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Transcending the Culture–Nature Divide in Cultural Heritage

Introduction

Engaging culture and nature

Denis Byrne, Office of Environment and Heritage, NSW, Australia

and University of Technology, Sydney, Australia

Sally Brockwell, The Australian National University, Canberra, Australia

Sue O’Connor, The Australian National University, Canberra, Australia

This volume began life as a session at the 2010 Australian Archaeological Conference on the cultural heritage of protected areas in the Asia-Pacific region. Our particular concern was with the proposition that the discourse of nature conservation was predisposed to a vision of protected areas (in the form of national parks and other ‘nature’ reserves) as pristine nature. According to such a vision, protected areas represent wildernesses that, having escaped the ravages of human exploitation, had now to be preserved as the last reservoirs of biodiversity on a planet threatened with ecological disaster. To what extent, we asked, did such a mindset eclipse the history and heritage of protected areas as human habitats, not to mention effacing the contemporary presence in them of living human cultures?

These questions engage the much larger issue of the culture-nature divide as an ontological marker of Western modernity. This divide should more properly be described as a ‘duality’ or a ‘dyad’, terms that have been used to describe a habit of thought which developed in the West from the seventeenth century but with older antecedents. This habit of thought also produced the distinctive mind/body split which is particularly identified with the Cartesian worldview. In recent years there has been increasing interest in the real world ramifications of the culture-nature duality from those working in fields ranging from sociology (for example, Latour 1993) and anthropology (Ingold 2000; Haraway 2006), to geography (Whatmore 2006; Head 2007). In Australia it has occupied the attention of Debbie Rose (1996, 2011) and others in the Ecological Humanities group.1 There has been a growing consciousness of the extent to which culture-nature dualism is foundational to Western modernity and thus seminal to the West’s encounter with the non-Western world.

In modern Western thought, society (or culture) has been understood to be not just radically separate from nature but situated in a hierarchical relationship of dominance to it. This ontological model facilitated the vastly accelerated exploitation and despoliation of natural ‘resources’ (nature being considered a resource for humanity) which accompanied the Industrial Revolution, the development of capitalism and the European colonial-imperial project. Closer to home in terms of the present volume, culture-nature dualism has been found to be a major impediment to breaking out of the silos represented by nature conservation and heritage conservation. This, of course, is the view from the position of the experts. The view from the ground includes that of Indigenous people who find that in the struggle to maintain their land there are willing allies to be found among environmental and heritage conservation organisations but that these alliances mean having to internalise the culture-nature dichotomy, at least for the purposes of dealing with these experts, accessing their funding, and participating in their conservation programs. In other words such alliances entail an internalisation of an alien ontology.

Intro%20Figure%201%20Location%20Map.tif

Map of Study Areas

Source: CartoGIS, College of Asia and the Pacific, ANU

A people-less nature

Protected areas, including national parks, World Heritage areas, and other categories of conservation reserve, have become the theatres in which many archaeologists and heritage practitioners, including a number of the contributors to this volume, find themselves working either in a research capacity or as professional advisors. The culture-nature split is manifest in several ways in the protected area sphere. National parks, which predominate in the world’s protected area system, for a long time embodied the Fortress Conservation ideology (Brockington 2002) in which protected areas were ‘planned and managed against the impact of people (except for visitors), and especially to exclude local people’ (Phillips 2003:12). The Fortress Conservation model originated with Yellowstone and Yosemite National Parks in the USA (Dowie 2011:1–22), the forest reserves of colonial India (Beinart and Hughes 2007:111–129) and the game reserves of colonial Africa. The fortress model fell out of favour in the 1970s when conservationists had to concede that in tropical-zone protected areas (a majority of which are inhabited by humans) exclusion policies were simply not working since in practical terms it was impossible to police the activities of local inhabitants. A raft of new strategies was developed for negotiating and collaborating with local groups for conservation outcomes. While elements of the nature conservation movement conceded the enculturated character of protected areas, the wilderness myth remained powerfully attractive to other elements. In recent years attention has been directed to the role of certain global conservation NGOs in depicting protected areas as people-less spaces (Brockington and Igoe 2006). Far from discredited, the wilderness trope remains alive and well in the rhetoric of global conservation NGOs (Brockington and Igoe 2006:445; Ross et al. 2011).

