"In Africa, God is very big."

That's what the man in the gas station in South Africa said. I think I get what he meant. EVERYTHING here is big. The skies are huge. The animals are huge. Everything is big: gas tanks, bugs, potholes, speed limits (120km/h on 2-lane roads covered in cows, donkeys, and goats), and smiles. We've mostly been in Botswana so far, driving from Johannesburg to Maun via Gaborone. The people here seem very quiet and lovely. Life is pretty simple compared to many places we've travelled. Botswana operates formally in English (with many other languages) and is very safe and hassle free. And there are goats everywhere!!!! (I really, really like goats.)

We've crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, drove though clouds of butterflies, dodged much livestock, and seen crazy things that start to seem commonplace at an alarmingly fast rate. Our first excitement was at the Khama Rhino Sanctuary. We saw a real live rhino wandering around in the wild, and many other things (list to come) that are almost unbelievable. The next night we camped at a place owned by a lovely couple near the entrance of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. We were in our roof top tent when the biggest thunder and lightening storm we've ever seen started up. We retreated to the truck for a few hours on account of the metal framing of the tent. We almost got a speeding ticket driving towards Maun, Botswana, but B managed to sweet-talk our way out of it. (Even the police here seem nice!)

And life goes on....

It turns that life does in fact go on after the PhD. It also gets more interesting.  With newfound freedom (an unemployment) for B and I, we spent Christmas with his family in Ontario and then flew off to Johannesburg to spend just over a month driving around southern Africa looking at large animals, desert sand dunes, and who knows what else. We're in one of these:

I've decided to keep this blog going for at list a while longer to share stories from the trip. Internet has not been plentiful so far, but I'll update as much as I can. 

Such a long journey

First: Full credit to Rohinton Mistry for my borrowed title for this post.

I started this blog as a way to ruminate about the trials and celebrations of working through my PhD dissertation. It seems, at great long last, that journey is done. Well, I'm finished the PhD, but I have a feeling the journey will continue. I'm not sure where it will take me or how I will get there. I'm also not sure yet what that means for this blog. Maybe it's time to let it close, or maybe it will renew itself in some altered form. I'm not sure. My first task is to rest, celebrate, and recuperate. Then I'll figure out the rest, both for this blog and the next leg of the journey.

When I opened my files to create this post, I was struck by how much of the last few posts, and even some of the earlier ones, actually made it into my dissertation in some form. Some of these posts triggered ideas. Others were building blocks of major ideas that formed the basis of a chapter. Either way, evidence that this was a good thing for me to do.

I've learned a lot about food these last years. Mostly, though, I've learned how important it is to trust the process. Turns out it really was about the journey, and these writings were an important part of that. I've been taking immense cathartic pleasure in shredding papers and cleaning out files that I no longer need. I'm not quite ready to shut down this space, so for now, I will let it rest.

It's not all about me (or you)

I've been diving back into the literature this week, trying to find ways to address some of the results I found from my dissertation research, which is about the disconnected nature of the food system and what to do about it. I also came across an interesting article in Grist about personal righteousness and food system change.

As I see it, there are three ways to act for those of us who are unhappy with the current system. The first is to opt out. Disengage. Find a way to eat the way we want and do it. Decide to eat only local, or organic, or biodynamic, or eat stuff we've grown ourselves, gleaned, gotten straight from the farm, bought through co-op, or "insert personal values criteria here." Another option is to create parallel alternatives that operate alongside the mainstream. Start a buying club, set up a fair trade system, create alternative sourcing streams, or buy food that's ethically certified. Or, we can try to change the system. Do what we can to make the system more fair. Try to create change in existing rules and regulations, encourage the supermarket to bring in different kinds of products, or lobby the government. 

I've been writing about people who are resisting the disconnection of the mainstream food system in different ways and for different reasons. My personal circles are largely made up of people who eat in ways that are not "the norm." My recent ruminating about the theories and motivations behind all this is making me realize how easy it is for ideology to sneak in without people even realizing it. I think most people who do those things I listed above have good intentions, but it's so easy to get caught up in what we're doing, focus on our own personal choices, and forget the deeper purpose. Most people who are unhappy with the current food system want healthier food, more sustainable production, or an end to social and economic injustices. 

One of the ways to support the changes we want is to vote with our dollars. It sounds very democratic. Voting, after all, is a central tenet of democracy. I do think that changing how and what we buy supports change on some level—if we don't make an effort to buy from local farmers who are stewarding the land, encouraging biodiversity, and growing great quality produce, they won't be able to keep doing what they're doing (and what they're doing is important). But . . is changing our purchasing decisions really helping to create change in society, or is it helping us eat better and feel just a little bit self-righteous in the process? 

