August 20, 2017

Dams and society – the problems of resettlement

Published as Chapter 2 of The Social and Environmental Effects of Large Dams: Volume 1. Overview. Wadebridge Ecological Centre, Worthyvale Manor Camelford, Cornwall PL32 9TT, UK, 1984. By Edward Goldsmith and Nicholas Hildyard.

The scale of resettlement programmes

One of the inevitable consequences of flooding an area is that those who previously lived there have to be resettled. In some cases, such resettlement has involved the movement of vast numbers of people. Ghana’s Volta Dam, for example, saw the evacuation of some 78,000 people from over 700 towns and villages: Lake Kainji in Nigeria displaced 42,000: the Aswan High Dam, 120,000: the Kariba Dam, 50,000: Turkey’s Keban Dam, 30,000: Thailand’s Ubolratana Dam, 30,000: whilst the Pa mong project in Vietnam uprooted 450,000 people. [1]

Exact figures for the numbers of people who are likely to be resettled as a result of future projects are hard to come by. Nonetheless, it is estimated that:

In China, the vast Three Gorges Dam scheme will displace 1,400,000 people. [2]

In Brazil, eight planned hydro-electric projects are expected to flood between 91,000 and 351,000 hectares of Indian lands, threatening the livelihood of some 34 indigenous tribes. Dr. Robin Wright of the US Anthropology Resource Centre reports,

“For some Indian groups, the loss will be total. The areas to be affected include the Kaingang, Guarani and Kokleng reservations in southern Brazil: the Truka, Tuxa, Parakana Gavioes, Suriri and others in north-eastern Brazil: the Kingu and Iriri River basin tribal lands in central Brazil and the Waimiri-Atroar reservation of the northwest.” [3]

One of the dams, the Itaipu Project (due to be completed in 1988) will displace 50,000 people, including 5,500 Guarani Indians. Another, the Tucurui Project, will flood six towns; leave 20,000 to 30,000 homeless; submerge two Indian reserves; and ‘lacerate’ a third by “the incursion of a power transmission line, an electrified iron-ore railroad and by construction and maintenance roads”. [4]

One of those reserves, Parakanan, is the last refuge of a tribe whose numbers have already been reduced to a pitiful 200 people as a result of disease and contact with white settlers.

In Panama, the first stage of the multi-dam Teribe-Changuinola project will flood land now supporting 2,000 Guyami Indians. By the time the project is completed, the land of 60,000 Indians will have been affected. [5]

In the Philippines, 40 new large dams are planned over the next 20 years. Those dams, argues Dr. Robin Wright, could affect “the homes of more than 1.5 million people”. [6] Among the more controversial projects is the Chico Dam complex – at present shelved, after massive local opposition. Should the project be resurrected (a distinct possibility according to many observers) then up to 100,000 more people would need to be resettled.

In Canada, the Slave River Dam – a scheme which will divert three major river
systems – will require the resettlement of some 10,000 Dene Indians from the Northwest Territories. The dam will provide irrigation and power for farms and industries in Southern Alberta. Among its possible side effects are the likely depletion of ground-water reserves and the drying up of rivers in the North. [7]

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A record of failure

If the past is anything to go by, those resettlement schemes will bring nothing but untold human misery. Indeed, there is scarcely a scheme in existence which has avoided the twin problems of cultural disruption and social alienation – a point which was not lost en NEDECO, the Dutch consultants who undertook one of the main feasibility studies for Sri Lanka’s Mahaweli scheme. In its 1979 report to the Sri Lankan Government, it warned:

“On the basis of the scenario adopted by the consultants about 50,000 families, or 250,000 people, have to be settled between 1980 and 1985. It is hard to find examples elsewhere in the world of successful settlement of such a large number of people in such a short time.” [8]

In fact, 1.5 million people will have to be resettled.

NEDECO is not alone in pointing to the failure of past resettlement schemes. Dr. Robert Goodland, a senior ecologist at the World Bank and a world authority on the environmental effects of large dams, is equally critical:

“In the past, people were often relocated or resettled without regard to their individual, community or societal needs. Concern was often lacking for their future welfare; how or whether they would find employment, receive education and health care, retain their cultural and societal identity; ensure their safety and social continuity. It was not uncommon for the displaced peoples to be placed in habitational settings foreign to their cultures: or to be located in proximity to other peoples with whom they had no affinity or even long-standing enmity.” [9]

In a similar vein, Professor William Ackermann told a 1976 conference on the effects of large-scale dams:

“From the human point of view, relocation has been one of the least satisfactory aspects of reservoir projects. . . . Settlement schemes have a high failure rate around the world.” [10]

Noting that resettlement inevitably imposes “physiological, psychological and socio-cultural stress”, Ackermann went on to comment:

“Even where planning is effective, some (especially the aged) will never come to terms with their new homes. For them, the transition period ends only with death.”

