute of Science (LIPI) has expended considerable e€ort and resources developing techniques to breed Trochus niloticus for cultivation and restocking (Dwiono, Pradina & Makatipu, 1997). For replenishing stocks in reefs that still provide a good habitat, but where local populations have been decimated by overharvesting, this is a sound investment. In much of Kei, however, it is probably unnecessary. People there argue that provided sasi is maintained and habitat is preserved, local trochus populations can be suciently maintained through natural regeneration. 21. Keputusan Menteri Kehutanan Nomor 556/Kpts-II/ 1989 tentang Pemberian Izin Menangkap/Mengambil, Memiliki, Memilihara dan Mengangkut Baik di Dalam Negeri Maupun ke Luar Negeri Satwa Liar dan Tumbuhan Alam, dan atau Bagaimana-Bagaimana (Decision of the Minister of Forestry No. 556/Kpts-II/1989 on Granting of Permission to Trap/Take, Own, Raise and Transport Domestically or Internationally Wild Animals or Plants, etc.); Keputusan Direktur Jenderal Perlidungan Hutan dan Pelestarian Alam Nomor 25/ KPTS/DJ-VI/1989 tentang Persyarakat dan Tatacara untuk Mendapatkan Izin Menankap/Mengambil, Memiliki, Memilihara dan Mengangkut Baik di Dalam Negeri Maupun ke Luar Negeri Satwa Liar dan Tumbuhan Alam, dan atau Bagaimana-Bagaimana yang Dilindungi dan Tidak Dilindungi Undang-undang (Decision of the Director General of Forest Protection and Resource Preservation No. 25/KPTS/DJ-VI/1989 on Regulations to Acquire Permits to Trap/Take, Own, Raise and Transport Domestically or Internationally Wild Animals or Plants, etc. that are Protected and Not Protected by Law); Ketutusan Menteri Kehutanan Nomor 771/KptsII/1996 tentang Pemanfaatan Jenis Tumbuhan dan Satwa Liar dari Alam Maupun dari Pengangkaran (Decision of the Minister of Forestry No. 771/Kpts-II/1996 on Utilization of Species of Plants and Wild Animals from Nature and Raised in Captivity/Cultivated). 22. CV Multi Mutiara and Toko Kawan are pseudonyms. 23. This sort of Bapak Angkat (``adopted father'' or more aptly, ``Godfather'') relationship between individ-

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ual traders and certain villages is quite common in Kei and elsewhere. 24. From this amount, the owner of Toko Kawan was required to make donations to OhoirenanÕs church, village adat council, and several local ocials in Elat and Tual. His net pro®t was closer to Rp. 10 or 15 million Rupiah. 25. Undang-undang Nomor 5 Tahun 1979 tentang Pemerintahan Desa (Law number 5/1979 on Village Government). 26. In cases where a candidate who meets the age, literacy and competency criteria cannot be identi®ed, the District Government is entitled to appoint a temporary (Pejabat) Village Head until a proper candidate can be prepared or recruited. The law envisions this condition lasting no longer than six months. At the end of 1997, 16 years after the law came into e€ect in Maluku, 31 of 116 Village Heads in Kei, or 36% of the total, still held Pejabat status. Some of these men had held that ``temporary'' position for more than two decades. 27. Two national laws: Undang-undang Nomor 10 Tahun 1992 tentang Perkembangan Kependudukan dan Pembangunan Keluarga Sejahtera (Law Number 10/1992 on Population and Family Prosperity), and Undangundang Nomor 23 tahun 1997 tentang Pengelolaan Lingkungan Hidup (Law No. 23/1997 on Management of the Living Environment), provide a legal framework for such recognition. The ®rst guarantees the rights of communities to ``the use of territory that constitutes a traditional customary inheritance,'' while the Living Environmental Law states that ``Each person has the obligation to take care of the environment, and to prevent and overcome environmental destruction and pollution,'' and that ``Each person has the right and responsibility to participate in the management of the living environment.'' 28. Undang-undang Nomor 22 Tahun 1999 tentang Pemerintahan Daerah (Basic Law No. 22/1999 on Regional Government) and Undang-undang Nomor 25 Tahun 1999 tentang Perimbangan Keuangan antara Pemerintah Pusat dan Daerah (Basic Law No. 25/1999 on Fiscal Relations between the Central and Regional Governments).

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