About a month ago I was invited by the nascent Fins Initiative to attend and contribute to their project during COP29 in Baku, Azerbaijan. Having been observing the “commitments” and “talks” for a few years I was curious to actually witness these in person at the yearly Conference Of Parties.

As many of us are aware, the convention has been held in different countries for the last 29 years. Resulting in many treaties, agreements, negotiations and so on. The most celebrated and well known was the Paris Agreement signed in 2015 that had the goal of limiting temperature rise to 1.5°C– and which no country is on track to meet 9 years later.

Many boycotted Baku calling on the hypocrisy of a petrol-state hosting the climate talks. However, my main takeaway from my Azerbaijani week was just that, in my opinion Azerbaijan itself is the country that benefitted the most from this year’s summit.

Over 60,000 delegates from around the world flew into Baku to attend COP29. Most conversations are held in the Blue Zone, where a special “political” pass is needed, and no commoner or civilian is allowed to enter. I went to the Blue Zone only one day, invited by the Azerbaijani delegation. The energy was chaotic and intense. There are pavilions for panel discussions as well as big conference rooms and of course the many break-out stalls that are rumoured to host back-door deals for fossil fuel lobbyists to mingle with high-level diplomats.

The Fins Initiative that I participated in was hosting a pavilion in the Green Zone, the area open to the public where mainly Azerbaijani and Brazilian funded pavilions and NGOs hosted panels, talks, and exhibitions. I was told Brazil was overtly present at COP29 because they are hosting COP30 and therefore needed to show what they’re working on from now.

The streets of Baku were mysteriously quiet for the two weeks of COP. With dedicated buses taking you to and from the blue/green zones into the city center. Rumor has it that the government incentivized locals to work remotely for those two weeks, in order to easily host the biggest influx of tourism in the country’s recent history.

Despite the controversies behind COP29, I find that its biggest win was exactly that it was held in a country with little environmental track record. All of a sudden, the environment was on its agenda, and as I met more and more Azerbaijanis I listened to how COP was making being “green” cool as well as opening up funding for local organisations and engaging eco talks in the school curriculums.

This made me wonder, does a country really need 60,000 international delegates, politicians and fossil fuel lobbyists to encourage conscious development? Wouldn’t a local version of COP have a larger impact on the community? Couldn’t a country-specific COP actually make a bigger difference? I’m Italian, and sometimes I feel like I know more about the environmental movement happening in remote areas of the world than I do of what’s happening in my home country. I would love to partake in an Italian-led COP that invited all of the cool organisations (governmental and non) as well as businesses, leaders, entrepreneurs and everyone in between to talk about their contributions to a more eco-friendly society. I feel that when the conference is hyper-local, the chances for impact are amplified. Imagine this: you’re an impact investor and your next-door neighbour has a bio-gas start-up. Do you really need to fly across the world to meet each other?

So, in terms of my personal experience at COP29 I’m happy and satisfied to say that Fins Initiative did have a large local impact. Fins was the only pavilion focused on ocean conservation and as it was founded by two local Azerbaijanis they knew that they needed to stir the curiosity of their fellow Bakunians that have had few experiences with the deep blue. To do this they brought a large installation of a dead sperm whale on the Baku Boulevard. This ensured that our talks were consistently well-attended by locals and hopefully inspired a future generation of marine biologists in the land-locked country of Azerbaijan.

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Back in 2020 I read an amazing book that I have constantly reflected upon: Wilding, by Isabella Tree. It was covid lockdown, and I was lucky enough to be spending it in the Swiss mountains. Every morning, rain or shine, I would do a hike through what I thought was a corner of Switzerland’s pristine forest. After reading Wilding, it hit me. I wasn’t hiking through forests, I was walking in a pine plantation. Let me explain to you why.

