Slow-Tech

Manifesto for an Over-Wound World

Andrew Price

• Publisher: Atlantic Books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780857891617
• Topic: Technik & Maschinenbau
• Subtopic: Maschinenbau Allgemein

A sailor crossing the Atlantic in a small yacht would want to minimize excess baggage. But it would be unthinkable not to carry more fresh water than seemed necessary, to survive unexpected calms or storms. Yet the imperative of profit, especially over the last century, has driven modernity towards 'lean, mean' strategies in every area of life; squeezing waste out of commercial, technological and environmental systems may make money in the short term, but is our highly geared, highly strung way of life sustainable?

Andrew Price, sailor, explorer and environmental scientist at the University of Warwick argues that in the long-term, spare capacity actually pays. From the destruction of New Orleans to the loss of the world's fish-stocks and intractable problems such as MRSA, Slow-Tech demonstrates how the reckless pursuit of efficiency and cost-effectiveness frequently backfires. It makes the case for robustness as an equally important measure of performance in fields as diverse as healthcare, military operations and engineering.

Unexpected and counter-intuitive yet convincing and timely, Slow-Tech offers an alternative vision for life in the twenty-first century - a rounded vision of balance and robustness that would be healthier for the planet - and healthier for us.

CHAPTER 1 CIVILIZATION IN CRISIS

Over-consume and become a loser

The Inca way and less robust ways

Stretching 4,000 kilometres along the west coast of South America there was once an empire which, in its heyday, was the largest on earth. By any reckoning it was vast, enveloping sizeable chunks of present-day Ecuador, Peru, Chile, Bolivia and Argentina. This ‘Land of Four Quarters’ came together at the capital, Cuzco.

For its people, survival in the rugged terrain high in the Andes, in the inhospitable Atakama Desert and deep inside the steamy Brazilian rainforest was no trivial thing. Nor was the building and maintaining of 20,000 kilometres of roads, often across difficult terrain. The empire in question is, of course, that of the Incas. They may have lived back in the 1400s and 1500s, but the wealth, sophistication, knowledge and advanced ways of their legendary civilization knew no limits. It continues, what’s more, to fascinate anthropologists, mathematicians, engineers and doctors right up to the present time.

But no less significant than these accomplishments, grand and ingenious as they were, was something more fundamental, down to earth: sustainable environmental management. Using agro-forestry practices still relevant today, it emerged quite recently, the Incas tapped into the multiple flow of ecosystem benefits without demolishing them. On the sides of the mountains, they terraced the land and boosted crop production. As enlightened farmers, the Incas realized that the answer lay in the soil. To this end, they developed irrigation, drainage systems and canals to extend and increase agricultural output.

It was old-fashioned technology through and through; at least, that is how modernity would view it. On many counts, though, it was far more advanced and successful than a lot of modern, yet short-sighted and ill-conceived solutions to land management.

Of course, we should not pretend that our ancestors always got things right; it is now clear, from archaeological and other research, that they did not. Either way, though, we seem not to have cottoned on to one glaringly obvious but disquieting fact, as modernity blasts off the launch pad into the new millennium: that insufficient attention to the maintenance of our surroundings is no less crazy than contemplating a car journey from one coast of the USA to the other without bothering to check the engine oil or water on the way.

The truth is that many developers today are over-zealous and care not a jot for the robustness of the soil, nor for the people and livelihoods reliant on it; that is, of course, assuming that some natural habitat is still there among all the concrete.

With enough resources put in, even a country as arid as Saudi Arabia can grow wheat – in fact it did so for several decades, up until early this century. Some might view such growth as a fiery statement to the world that nothing is beyond the realm of high-tech and petro-dollars; not even when it comes to defying nature against all odds by attempting to ‘green’ the desert, using temperate crops. The trouble was that this particular enterprise was thirsty in more ways than one: together with other non-sustainable schemes, it drew so heavily on the aquifer below that it lowered the water table and agriculture across the entire Arabian Peninsula suffered as a result.