One of the discursive habits that stem from culture-nature dualism is encapsulated in the concept of human impact, which as Lesley Head (2007:837) points out, positions humans as acting on nature from the outside. While Head credits the human impact concept as having done useful work in the mid-twentieth century in countering environmental determinism (Head 2007:838), she sees it as doing ‘different work’ in the early twenty-first century:

It paradoxically reinforces the view of humans as external to the natural system, and encourages explanatory focus on simple correlations in time and/or space rather than on mechanisms of connection. It is neither conceptually nor empirically strong enough for the complex networks of humans and non-humans now evident, in prehistoric as well as in contemporary timeframes. (Head 2007: 838–39)

Another, more recent, dualism that could be argued useful work while at the same time having debilitating effects is that of tangible-intangible heritage which, according to Michael Herzfeld, is a separation ‘that perpetuates a fundamentally Cartesian and colonial model’ (in Byrne 2011:148).

One of the many ramifications of the culture-nature duality in Australia is played out in the field of Native Title where most determinations exclude rights and interests of an economic or commercial nature (Weir 2012:7). In the frame of Native Title, it is the suspension (or reversal) of the duality which has had debilitating effects. This goes deep into the history of Europe’s relations with non-Western others, particularly those others deemed to be living close to nature who were ‘exempted’ from the culture-nature divide and, instead, were ‘collapsed into nature as part of the flora and fauna’ (Weir 2012:7). Aboriginal Native Title claimants frequently find they are constrained to participate in a European value frame in which traditionality and authenticity are defined in terms of a static symbiosis with nature. Indeed the legal requirement to demonstrate connection pre- and post-sovereignty perpetuates an ideal of immutable sameness in Indigenous cultural engagement with landscape which differs little from early European views of Aboriginal cultural stasis and stagnation captured by the well-known soubriquet of an ‘unchanging people in an unchanging environment’ (Pulleine 1929:310).

A corollary of the naturalisation of Aboriginal people is that while nature conservationists and national park managers are mostly happy to conserve and promote Aboriginal archaeological heritage sites in parks they have been much less enthusiastic about European heritage sites. Aboriginal heritage sites are seen as continuous with wilderness whereas European sites are frequently seen as incompatible with it. It was, in fact, not uncommon in the 1960s and 70s in places like New South Wales for old huts, homesteads, stockyards, and other traces of white habitation to be removed in order to ‘restore’ park landscapes to a state of nature, or, in our terms, to fabricate the fiction of pure nature.2

Nature-less cultural landscapes

The notion of people-less landscapes has its counterpart in those visions of landscape which construe them as being purely a cultural product or construct. The issue here is perhaps not so much one of failing to concede the ‘natural’ dimension or the ‘natural’ elements of a cultural landscape as it is one of casting nature in a passive light. It is to do with a tendency to see nature as merely a setting or stage upon which human projects are enacted.

The post-structuralist turn in the humanities and social sciences helped reveal the social contingency of our place in the world; it revealed the extent to which the lived world of humans is socially constructed. And yet an extreme social constructionist position that would envisage humans never being able to engage directly with nature, but only with their social constructions of nature, is a perspective which denies nature an independent reality and an agency of its own. It also implies that we humans do not experience nature as embodied beings whose senses respond to stimuli given off by the organisms and the inorganic entities in nature. Clearly the ecologies that we conceive of as making up our ‘natural’ environment, our setting, in actuality incorporate us. Tim Ingold (2000:5) goes so far as to insist that what we choose to call ‘social relations’ are actually ‘but a sub-set of ecological relations’ (see also Tilley 1994:23).

This latter view of the world is one that is proving to be enormously productive for environmental anthropologists in the Asia-Pacific region (e.g. Zerner 2003a; Brosius et al. 2005). The ethnographic work of Anna Tsing (1993) and Marina Roseman (2003), for example, describes richly dialectical relations between human and non-human actors in the forests of Southeast Asia, as does Charles Zerner’s (2003b) in the Indonesian seascape. In the field of archaeology, Ian McNiven (2008) and McNiven and Feldman (2003) show how the archaeological record of Torres Strait reflects the negotiated relationships between hunters and the animals they hunt. Archaeologically, mounds composed of ritually treated dugong skulls inform us of this relationship and its magical dimension. With the exception of rock art studies, archaeologists have traditionally given little consideration to ‘the ontological status of animals’ and the spiritual connections between people and animals that such sites encode (McNiven and Feldman 2003:189). O’Connor et al. (2011 and this volume) and Pannell and O’Connor (in press) discuss the mutuality and embeddedness of ecological and spiritual relationships with nature for Fataluku people living in East Timor’s first National Park. They describe the physical manifestations of this ritual engagement in the form of built structures marking the presence of non-human beings or spirits, and they argue the need for recognition of this mutuality in heritage governance and management.