In the West the difference between a forest and a plantation isn’t taught in school. The fact that the UK was home to a temperate rainforest, has been conveniently forgotten, replaced by the idea of the English countryside being “beautiful” rolling moores. In Germany and Switzerland every tree is numbered by the government. Most rivers in Europe are channeled, the fact that salmon used to migrate up them to most sounds like a long-lost fantasy. European bison used to criss-cross the plains of Belgium and Germany, while beavers naturally dammed the rivers. Deforestation in Europe happened so long ago, that culturally we don’t even know what our primary forests looked like, which animals roamed and what plant medicines our ancestors foraged.

What I find even more troublesome, is what we interpret as “nature.” We can easily recognise agricultural land, but many still confuse a plantation for a forest. Right now, as wildfires ravage central and northern Portugal, experts are finally pointing the finger to Portugal’s paper and timber industries that dominate the area with eucalyptus and pine plantations. Did you know that eucalyptus is now the primary tree species in Portugal, despite being native to Australia?

“Eucalyptus covers 845,000 hectares in the Iberian countryside, or 26 percent of forests. Technically these are cultivations that feed the paper and cellulose sectors, with eucalyptus grown exclusively for pulp, which is used to make various paper products.”

Monocultures are highly flammable, you can imagine matchsticks being planted next to each other. This is why, when a fire starts, it can quickly spread across hectares and hectares of land, from one plantation to the other, creating monstrous human-made disasters.

In 2017, northern Portugal suffered similar wildfires in Pedrogrão Grande area, the fires killed 66 people and burned through 50,000 hectares of land. Many of the remaining pockets of native forests survived through those fires. Since then the local community has started to question the government’s plan to increase eucalyptus plantations, looking for an economic alternative to paper production in this rural area.

Just last week, seven firefighters lost their lives trying to quell the wildfires. When will justice prevail against the culprits of these disasters? 
A local NGO, Quercus, that has been active in the area since 1985, is highly critical of the paper industry’s destruction of native flora, and has been working hard to restore and maintain what’s left of Portugal’s diverse biome.

“The pulp industry depends on eucalyptus plantations in this area. Together with the pressure on the government to expand eucalyptus acreage in Portugal, this means that there is no meaningful promotion of a diverse landscape that is more resilient to fires. When such landscapes are planted, or at least experimented with, it is in small areas near watercourses. There is nothing being done at scale to reduce the risk of fires.” says Domingos Patacho, director of Quercus.

We hope after this last two weeks where Portugal officially declared a state of calamity, the government will listen to Quercus’ pleas and finally support the regeneration of native forests and put an end to the paper domination of the Iberian coast.

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Toitū te marae a Tāne-Mahuta, toitū te marae a Tangaroa, toitū te tangata.

This is a whakatauki, a Māori proverb widely known in Aotearoa (New Zealand) that means “if the land is well and the sea is well, so too are the people”.

The literal truths of this proverb are obvious: our lives are reliant on clean water, healthy soil, and fresh air. More and more research highlights how our mental health is connected to the natural world, as it reduces stress while inspiring creativity and joy. This reflects the spiritual beliefs of the Māori people, who have deep relationships with the land and the sea, as well as the plants and animals who also call these lands home. If our native species are threatened, so is the wellbeing of Aotearoa’s people. One of these species is the smallest and rarest dolphin in the world, the Hector’s dolphin, with one of its subspecies, the Māui dolphin, critically endangered with only 55 individuals left.

The Hector’s dolphin has different Māori names, depending on the region. Tutumairekurai and tūpoupou are common, while pahu is often used and has been adopted by Sea Shepherd New Zealand in their campaign to protect these dolphins. An old Māori belief is that spirits that have passed may come back as tutumairekurai, so they are viewed as extensions of the family, worthy of deep respect. Historically, these dolphins were so common that it was laughable to think that they would ever be classed as endangered. Now only 10,000 remain in the waters surrounding Aotearoa, meaning they are “nationally vulnerable”.