This high-tech spectacle in the heartland of Arabia – more a debacle, and a tragedy, many would argue – was a step backwards from the Inca ways all those years earlier. For instead of impoverishing the land, an indelible signature of the Arabian experience, the Incas actually nourished it. Ensuring that resources remained renewable year on year was a practice that plainly paid off. In contrast to many civilizations (both past and present), it was an impressive environmental legacy, and one that long outlived the Incas themselves.

Natural cogs in modernity’s machinery: ecosystems fuel development

Just as nurturing the environment helped enrich Inca society, so today our civilization depends on secure natural capital, and the uninterrupted productivity that flows from it: goods like timber, crops and fish, as well as free services through the physical protection of towns and population centres, or water purification and removal of wastes, for example by wetlands. Directly or indirectly, ecosystems are responsible for all this, and far more.

At one level, an ecosystem is simply nature; little more than a physical habitat, like a desert or wetland, plus all the creatures that happen to live there. But when the non-living and living come together, or ‘synergize’ – which is what happens in a healthy ecosystem – something incredibly vibrant and powerful comes about. For what you see, superficially, is considerably less than the totality of what you get. In fact, if you really want to think big (by stretching things only slightly), consider ‘the ecosystem’ as the synchronized operation of the earth, the environment, as well as the human race and other species in it.

Seen in that light, it is not difficult to see why maintaining the robustness of ecosystems is worth some sacrifices elsewhere, even if that means some commercial ones. As many examples demonstrate, this is our best bet for a productive present and a secure future; a far wiser alternative to development for quick returns, whatever the costs. Yet modernity continues to be unfased by squeezing the ‘robustness of ecosystems’ from under its feet.

The reasons for the erosion of our surroundings are many and complex. One over-arching one is that we march to the beat of the corporate drum; in other words, the ‘efficiency of industry and development’ carries huge clout. To this we could add something related: our fondness for unrestrained behaviour. Even when it comes to national or international assets, modernity can get away with blue murder, blemish-free, despite flagrant acts of rape and plunder. As a chilling reminder, consider what is now happening to the world’s atmosphere. Rising energy consumption and greenhouse gas emissions are, unquestionably, adding to any natural climate trends and cooking the planet further.

Then there is the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ syndrome; again, though, this often follows from modernity’s pursuit of ‘efficiency of industry and development’, or other manifestations of a here-and-now society. Dump toxics like PCBs (a synthetic compound used, for example, as a coolant in transformers) in the sea, or even discharge synthetic oestrogen from contraceptives into sewage systems, and you might well get away with it. Companies and people have for decades, partly because the contaminant cocktail is not entirely of their own making. Undeniably, nature does a good clean-up job by flushing, dilution and redistribution – at least up to a point. Sooner or later, sometimes not for several generations, disagreeable side-effects start to emerge, for marine if not for human life.

But there are also less obvious factors at play, ones that nevertheless can erode the ‘robustness of ecosystems’, little by little, until nature’s ability to spring back and do its job all but disappears. Salt marshes, mangroves and other wetlands, as many examples demonstrate, have considerable ‘off-site’ value; you could call it ‘out-of-sight’ or invisible value, too. For example, young fish and shrimp often grow up, feed and are safe from predators in mangroves. In fisheries jargon, the ecosystem is an important ‘nursery’ area. When older, though, many fish migrate, sometimes to fishing areas far away, where they are exploited. Nevertheless, mangroves are extremely useful, even when not in close proximity to a fishery, as it may depend indirectly on them. Because their nursery role can go unnoticed, however, mangroves easily become the sacrifice of harmful activities, ones linked, for example, to ‘efficiency of industry and development’.