The habit of binary thinking makes it difficult to grasp and assimilate the notion of ecological relations and the dialectical entanglement of humans and non-humans in nature. The cultural landscape concept which derives from the field of geography and has been adopted with enthusiasm by many in the heritage field (e.g. Longstreth 2008; Taylor 2012) has been subject to the criticism that instead of transcending the culture-nature binary it simply builds up the cultural side of the equation, giving a misleading emphasis to a human agency construed as separate from, rather than networked with, non-human agency. Val Plumwood (cited in Head 2007:839) critiqued the cultural landscape concept in similar terms, seeing it as obscuring non-human agency.

Lesley Head (2007, 2010) has developed a critical commentary on the cultural landscape concept, which is valuable for its penetrating insight into the genealogy of the concept in geography, archaeology, and heritage but also for its appreciation of the valuable work the concept has done, particularly in the sphere of Indigenous rights. For example, she points to the way it has been able to ‘put people back in’ to landscapes that had been constructed by settler societies, such as Australia’s, as wilderness (Head 2010:430). Also, though strongly advocating a networked, dialectical understanding of human embeddedness in nature, she confronts the historical reality that humans have had a hugely disproportionate role in shaping landscapes. She observes that: ‘Given the human role in recent changes in earth surface processes, particularly climate change, and the need for human action to reverse the situation, there is surely a case for recognition of some strong human agency?’ (Head 2010:439). She also makes the observation that ‘the cultural landscape concept appears to be a tool [landscape] managers find useful’ (Head 2010:433). This is highly relevant in the context of this volume’s key concern with protected areas as a theatre for transcending the culture-nature divide and it takes us to the issue of dialogue between the professions of archaeology and heritage and those of nature conservation and protected area management.

The need for mediating discourse

The reality is that virtually all protected areas in the Asia-Pacific region are managed by departments of government whose brief is nature conservation (e.g. environmental protection agencies) or natural resource management (e.g. forestry departments). Overwhelmingly, protected area managers come to the job with a background in environmental management or the biological sciences or with training in natural resource management (NRM). On-ground management regimes are geared towards biodiversity management and nature conservation outcomes and while these regimes are not necessarily averse to also managing protected areas for their ‘cultural values’ the challenge for us is to make culture ‘legible’ to them (McWilliam, this volume).

It is not enough to simply get cultural heritage sites and contemporary human land use patterns ‘on the map’ to complement existing mapping of soils, vegetation, and non-human species distribution. The problem with such an ‘add-on’ approach is that the relative ease of getting ‘culture’ onto the map in this way is matched by the ease with which it can subsequently fall off. Unless culture is represented as integral to the ecology of an area it tends to lose out: it tends to be seen as separable. For instance, it may become subject to separate management plans and these may be deferred or set aside when funding is short. As inequitable as it may seem, the reality is that protected area management is currently overwhelmingly in the hands of nature conservationists and natural resource managers, meaning the onus is on us to come up with a discourse of culture which is not just intelligible to our counterparts in nature conservation and NRM but which articulates and networks with the language and technologies of ‘natural values’ management. Such a mediating discourse might be described as mapping culture into landscape rather than onto it. This does not have to mean subsuming culture within the existing discursive frameworks of nature conservation which, as Smith and Turk (this volume) point out, often do engage with local communities in ways that seek to draw them in as collaborators on projects that are grounded in Western value systems. ‘Community-based’ rhetoric could, in such cases, be said to be a cover for what are actually attempts to extend Western value systems into local settings.