Naturally curious and highly intelligent, pahu are coastal dwellers, not known to travel more than 20 nautical miles from shore, so they are commonly seen by swimmers, kayakers, and recreational boaters. They live in small familial pods and generally remain in one region, a behaviour known as site fidelity. It is easy to see why they are viewed as spiritual creatures by the Māori and how they have become a national icon, known as the “kiwi of the sea”.

The first time I was lucky enough to interact with them, I was swimming at Waikuku beach as a child. The other swimmers around me evacuated the water having mistaken these dolphin fins for shark fins, whereas I felt like swimming out further to see if they’d play with me. It was a few years later when I finally got my chance to interact with them while on a friend’s recreational boat in Banks Peninsula, where there is a high concentration of Hector’s dolphins due to its many small bays creating protection for breeding and a range of fish species for their food. While the engine had stopped and we were enjoying the scenery in silence, we heard a soft breathing noise — which is where the dolphins get the name pahu — and we saw their distinctive black fins approaching us slowly. Up close, Hector’s dolphins often roll sideways underwater to get a good look at you while passing your boat, or they stick their heads up out of the water to watch you from a distance. When I saw one of those bright, intelligent eyes looking straight into mine, my love for these beings deepened. Now I relish every opportunity to get out on the water and spot them, while also helping to monitor their population and threats as a volunteer for Sea Shepherd New Zealand.

The curiosity and social nature of Hector’s dolphins make for a great tourist attraction, especially around Banks Peninsula. Companies offering dolphin tours are usually well-instructed in how to approach the dolphins, always careful to minimise the risk of striking them, and to not make loud noises or feed the dolphins when spotted. However, research has indicated that an increase in boat traffic over time has displaced the number of Hector’s dolphins in the Akaroa region. Furthermore, one company offers a “swim with dolphins” tour, despite the fact that swimming with the dolphins can disrupt their natural behaviours, and increase the risk of humans touching and damaging the dolphins’ sensitive skin. Although I believe that Aotearoa’s wildlife and natural beauty should be shared by all, and that tourism raises awareness of the plight of the Hector’s dolphins, if tour boats are part of the problem, I wonder whether we should cease their operation to provide safer and quieter habitats?

Swimming with Hector’s dolphins remains legal — unless there are calves in the pod — although many companies have ceased providing “swim with dolphins” tours due to concerns over the reduction of numbers of dolphins in particular areas. To combat the amount of marine traffic disturbing the Hector’s dolphin population, the government issued a moratorium on new permits and expansions for tour boat operators in Akaroa harbour in 2016, which is due to expire in 2026. Whether they will extend the moratorium is unknown.

Earlier this year, the international sailing race SailGP took place in Lyttelton Harbour, the largest commercial harbour on the Banks Peninsula. Lyttelton Harbour is a marine mammal sanctuary and home to a pod of Hector’s dolphins. The organisers of SailGP knew this area was a sanctuary and that significant protection measures would be in place, however they chose to go ahead with the race despite pressure from environmental NGOs to hold it elsewhere. Protection protocol required that if any Hector’s dolphins were seen near the course the race would be stopped until the dolphin had not been seen for 20 minutes. This was agreed to by the SailGP representatives, yet when dolphins were seen in the race area on the opening morning, and the entire day of racing was subsequently cancelled, their response turned to calling the protection measures “extreme” and “disappointing” instead. It was inappropriate to hold a race with boats that travel at such high speeds within a marine mammal sanctuary, yet this is not the only threat the Hector’s dolphins of Lyttelton Harbour have experienced.

In 2018 the Lyttelton Port Company (LPC) wanted to build a new cruise ship berth so that bigger ships with more passengers could enter Lyttelton. The methods they proposed for construction involved noisy pile driving, which was expected to cause adverse effects on the wildlife populations over time. In particular, it would have decreased the dolphins’ ability to echolocate and possibly led to permanent hearing damage. The project was halted while the LPC continued research into the potential harm to the local dolphins, then construction began in 2019 with a “marine piling management plan” including fewer piles used, along with “soft start” construction that would give the animals time to leave the area, and a pause on work required when any dolphin was seen near the site. Construction continued in the face of extensive protest from local communities and the concern of scientists, who proved that the number of Hector’s dolphins dropped in areas with smaller-scale construction, which disrupted their normal breeding and feeding behaviours.