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Government insensitivity

To politicians, the idea that flooding a plot of land might destroy a people’s culture is often incomprehensible. Whatever anthropologists might say, the politicians prefer to dismiss the talk of ancestral shrines, cultural patterns and the like, as mere ‘sentimentalism’. Indeed, for some, even the motives of the anthropologists are suspect. At the height of the Jonglei Canal controversy for example, Sudan’s Southern Regional President, Abel Alier, told the local regional assembly:

“The people of the South cannot even have one full meal a day and children of school age cannot go to school because of our underdevelopment, backwardness and poverty. Yet we are asked to accept all this . . . and remain in a sort of human zoo for anthropologists, tourists, environmentalists and adventurers from developed countries of Europe to study us, our origin, our plights, the sizes of our skulls and the shape and length of our customary scars . . . I wish to say that although the Jonglei scheme is a Central Government Project, the Regional Government supports it and stands for it. If we have to drive our people to paradise with sticks, we will do so for their good and the good of those who come after us.” [11]

That intolerance of criticism – combined with a dogmatic belief in the benefits of technical ‘progress’ is a feature which has characterised all too many resettlement schemes. Inevitably, perhaps, it has often led to a patronising and frequently dictatorial attitude towards those who are to be resettled – an attitude which is by no means restricted to countries in the Third World, or behind the Iron Curtain where the KGB is responsible for all water development projects. Thus, in drawing up its plans for the James Bay Project, the Quebec provincial Government apparently saw no reason to consult the Cree and Inuit Indians who would be uprooted by the scheme. Instead, it presented the project as a fait accompli, telling the Indians that the scheme would go ahead regardless of their opposition. [12]

The Akawaio Indians of Guyana were treated with similar brusqueness. Their headmen were simply summoned to Georgetown where they were told by the Minister of Energy and Natural Resources, Hubert Jack, that their villages would be flooded as part of the Upper Mazaruni Hydroelectric Project. It was, he said, too late for the decision to be reconsidered, let alone reversed and the government expected their co-operation in resettling their 4,000 compatriots. Indeed, the project was presented as an opportunity for the Indians “to contribute to the development of their country”. [13]

Protests were pointless: the scheme would go ahead whatever happened, and if their help was not forthcoming, they would lose the chance of government aid for resettlement. As Stuart Wavell reported in The Guardian,

“There was no discussion of where the Akawaio were to move to, nor any mention of compensation. Although, at a meeting with the government authorities, one of the Akawaio captains ‘opposed the scheme vigorously'; the other four present were induced to sign a statement agreeing to the drowning of their villages . . . The meeting was called at such short notice that two village captains were unable to attend, and those that did were not given an opportunity to talk together, let alone consult the communities they represented. The captain who refused to sign was told that he would be barred from any resettlement committee. He was later removed from office.” [14]

Unlike the majority of Guyana’s other Amerindians, the Akawaio had no formal title to their lands – this despite a recommendation by the 1966 Amerindian lands Commission that they should be granted such title. In the government’s view, therefore, they could be moved without even being compensated. Indeed, in the opinion of Prime Minister Forbes Burnham, the Akawaio were no more than “squatters” on their ancestral lands. [15]

The Upper Mazaruni Dam Project has now been shelved. The experience of the Akawaio is of interest however, since it is typical of the treatment meted out to other tribal groups who have been earmarked for resettlement. “Treatment of people arbitrarily forced out of their homes by construction of a reservoir varies tremendously”, notes Robert Goodland in a general overview of resettlement schemes:

“At one end of the scale, the people receive scarcely a warning that the waters will rise: others may be notified, but neither compensated, nor assisted to move. Some communities may be offered the services of a government truck for a day to transport moveable belongings to dry ground: others may be provided with grass for houses, while their own are burned. Lengthy police intervention, military coercion and the bulldozer sanction, which is used in places, is acclaimed as successful if bloodshed can be avoided.” [16]