We would argue that the kind of critical analysis undertaken by Smith and Turk (this volume) exemplifies the deepening understanding of the history and politics of conservation which is now evident in the fields of heritage and archaeology. This understanding and political sophistication has often been gained through extensive fieldwork in which anthropologists, archaeologists and heritage experts have witnessed what happens when ‘global conservation’ interests interface with Indigenous community interests. But it is also built upon the work of environmental historians (e.g. Grove 1995; Beinart and Hughes 2007), environmental anthropologists (e.g. Brockington 2002; Tsing 2005), and indeed archaeologists (e.g. Meskell 2012), who have researched the history of Western nature conservation, the culture of its institutions and networks, and the dynamics of its reach into the non-Western world. One might say we are in a better position than ever before to transcend the culture-nature divide in protected areas, and indeed elsewhere, because we know more about where this dualism comes from and how it has been operationalised.

Many conservation biologists and ecologists have made an effort to interface with local communities in a more equitable way (see, for instance, the IUCN journal, Policy Matters). The ‘values’ approach to protected area management (Lockwood 2006) is often manifest in a somewhat mechanical documenting of heritage and contemporary cultural values that are then managed alongside and separate from ‘natural values’. But the values approach does appear to have the potential to evolve into a framework that integrates the ‘cultural’ and ‘natural’ into a holistic ecology. In relation to heritage sites, instead of simply recording archaeological sites and managing ‘around’ them, as now generally happens, a values approach could be evolved in a way that enables them be seen as integral to the ecological history of an area. Sites of contemporary cultural significance should be seen as imbricated in and networked into the area’s ‘natural values’, which in turn are imbricated in the cultural world of the human inhabitants or neighbours of the protected area. Though this kind of integrative approach has so far proven elusive (Ross et al. 2011) it remains an ideal worth striving for.

Overview of the chapters

The chapters in this volume have been grouped under the three following themes:

1. World Heritage: Ian Lilley on nature and culture in World Heritage management; Anita Smith and Cate Turk on customary systems of management and World Heritage in the Pacific Islands; Steve Brown on the poetics and politics of the World Heritage listing of Bikini Atoll; Daud Tanudirjo on management and community tensions at the Borobudur; and Sandra Pannell on nature and culture in the context of the World Heritage listed Komodo Island in Indonesia.

2. Community archaeology: Nick McClean on Githabul community approaches to mapping culture in northern New South Wales; David Guilfoyle et al. on embedding community control in cultural heritage management using a case study from south western Western Australia; Tim Denham on cultural heritage management in Papua New Guinea; Ben Marwick et al. on community engagement during archaeological excavations in Thailand’s Krabi River Valley; and Anna Karlström on local heritage and the problem with conservation in Laos.

3. Performative landscapes and conservation: Denis Byrne with a critique of conservation biology’s view of popular religion; David Bulbeck on history, ecology and pre-Islamic relations with sacred places in South Sulawesi; Andrew McWilliam on cultural heritage performative modalities in relation to the new National Park in East Timor; and Sue O’Connor et al. on the dynamics of culture and nature in a protected East Timorese landscape.

1. World Heritage

In the four decades since its introduction, the World Heritage Convention has been immensely influential. It can be argued that one aspect of its influence is that many heritage sites and areas, particularly in the non-Western world, have only come into what might be called the ‘global conservation estate’ because of the perceived potential of the World Heritage List to garner international profile (and tourism revenue) for countries, many of which have few opportunities to attract that kind of attention. As Raj Isar (2011:42) has recently noted, UNESCO ‘possesses its own forms of symbolic capital’ and this is able to be deployed by states for their own ends.

In practical terms, the World Heritage Convention and the World Heritage List sit squarely in the middle of the issue of the culture-nature divide. In its original 1972 form, the Convention reified the conceptual divide in the form of two separate lists for cultural and natural properties, only modifying this position in 1992 by introducing the ‘cultural landscapes’ category. Ian Lilley (this volume) notes that even in the case of ‘mixed properties’, the cultural and natural aspects of areas proposed for listing are still assessed completely separately. One might say that a discourse that mediates culture and nature is nowhere more needed that in the World Heritage field. At the outset of her chapter, Sandra Pannell (this volume) makes the sobering observation that ‘the globalisation of the nature-culture distinction … often encourages the very threats and dangers the Convention seeks to ameliorate through listing’.