Despite the significant presence of boats, they are not the biggest threat to Hector’s and Māui dolphins. Every year, fishing nets kill between 100 and 150 Hector’s dolphins, the most common being set nets, while Hector’s dolphins have been bycatch in trawl nets and drift nets too. A threat management plan was introduced in 2008 outlining ways to minimise threats to the dolphins, and was most recently revised in 2020 with further bans on fishing gear at certain distances from the shore. 

Through my work with Sea Shepherd New Zealand, I have observed how using fishing gear further out to sea isn’t enough. I have seen vessels trawling in the middle of a large pod of Hector’s dolphins who were gathering to eat the fishers’ desired catch just outside the two nautical mile ban limit. If there is fishing happening anywhere within that 20 nautical mile habitat range, the dolphins are threatened and will be until there is no more commercial fishing in the areas they populate. It may seem like an extreme measure, but fishing nets pose the greatest risk to the dolphins, and therefore need to be a primary focus of regulation. Fishing gear is also a primary source of plastic pollution, another significant threat to marine wildlife. 

It is a legal requirement that commercial fishing boats report any accidental bycatch of Hector’s and Māui dolphins, with this information then published on the Department of Conservation website. However, this assumes that commercial vessels willingly and accurately volunteer this information. In the experience of most NGOs and individuals campaigning for Hector’s protection, this is rarely the case. To minimise the risk of misinformation, NGOs and dolphin researchers long suggested the use of cameras onboard fishing vessels, yet they were not implemented until the Labour government in late 2023. Since the cameras were installed, the number of “reported” deaths of Hector’s and Maui dolphins increased, particularly deaths due to bycatch. This indicates that dolphin deaths were not previously reported, rather than not occurring at all. 

Although the cameras were a positive step by the government to protect native marine species, Aotearoa’s most recent elections resulted in a new government that prioritises economic growth over the wellbeing of the environment. The Oceans and Fisheries Minister has indicated that although the improvement of fisheries’ sustainable practices was a priority, the use of cameras was not determined a necessary precaution.

Toitū te marae a Tāne-Mahuta, toitū te marae a Tangaroa, toitū te tangata. This whakatauki is used on the website of the Department of Conservation, in a section that talks about their desire for thriving ecosystems and a dedication to preserving our Aotearoa’s resources. If Aotearoa is to maintains its global image of being a clean and green country that prides itself on its natural beauty, difficult decisions and sacrifices need to be made to protect native species, which is both a governmental and individual responsibility.

Although there is generally a lot of education around dolphins in Aotearoa, many recreational boaters aren’t aware of the research around the protection of Hector’s dolphins, particularly in regard to safe boating behaviour. Constant reminders would be helpful, like warnings posted at boat ramps and marinas reminding boaters of safe speeds and the importance of keeping an eye out for dolphins. These are a few of many possible steps that could be taken by the government, but the ugly truth is that profit, pleasure and convenience are often put ahead of other species, native vegetation and thus collective interspecies wellbeing.

In my perspective, the sea is not well, and Aotearoa cannot be well until it protects  vulnerable marine species like the unique Hector’s dolphins. They deserve better. As individuals, we cannot control the government’s decisions more than passionately lobbying for what’s right, but we can make everyday choices to improve the wellbeing of animals and their habitats, and sacrifice our own pleasure for the future of a species. Is a sailing race, cruising around in a rental boat or having a piece of fish on our plates worth the risk of harming the Hector’s and Māui dolphins? For the curious and intelligent mammal that captured my heart all of those years ago, I say no.

Lauren Duke is a seafarer, activist and writer. She lives in Aotearoa (New Zealand) close to the sea.