But bloodshed is not always avoided. Indeed, in the case of the Chico Dam, the Philippines Government brought in units of both the police and the army in order to quash opposition to the dam. At times, the methods used by those troops were brutal in the extreme. Arbitrary arrests were commonplace, and it is even alleged that the army was responsible for the assassination of one of the main opponents of the dam, Apo Pangat Macli-ing Dulag, and the attempted murder of one of his chief lieutenants, Pedro Dungoc. [17]

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Lack of compensation and inferior land

Had the Chico Dam gone ahead, the local Bontocs and Kalinga tribesmen would have been resettled on land which had already been declared unfit for the type of terraced agriculture they practise. “Years ago”, report the Australian-based Purari Action Group, “the people tried to transform the proposed resettlement areas into rice terraces and found this to be an impossibility”. [18] Moreover, the compensation they were promised for the loss of their ancestral lands and villages was minimal. Those twin problems – lack of adequate compensation and resettlement on inferior lands – are common features of numerous resettlement schemes:

Only those living on the actual site of Indonesia’s Asahan dam and its accompanying aluminium smelter were compensated for the loss of their land. As a result 60 percent of those resettled under the project, received nothing at all – even though their land was used for roads and power lines. The amount paid in compensation is reported to have been “minimal”. It had to be: the government was only given $6 million by the Japanese consortium building the dam to cover the cost of resettlement – and the government clearly had no intention of losing out on the deal. [19]

Those families resettled in the Mahaweli scheme received just £90 in compensation (3,000 rupees). Although those who owned their own homes were given the market value of their house, few of those resettled actually owned homes. Each family was offered just one hectare of land in the resettlement scheme – land which was generally covered with scrub or forest, which had to be cleared before planting could take place. The Victoria Dam – funded by Britain – will ultimately flood 123 villages; a minimum of 45,000 people will be affected. Yet, reports John Madeley in New Scientist,

“those people were not consulted before the project started and there has been no public inquiry of any kind. [20]

For landless squatters, the problem of compensation is aggravated by their lack of legal rights. In Brazil, for example, those claiming compensation are bound by various articles under the Codigo Civil. To obtain compensation, explains Robert Goodland, they must

“prove both humility and to be law abiding and the fact that the land in dispute has been exploited by them uninterruptedly for 40 years on federal, unowned land. On land subsequently found to be owned, 20 years is adequate, or 15 years ‘in good faith’, according to the Codigo Civil of 1973.” [21]

Those squatters who are unable to establish such rights “will be indemnified only for whatever dwelling they have constructed”. As a result, many squatters receive little or no compensation. Thus, reports Goodland, between one-and two-thirds of those squatters affected by the Tucurui project will be unable to support their claims.

“Even though the squatters may be well established, they will not be indemnified at the same rate as that for title holders. The treatment of squatters could provoke enormous hardship for the large numbers – possibly 10,000 – of already impoverished people to be displaced by the reservoir.”

Before building the Pantabangan dam in Luzon, the Philippines government promised the 9,500 people who were to be resettled that they would be compensated for the loss of both land and housing. “It was to be a simple case of returning value for value”, writes the Purari Action Group.

“Land for land, house for house. Where such exchange was impractical, such as in the case of trees and plants and other improvements, cash payments would come in. The people could even opt for cash payments for everything lost.” [22]

The Government also promised that new communities would be built and that those displaced would be employed on building the dam. Few of the promises were kept.

“No land came to the people, save the homelots on rugged, desolate mountainsides and hilltops: resettlements sprawled in clusters on the rolling arid terrain. Within them, there is hardly a place to farm. There are only houses – some corehouses only, others almost finished: some painted, others not; all of them completely exposed to the elements and looking badly battered by the dusty winds and rains . . . Homelots and farmlots which were to be leased to the people for a period of 40 years and renewable for the same length of time, are nowhere in sight. In one area, the farmlots could no longer be given to the resettlers since the authorities designated the land as a watershed area. Even worse, the government is presently studying the possibility of transferring the people to other lands more than 300 kilometres from where they are now.”