Pannell, in her Komodo case study, shows how World Heritage listing has seen the interests of people resident in or living adjacent to the Komodo National Park de-authenticated in various ways. The dynamic-adaptive qualities of local culture have meant cultural practices have changed over time and people’s patterns of movement and regional interactions have been fluid. These very qualities, however, as Pannell shows, have been pathologised by park managers and conservation advisors in a manner that represents contemporary locals as inauthentic and allows internationally-defined biodiversity values to trump local cultural values. UNESCO’s language of ‘cultural property’ represents cultural heritage as a thing and has the effect of freezing local practices in a way that posits them as losing authenticity if they change (Byrne 2009; De Cesari 2010). Pannell shows us in painful detail how this has played out on the ground in Komodo.

While Pannell’s case study depicts a resident population having its land redefined in a manner that discursively displaces it, Steve Brown, in his chapter on the listing of Bikini Atoll, relates the case of a population that was physically removed from its home-habitat as a prelude to a historical event that is now memorialised by World Heritage listing. The event in question was, of course, the nuclear test explosions carried out on the atoll in 1946 by the US military. Brown shows how the evacuation of the atoll prior to the test has now made the terrain available to be reinscribed with a history which is not that of its prior human inhabitants. The narrative of the island’s use for nuclear testing has effaced its prior human history.

In a further example of displacement, Daud Tanudirjo relates how the local Muslim population occupying the landscape around the (circa) ninth-century AD Buddhist stupa, Borobudur, located in Central Java, has over the last decade developed innovative approaches to counter its marginalisation by the bureaucrats and commercial interests charged with managing the World Heritage site. The resettlement of locals from five villages close to the monument, the prevention of on-site hawking of souvenirs, and the curtailment of local religious practices that had integrated the monument into the local Islamic world all effectively excised the monument from its contemporary cultural setting. Local activists, collaborating with archaeologists, have now developed cultural tourism ventures which encourage visitors to engage with local communities in the larger landscape in which the Borobudur is set. In a fascinating and highly innovative move, this initiative explicitly incorporates the radiating symbolism of the Mandala (the Borobudur itself was constructed as a three-dimensional Mandala) to reconnect the monument to its surrounding social landscape.

Smith and Turk, drawing on their experience of the East Rennell Island World Heritage area, make the critical point that the ‘customary systems’ of local inhabitants constitute a conservation management system in themselves and in their own terms. When places like Rennell Island are brought into the fold of ‘global conservation’, outside conservation experts work to reframe these customary systems in terms of Western conservation practice and scientific discourse. An impression is created that local systems are being raised to the level of conservation systems. Smith and Turk argue the case for a reversal of impetus in which global conservation would adapt itself to local Indigenous customary systems, recognising and accepting that conservation will very likely be conceived by these systems in terms different to those of the Western conservation movement.

2. Community archaeology

Annie Clarke (2002) discusses the emergence of community-based approaches to archaeology in Australia since the 1970s, citing a history which seems likely to resonate with that of a number of other countries. She points out that ‘…the development of research strategies designed to meet Indigenous concerns about the practice of archaeology can be seen to have two interlinked aims: first, to work towards achieving informed consent to practice and second, to establish meaningful processes of involvement and interaction between archaeological practitioners and Indigenous people’ (Clarke 2002:250). The chapters in this volume that fall within the community archaeology theme very much address the latter point. Although separated widely by geography, these experiences share several common threads including the need to engage local communities in heritage protection, recognise the integration of cultural and natural heritage values, and employ appropriate methodologies in community engagement.

There are two chapters discussing Australian examples. In south west Western Australia, David Guilfoyle and his co-authors present a case study that demonstrates the importance of local communities taking control for effective cultural heritage management. They describe the processes involved with managing heritage associated with the Yoolbeerup wetlands system through which the community became the effective leader of a project that integrated cultural and natural heritage management strategies through various agencies. The success of this project empowered the community to become involved in other similar projects. Guilfoyle et al. argue that this case study demonstrates that ownership and control are fundamental to the successful outcomes of cultural and natural heritage management and that the methodology that was developed through this project can be applied effectively elsewhere. In a case study from northern NSW, Nick McClean discusses the uses of cultural mapping as an effective technique for recording cultural heritage. He explains how a local Indigenous community, the Githabul, developed two cultural mapping approaches to record local aspects of heritage. McClean emphasises the importance of ‘being on country’ as a key element of maintaining cultural identity and recording intangible aspects of cultural heritage.