I don't mean to suggest that we shouldn't do these things. I vote with my dollars as much as I can. I buy local, seasonal produce. I try not to support companies that I see as causing harm. I go to the farmers' market. I buy cage-free eggs. And I rarely go to a regular supermarket. Buying products that match our values certainly helps ensure that those producers have a livelihood and keep producing such products. But is Safeway suddenly going to start stocking cruelty-free animal products or supporting local farmers if those of us who think about these things simply go elsewhere and leave it at that? No. Do we risk excluding or thinking less of those people who, by choice or necessity, don't buy the same food we do? Yes.

I am also acutely aware that "voting with your dollar" is a luxury for people who have enough dollars to "vote" with. I can buy organic fruit at Whole Foods and shop at the farmers' market every week and grow vegetables in my nice backyard (in a city where backyards are at a premium), and I eat well because of it. But the single mom with two minimum wage jobs living in a basement apartment, the recent refugee who works nights cleaning toilets to support a family of six, or the person depending on social assistance are not going eat any better unless the whole system changes. 

It is important to support those things we value to the extent that we can, but if we really want change we need to do more. So go ahead and opt out. Buy Fair Trade certified chocolate (especially that, because we all know life is better with chocolate). But remember that it's not just about you, or me. It's about (all of) us.*
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*Personal disclosure: I have often been guilty of being either excessively rigid in my food decisions or racked with guilt about not always eating the absolute most local/sustainable/just/seasonal/fairly traded/organic/small-scale/etc. food that it is humanly possible to eat. 

What's wrong with romance?

I was sitting in my garden, reading the paper over morning coffee, when I was happy to see a few articles on local food in the Focus section of Saturday's Globe and Mail (July 7, 2012). There was an article about public agriculture—growing edibles in public spaces for public consumption—and a commentary by Margaret Wente about the dangers of locavorism.

The ideas in the commentary seemed contradictory and confused. Wente raved about the joys of seasonal, local produce, but claimed that local farming was unsustainable, contributed to food insecurity, and tied us to the land like serfs. She questioned the romanticization of farming and people's desire to "look in the eye the people who grow your vegetables," but insisted that she will continue to patronized the farmers' market because she loves the sense of community.

So which is it? In a word: neither. Wente, like so many who argue for or against an issue, is only considering the extremes. She equates the goals of local food advocates with a return to subsistence farming that would tie us to land and make us victim to the fickleness of climate and soil. She expresses seasonal harvests in terms of feast or famine—we either have so much it is wasted, or we have nothing to harvest. She claims that industrial scale agriculture is more efficient because farmers can specialize in crops suited to their land and trade them over long distances. She even contends (without evidence) that avoiding chemicals and genetically modified crops are responsible for poverty and food insecurity in Africa.

Some of these points are valid, but the argument runs thin.Can't we eat local or regional produce when in season, or least consume things grown as close to where we live as possible? Why buy fruit from Mexico when the same things are in season here? Supporting local agriculture doesn't preclude engaging in food trade entirely (the coffee I was drinking while reading the paper being a case in point). We can grow what works well and import the rest. Even when we import, getting things from halfway across the continent might be better than getting it from halfway around the world—it would be fresher, and might keep us a little more closely connected to the seasons and the land. Food is not like other commodities such as clothing or computers. It is perishable. More importantly, it is intimate.* Food comes from living matter, and we fully consume it by integrating it into our own biological makeup when we eat. As for Africa, it's complicated, but there is a lot of evidence to suggest that production of export crops has not addressed poverty and that local production of locally adapted crops for local consumption improves food security in poverty-stricken regions.

What's wrong with the middle way? People on both sides of this debate seem to forget things like medium scale agriculture, regional farms that may be 400 miles away instead of on the other side of the planet, eating as local as possible without getting militant or ideological about it. I agree with Wente's point that "the farther we get from life on the land, the more we romanticize it."** I don't agree with her interpretation of the issue.She goes on to say how, because of our romanticization, we have become unrealistic in our views of agriculture. I would argue that our distancing from the realities of food production instead reinforces the importance of having farms nearby (or as near as practical) and of interacting with people who actually grow food. Even if you never go to a farmers' market or buy direct from a farm gate sale, having farms in the region where you live will expose you to some of the realities of agriculture. Thinking about and caring about agriculture doesn't require you to become a back-to-the-lander. After making all her arguments against the locavore movement, Wente closes her piece by saying that she will continue to go to the market because she loves the sense of community and fabulous seasonal produce, despite the inefficiencies. The point that is so often missed here is that efficiency is not the only thing of value in society, or even in the economy. That sense of connection, of community, and that awareness of the wonders of fresh seasonal food is important. Period. Do I think we should all be fed only from community gardens and CSAs?*** No. But that doesn't mean those things aren't essential. They can provide great food, but their real value may just be in the community that is built in the spaces between the efficiencies.
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*Food was first called "the intimate commodity" by Tony Winson in his 1993 book by the same title.

**This relates to the phenomenon of distancing that I am addressing in my PhD dissertation.

 ***CSA is community supported agriculture, a system in which consumers pay up front for a share of the season's harvest.