Although it was intended that every farmer resettled under Ghana’s Upper Volta project should receive 12 acres, the land clearing got so behind that only 8,000 acres out of an intended 54,000 acres were cleared before flooding. Much of that land was already earmarked for new villages. Describing the initial resettlement scheme as a “disaster”, Warren Linney and Susan Harrison of the Nairobi-based Environment Liaison Centre report:

“Originally, the people were to be resettled on a self-help basis 3-4 years before the flooding under the government’s policy of ‘No-one worse off as a result of the dam.’ In reality, only 2 years were available because of financing problems. The physical movement of the people and their possessions to 52 resettlement sites was carried out successfully in 1964; 67,000 people elected to move into the official settlement, the rest receiving cash compensation. By 1968, only 25,000 of the original settlers remained in the planned settlements. The failure of the agriculture programme was the major cause of exodus of the 42,000 original settlers. [That] programme failed mainly because of a lack of good land. The siting of the settlement had taken the wishes of the people into account and located the towns on their traditional lands, but there was already a high pressure on the land from other people. Only 6,000 hectares of new land was cleared, and half of this was required for the actual townsites.” [23]

Many settlers found that they had no land to farm and were constantly forced to rely on food distributed by USAID and other agencies for the first two years of their resettlement. As a result they were reduced from “independent subsistence farmers . . . to landless peasantry, dependent on food hand-outs and government social spending”. [24]

Had Guyana’s Upper Mazaruni dam gone ahead, the Akawaio Indians would have been forced to abandon the forests they have lived in for generations. The area where they were to have been resettled consisted of barren, rocky mountains and the occasional stretch of savannah where little grows except the odd stunted shrub. At the time that the dam was first proposed, the Akawaio expressed fears that they would not be able to adapt to such harsh conditions. One village headman asked,

“How can we who are not like mountain birds ascend the mountain to make gardens? There some birds can live, but not Indians. And when the birds of the savannah are flooded out with water, they will become sad because they do not know how to live in the forests.” [25]

For their part, the Guyanese authorities talked enthusiastically about large modern farms being created around the dam and in the lowlands beyond – this despite a clear warning in the 1950s from a British soil-survey team that the Mazuruni area was unsuited to intensive agriculture.

It is now appreciated by a growing number of ecologists that traditional swidden methods of farming – so-called ‘slash and burn’ agriculture – are the only means of cultivating the jungle without causing extensive environmental damage. For despite the lush canopy, the profusion of plants and the incredible variety of species, the jungle’s soils are some of the most fragile in the world. To farm them without causing ecological degradation takes an intimate knowledge of the local environment, and the sort of skill that comes from generations of experience.

Each garden has to be hewn out of the virgin forest, the smaller trees being cut down, and the rest burnt. In amongst the stumps, the crops are then planted, and constant weeding is required to protect them. After three years or so, the soil’s fertility drops so dramatically that the gardens have to be abandoned and the farmers must move elsewhere. It takes a particular type of social organisation and it cannot be learned overnight.

Those who have attempted to farm the jungle using modern intensive agriculture have quickly found to their cost that rainforests cannot support such techniques. Where it has been tried, it has proved disastrous. Dr. Mary McNeil, then development geologist for Lockheed Aircraft International, writes:

“At Iata, an equatorial wonderland in the heart of the Amazon basin, the Brazilian government set up an agricultural colony. Earth moving machinery wrenched a clearing from the forest and crops were planted. From the very beginning there were ominous signs of the presence of laterite. Blocks of ironstone stood out on the surface in some places: in others nodules of the laterite lay just below a thin layer of soil. What had appeared to be rich soil with a promising cover of humus, disintegrated after the first or second planting. Under the equatorial sun, the iron-rich soil began to bake into brick. In less than five years, the cleared fields became virtually pavements of rock. Today, Iata is a drab, despairing colony.” [26]

Those Egyptian Nubians uprooted by the Aswan high dam were moved to a new settlement area known as New Nubia, a crescent shaped strip of land some 60 kilometres long and 3 kilometres wide. When the dam was closed, much of the new land was not ready to farm – and monthly food subsidies were necessary in order to prevent starvation. Two years later, there were still bitter disputes about how the land was to be allocated. Hussein Fahim, author of Dams, People and Development, reports:

“A temporary distribution then took place in sane villages, providing only a one-feddan farm plot to every family plot. In 1971, upon completion of the reclamation and cultivation of most of the land allocated to New Nubia, another redistribution gave every beneficiary a good piece of land in addition to another of lesser quality. This caused difficulties for both the settlers and the administration. Disputes over soil quality, irrigation facilities and the distances between allocated land and the home village were some of the problems.” [27]