A similar sort of indirect ecosystem service is the protection, already described, against hurricanes, tsunamis and floods, even in distant areas. Simply put, it is insurance through robustness that intact and healthy natural systems provide. Although seldom acknowledged (except through lip-service), let alone accounted for, these sorts of ‘off-site’ benefits can be as great as ‘on-site’ ones linked more obviously to wetlands: timber, paper, seafood, animal fodder and the like. Unless you are firmly on guard, though, developers will try to bamboozle you into believing, as they themselves conveniently do, something very different: that wetlands are nothing but a thorn on the rose of progress and prosperity; quite literally a pain and, in their eyes, justifiably maligned and best eclipsed by development. Undeniably, wetlands can be mosquito-ridden, but they also generate numerous benefits.

There is the same sort of cavalier attitude when it comes to other species, too, in particular ones for which money may not change hands. Among these are useful plants, normally free and there for the picking by local people. The Sinai in Egypt is one of many regions whose communities have long utilized plants for their medicinal properties. It turns out that the ancient Egyptians suffered from ailments such as constipation much the same as we do, and used natural remedies such as castor oil, figs and bran – familiar to us today. Likewise, celery and saffron were effective against rheumatoid conditions. These and many other valuable natural products come from so-called ‘non-marketed’ species (although Egyptologists are now finding evidence of former distant trade). By and large, they were freely available; many products still are, when people can find them.

Because such products may not have a cut-and-dried value, or even any monetary value at all – unlike teak, potatoes and other marketed goods – modernity’s bean counters seem blind to the fact that non-marketed species hold any value at all, let alone that they can be worth saving or are life-saving.

Of course pharmaceutical (and biotechnology) companies are beginning to cotton on to the value of the pharmacologically active compounds that many plants contain; and some of these are exploited, directly or indirectly, for commercial gain. Echinacea to help boost the immune system, and St John’s Wort for depression, are just two examples. But even commercial interest, ironically, provides no guarantees for the conservation of some medicinal plants, either; in fact sometimes it does the very opposite. The problem is especially acute when loss of habitat, and hence decline in ‘robustness of ecosystems’, accompanies unsustainable harvesting of the medicinal plants themselves.

It is hardly surprising then, that in no time at all nature’s green veneer can become replaced and eclipsed by glitzy hotels, shopping malls and marinas. That is why, in a market-force driven (and over-populated) world, ecosystem robustness (and sometimes ecosystems themselves) easily becomes the sacrificial lamb.

Of course, decline or loss of the odd species here or there may not be totally crippling, or even noticeable at first. The problem comes from the collective collateral, the loss of too many species, whether we’re talking medicinal plants, wetlands or other natural vegetation. It is also something that can easily happen, from too much commercial development, or simply from ‘urban creep’.

Yet the simple expedient of interspersing developments – even inner cities – with parks and other green areas can work wonders. Besides the obvious benefit for wildlife conservation, open space can simply help rejuvenate the weary city-dweller. There are huge pay-offs for relatively little expenditure and sacrifice.

Turning up the oven and preparing to roast

Added to the problems described, and undermining the robustness of society as well as the ‘robustness of ecosystems’, are the scary effects of climate change and sea-level rise. Both are happening right now. What’s more, all but staunch diehards – you could say ‘ostriches’ – are opening their eyes to a glaringly obvious fact: that too much carbon dioxide pumping out into the atmosphere, from an increasingly industrial world, is largely to blame. (So, too, ironically, is methane from agriculture.) Perhaps when coal-power fired up textile machinery and other industries back in the 1800s, the Luddites were worried about more than losing their jobs. For this was the time of the Industrial Revolution, when modernity began, unwittingly but quite literally, to fry the planet.

The Maldivian government, for one, recognizes the hazards of global warming and sea-level rise. Since the islands stand barely two metres above sea level, it has a vested interest in ensuring that the nation’s foundations remain as robust as possible; not surprisingly, the people themselves – hoteliers, fishermen and shopkeepers alike – share these sentiments. It is the same for the Pacific’s Marshall Islands and other low-lying tropical islands. The stark reality is that the continued physical and economic existence of such countries depends on a healthy and actively growing coral reef platform, on which the islands delicately perch. On top of that, the reefs act as a ring of natural physical defence, buffering the forces of waves and storms.