Beyond Australia, examples of community archaeology in action are presented from Papua New Guinea, Thailand and Laos. Tim Denham discusses two different types of cultural resource management project with which he has been involved in PNG. He describes a community heritage project among the Kalam of the Simbai Valley in Madang Province and issues associated with the World Heritage nomination of the Kuk Early Agricultural Site. He also discusses the increasing commercialisation of cultural heritage management. Denham builds his case from the specific to the general to illustrate a broad range of experiences within the cultural heritage sector in PNG. Anna Karlström notes that in the past, nature conservation discourse has informed cultural heritage discourse and she proposes that the direction of influence can be reversed. She contrasts the traditional Western heritage discourse based on the conservationist ideal of the preservation of ‘original fabric’ with her experience in Laos where local communities often value intangible aspects of heritage which tend to blur natural and cultural qualities. Like Guilfoyle et al., Karlström argues for the importance of local community involvement for successful heritage protection outcomes and suggests a number of methodolgies to make this work. Marwick and co-authors present the tailored strategies they employed to engage with different sections of the local community during an archaeological excavation in the Krabi River Valley in southern Thailand. They provide background by reviewing current Thai cultural heritage practices, observing that the Thai government tends to favour a tourist-oriented approach promoting monumental heritage. However Marwick et al. highlight how effectively cultural heritage protection can be achieved via community archaeology. They discuss their methodologies for promoting local community engagement in the Krabi River Valley, suggesting that these could have application in similar situations elsewhere.

3. Performative landscapes and conservation

Natural historians and nature conservationists map and classify landscapes according to their biodiversity, vegetation, soils, and other physical attributes. The final four chapters of this volume are concerned, in different ways, with the sacred, historical, and mythological attributes of landscapes and the cultural performativity that keeps these attributes known and alive. Reporting on research in south Sulawesi, David Bulbeck describes areas of land more or less closed to human access and economic activity due to the quality of sacredness entailed in their ancestral histories and the presence of spirit beings, graves, and sacred objects. Sacredness, as an aspect, has the effect of protecting the natural values of these areas and even protecting graves and archaeological deposits from looting. Similar exclusion zones – for example, the sacred groves of India (Kothari 2003), the feng shui woodlands of China (Zhuang and Corlett 1997), or the lulic forests of East Timor (McWilliam 2003) – have been shown to have considerable conservation value for biodiversity and for this reason in recent years they have attracted a great deal of interest from conservationists.

The growing interest of sections of the conservation biology field in what are referred to as ‘natural sacred sites’ is the focus of Denis Byrne’s chapter. He argues that while this interest gives support to local groups in the maintenance of their religious systems against outside pressure it is also an interest that tends to domesticate certain elements of local religious belief and practice. Conservation scientists tend to focus on the ‘rational’ elements of popular religion in places like Thailand; they appear to be uncomfortable with the magical and supernatural dimension of religion. Byrne suggests this represents a projection onto non-Western popular religion of the secular-rationalist ‘disenchanted’ worldview that has been predominant in the West since the Protestant Reformation and the Enlightenment.

It is undeniably the case that when the habitats of Indigenous groups attract the interest of outside conservation interests, local inhabitants often find their lifestyle constrained and even find their ownership rights voided. In their respective chapters, Andrew McWilliam and Sue O’Connor et al. describe the situation in a new National Park at the eastern end of East Timor where the state’s valuation of the Park in terms of its biodiversity and its association with the resistance struggle has tended to edge out the interests of the Park’s 15,000 inhabitants. While for the state, and often also for Western heritage practitioners, the past is memorialised in static terms, for the local inhabitants the past is a living quality of the contemporary landscape. O’Connor et al. for instance describe how téi (spirit beings) must be regularly ‘fed’ with offerings in order for people to gain their protection. The merging of the historical and sacred realms is illustrated by the local belief that a particular téi was instrumental in the defeat of the Indonesian military forces. Both Bulbeck and McWilliam make the point that history is understood in these cultures in non-linear terms: historical figures and events are spiritually and poetically embodied in the contemporary landscape rather than confined to the past as points in a linear narrative (or to layers of a stratigraphic sequence, to use an archaeological image).

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank the College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University, for providing funding for our session at the 2010 Australian Archaeological Conference. The production and indexing of this volume is supported by the Research School of Asia and the Pacific at The Australian National University.

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Transcending the Culture–Nature Divide in Cultural Heritage


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