Those problems were further aggravated by the government’s insistence that settlers with suitable soils should plant 40 percent of their acreage with sugar cane – a crop with which the Egyptian Nubians were totally unfamiliar and which, consequently, they found hard to cultivate. Other problems arose as a result of the poor quality of the soil in New Nubia and of the lack of drainage. As Professor Thayer Scudder of the California Institute of Technology charges of the Kariba dam resettlement scheme,

“The problem of land shortage presented by relocation was obvious from the start to all government officials concerned. After resettlement had been completed, it was known that approximately one-third of the population would find themselves in serious straits within ten years. The rest were more fortunate, although there was little room for population increase in some areas and all areas could easily be degraded in the years ahead through erosion, overcultivation and overgrazing.” [28]

Even before the dam was built, shortage of land and population pressure had led to overcultivation, the reduction of fallow periods and the exhaustion of many local ‘gardens’. Resettlement greatly exacerbated the problem – not least because those lands least susceptible to degradation were flooded. Of the land in the area resettled, much was marginal:

“Under the local system of agriculture, less than 40 percent . . . could support semi-permanent cultivation (category 1), which involves five to ten years of continuous cropping, followed by a fallow period of approximately equal length. The rest (category 2) ranging in quality from fair to poor, could support at best cultivation for about six years, followed by a twenty-year fallow. With almost all of the arable land in the valley surveyed, this meant that semi-permanent cultivators needed an absolute minimum of two acres per capita, whereas bush fallow cultivators needed five or more. The situation in Mwemba was by far the worst; 9,000 people had access to approximately 20,000 acres of category 2 soil, much of it in the less fertile and more easily eroded gardens. To meet their needs, at least 40,000 more acres were necessary.” [29]

The result was erosion on a devastating scale. Yet the measures which were proposed for dealing with the problem were ones which the authorities knew in advance would be unacceptable to the Tonga. Thus attempts to stop the Tonga from cultivating the banks of river tributaries – as they had in the past – were singularly unsuccessful, not least because the soil on the river’s edge was the most fertile available.

“While those Tonga involved were well aware of the dangers of erosion, they saw no option but to continue as in the past.” [30]

Similarly, efforts to persuade the Tonga to practise regular crop rotation and manuring were stymied because they conflicted with traditional farming practices. As for attempts to introduce ‘contour ridges’ as a protection against erosion, these never even got off the ground:

“well aware that the valley residents did not really understand the basis for contouring, the native Authority did not wish to associate itself with a potentially unpopular measure.”

It, therefore, did nothing. Where contour ridges were dug (1,230 miles of ridges protecting 14,247 acres were completed) they were poorly maintained and quickly feel into disrepair. In some cases, they were actually torn down to make way for new gardens, such was the lack of land.

Nor was the lot of the Tonga made any the easier by the unpredictability of the rise and fall of Lake Kariba’s waters. Between October 1963 and March 1964, the water level dropped 20 feet before rising again, leaving two miles of shoreline exposed. That land was then cultivated by evacuees living on the Lake’s shores – and the first harvest produced “some of the best maize ever reaped in the valley”. [31]

The next season, however, the lake’s waters dropped just two feet (as opposed to 20 in 1963) and rose considerably earlier than expected passing the previous high-water mark in January as opposed to March.

“Any Tonga who had tried to repeat the successful 1963-4 experiment again planting maize in November would have had his entire crop flooded out prior to its harvest.” [32]

Tragically, many farmers found themselves caught out – at a time, moreover, when food shortages were often critical.

Even in the industrialised world, those resettled as a result dam projects often receive scant compensation. Testifying before a US Senate Sub-committee in 1979, for instance, Geneva Sherman told how the Corps of Engineers had assessed compensation for those who were settled under the Paintsville Lake project. Fred Powledge, author of Water – The Use and Abuse of Our most Precious Resource, reports:

“Sherman referred to the Corp’s method of land acquisition as robbery. In almost every case, she said, the Corps takes its own land survey and claims that a landowner owns less acreage than his or her deed says – from 10-50 percent less. In this manner, the Corps can pay less for the land it confiscates. But when the Corps is finding comparable land for those evicted, it does not do its own survey, preferring to take the deed’s word for it.” [33]