In the case of the Maldives, one problem militating against coral growth, and keeping pace with sea-level rise, is extensive coastal landfilling and reclamation in and around shallow coral areas. This has occurred most vigorously around the main island, Malé. Formerly oval, it is now almost square. Reclaiming once shallow coastal areas provided much needed space for housing and infrastructures, in the nation’s pursuit of economic growth for greater ‘efficiency of industry and development’. It was done partly to create space for housing for local people, partly to service tourism.

In many ways, reclamation was an understandable solution, given the population growth, and that tourism is now the biggest generator of national revenue. Sure enough, though, reef loss and damage greatly diminished the reefs’ ability to fend off blows from nature and defend Malé. One testament to this was the terrific storm of 1991. Widespread destruction followed, including damage to more than 3,000 dwellings and around 200,000 trees.

What followed was the need for an artificial breakwater on the south of the island for protection against flooding. This high-tech fix, costing 12 million dollars, or 8,000 dollars per linear metre, would not have been necessary had the possible adverse environmental consequences of undercutting natural coastal protection been considered more seriously.

Pressures for economic growth and development in Malé had, effectively, diminished the island’s power to defend itself and its dependencies against bad storms. All of a sudden, in the aftermath of a really big one, it became clear that the island’s natural robustness had become squeezed out, so had to be replaced artificially. Building houses and hotels vertically, instead of spreading horizontally – as in Singapore – might have created an eyesore. But it could have been a more robust solution.

When coral reefs get damaged, or worn out, the knock-on effects can be more alarming still, especially against a background of rising sea levels. The fact is that the calcium carbonate material that builds islands such as the Maldives actually originates from coral – their calcareous skeleton – in the first place. So unless the rate of coral growth and reef building (involving, paradoxically, the work of microscopic coral animals) remains greater than the rate of erosion, the structure of reefs begin to weaken. And so, too, does the robustness of the islands themselves.

On some islands the land is washing away, quite literally, from beneath the islanders’ feet: for no coral means no sand and no island, or at least a disappearing island. This is not just theoretical fantasy, but reality: it is already happening, for example in the Pacific islands of Tuvalu. People are already beginning evacuation to more robust physical surroundings, like New Zealand. And, of course, even if an island gets only partial swamping, salt water and spray is extremely damaging to crops and soil.

Simply put, global warming and sea-level rise – made worse by more direct human activities – are beginning to weaken many terrestrial and marine ecosystems. For societies on many tropical islands, and many other areas, too, this new state of affairs does not bode well.

The good news, though, is that robustness in the form of self-correction (so-called ‘negative feedback’) operates in natural ecosystems and, to a degree, helps fend off unexpected blows, including climatic disturbances. It turns out that one vital cog in the works is natural vegetation, on land and (through microscopic phytoplankton) in the sea. For pastures green, indirectly, help create low clouds, which in turn have a cooling effect on climate.

Simply put, this dampening of conditions by natural systems is what helps them (and us) to keep going, when the oven is turned up, or when the going gets tough in other ways. The buffering ability of ecosystems is the normal state of affairs. It amounts to species ‘getting it together’ with their physical surroundings (not intentionally, of course) – an invaluable double act if ever there was one. It is part and parcel of the earth’s proper functioning, and the essence of James Lovelock’s Gaia hypothesis. It amounts to self-regulation, an important signature of robustness, in many different systems. As if by magic, this operates locally and at the planetary level. Push things too far, though, past the ‘tipping point’, and a system can easily flip to an altered state and positive feedback can take over.

Positive feedback does precisely the opposite of negative feedback: it reduces robustness. It is a symptom of a fevered environment or planet, and of fragility in many other systems; positive feedback is something that global warming seems to be accelerating. Worldwide increase in temperature, from rising carbon dioxide levels, is hastening the release of methane from the Arctic tundra. Within this permafrost, vast quantities of planetary methane reside – normally locked up and unavailable. Methane, although far less abundant than carbon dioxide, is a greenhouse gas about t...