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1. M. Kassas, “Environmental Aspects of Water Resources Development”. In Asit K. Biswas, et al (Eds), Water Management for Arid Lands in Developing Countries. Pergamon, Oxford, 1980, p.73.
. P. Freeman, “Environmental Considerations in the Management of International Rivers: A Review”. Unpublished manuscript, Threshold, Washington DC, March 1978, pp.10-11.
. Asit K. Biswas, “Environmental Implications of Water Development for Developing countries”. In Carl Widstrand (Ed), The Social and Ecological Effects of Water Development in Developing Countries. Pergamon, Oxford, 1978, p.295.
2. Philip B. Williams, “Damming the World”. Not Man Apart, October 1983, p.10. Daniel Deudney gives a higher figure still – some 2 million people. See: D. Deudney Rivers of Energy: The Hydropower Potential. Worldwatch Paper 44. Washington DC, June 1981, p.18.
3. R. Wright, International Dams: The Impact on Native Peoples. Background Paper, (undated) Anthropology Resource Centre, p.2.
4. R. Goodland, Environmental Assessment of the Tucurui Hydroproject. Electronorte, Brasilia, Brazil, 1978, p.45. See also Paul L. Aspelin and Silvio Coelho dos Santos, Indian Areas Threatened by Hydroelectric Projects in Brazil. IWGIA Document 44, Copenhagen, October 1981, pp.52-3, 57.
5. R. Wright, op.cit. (undated), p.6.
6. Ibid. p.3.
7. Ibid, p.6.
8. NEDECO, Mahaweli Ganga Development Program: Implementation Strategy Study. September 1979.
9. R. Goodland, Personal Communication.
10. W. Ackermann, “Summary and Recommendation” in W. Ackermann et al (eds), Man-made lakes: their Problems and Environmental effects. American Geophysical Union, Washington DC, 1973, p.28.
11. Abel Alier, Statement to the people’s Regional Assembly on the Proposed Jonglei Canal. Authority for the Development of the Jonglei Area, Khartoum. Quoted by J. Waterbury, The Hydropolitics of the Nile Valley. Syracuse University Press, 1979, p.77.
12. R. Wright, op.cit. (undated) p.6.
13. “New Life for Guyana’s 4000 Akawaios”. Development Philosophy, Georgetown, Guyana. Quoted in Gorden Bennett et al (eds), The Dammed: The Plight of the Akawaio Indians of Guyana. Survival International Document VI, London 1978, p.2.
14. Stewart Wavell, The Guardian, March 21 1975.
15. Anon. The Legal Position. Draft Document, undated p.1.
16. R. Goodland, op.cit. 1978, p.38.
17. Ceres P. Doya “Was Macli-ing killed because he dammed the Chico Dam”. Panorama (Sunday Magazine of The Bulletin today), Manila, June 29 1980.
18. Rob Pardy et al. Purari: Overpowering PNG?. International development Action for Purari Action Group, Victoria, Australia 1978, p.161.
19. Ibid, p.178.
20. J. Madeley, “Leaks and Landslide Loom in Sri Lanka”. New Scientist, April 7 1983, p.8.
21. R. Goodland, op.cit. 1978; pp.39-40.
22. Rob Pardy et al, op.cit. 1978; p.163.
23. W. Linney & S. Harrison Large Dams and the Developing World: Social and Ecological Costs and Benefits – A Look at Africa. Environmental Liaison Centre, PO Box 72461, Nairobi, Kenya, 1981; p.7.
24. Rob Pardy et al, op cit.1978; p.149.
25. Quoted in Gordon Bennett, et al, The Damned: The plight of the Akawaio Indians of Guyana; p.8. Survival International VI, London 1978.
26. Quoted in Peter Bunyard, Brazil: Path to Paradise or Way to Dusty Death?; p.9. Wadebridge Ecological Centre, Wadebridge, 1975.
27. H. Fahim, Dams, People and Development: The Aswan High Dam Case; p.62. Pergamon Oxford, 1981.
28. T. Scudder, “Ecological Bottlenecks and the Development of the Kariba Lake Basin”. In T. Farvar and J.P. Milton (eds), The Careless Technology; p.232. Tom Stacey, London 1973.
29. Ibid, p.231.
30. Ibid, p.233.
31. Ibid, p.225.
32. Ibid, p.226.
33. F. Powledge, Water: Nature, Uses and Future of our most Precious and Abused Resource. Farrar Straus Giroux, New York 1982; p.295.
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