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I was invited to Davos by Rudy Randa, the Managing Director of the Boa Foundation. Rudy was attending the World Economic Forum (WEF) to gather support for indigenous-led land buyback and reforestation projects, a key focus for Boa.

Originally founded by Klaus Schwab in 1971 as the European Management Forum, the World Economic Forum is a not-for-profit foundation focused on creating a more fair, inclusive, just and sustainable world through the cooperation of international public and private institutions. The WEF is guided by stakeholder theory — which is predicated on the belief that an organisation should be accountable to all aspects of society — and through its annual meeting in Davos, it brings together corporate and government leaders to discuss the most pressing global issues of the moment.

Rudy and I were attending the WEF with Ben Meeus from Grounded and the Yorenka Tasorentsi Institute; Ana, Daniel, Carrie and Pascal from the Aguila Condor Foundation, one of Boa’s partner organisations; and Carlos Vicente from the Interfaith Rainforest Initiative. Each day our group gathered at a stall in the Trust House, which was facilitated by yeswetrust, a members club focused on positive global change.

After helping to organise our stall on the first morning, I walked to the meeting room, which hosted talks and events each day of the WEF, from nine in the morning until midnight. When I entered, a man stood on the stage wearing a wide-brimmed hat with what looked like a macaw feather attached to it. He was explaining how a global game could be an antithesis to the nation state system and a solution to global problems. After introducing the concept, he invited the audience to gather in a circle for a visualisation exercise. His colleague then stepped into the centre of the circle, holding a microphone. She spoke softly, guiding the group into meditation, asking everyone to visualise a thriving abundant planet. She then asked the participants to focus on the finer details of this planet, and then to focus on a single detail: “this is the part of the planet that you most care about.” She finally guided everyone out of the visualisation, back into the room and invited the participants to share their single observation.

The first speaker spoke with a Polish accent of a planet going through a great reset, which led to free healthcare and universal income. The next speaker spoke with an American accent about a magical nut that grows in the Andes. A woman with an Indian accent spoke of women’s rights and safety, which was celebrated by the next speaker, who spoke with an Eastern European accent about the importance of living with our hearts. An American woman spoke to the importance of living in alignment with personal truth. Next to her, a British man introduced a Sanskrit term, ahimsa, as the necessary core value of his world. An American man shared an indigenous prophecy of a new humanity living in harmony with one another and the world. A man with a Dutch accent spoke of the wisdom of the forest, referring to the previously mentioned principle of ahimsa and the need to truly collaborate and honour the value of all living beings. Finally a woman introduced herself as Ukrainian and spoke to the importance of peace. At this point, the man who introduced the game asked for the microphone and spoke to collective consciousness and the wisdom within it. He asked the group “what does the world look like when love wins”, inviting everyone to think of themselves at Davos as part of a collective we, to connect to the collective purpose, to be together in the here and now, and to connect with “the power of Gaia”. Everyone clapped. The session ended and the audience dispersed, with most people gathering at the bar or around a self-service coffee machine where they exchanged business cards and LinkedIn profiles.

I walked to our stall where Ben and Carlos were offering a VR experience called Amazônia Viva. This 360 degree immersive experience transports viewers to the Tapajós River in Brazil, where their 10 minute journey is guided by Raquel Tupinambá, an indigenous leader from the Surucuá community. There were three headsets at our stall, and as I returned a woman took off one of them, revealing her wide excited eyes. She spoke animatedly to Ben.

“It took me out of this Davos chaos and into a world I could feel was sacred. Thank you so much.”

Ben looked over to me and raised his eyebrows while smiling, clearly excited by the enthusiastic response he had received. I smiled back, then felt a wave of tiredness, so I decided to get a coffee. I walked to the self-service machine, passing a few of the nearby stalls. The first was focused on technology that promises a longer lifespan. The next consisted of an air mattress that a man was lying on while wearing headphones and VR goggles. The stallholder had been watching my gaze and as our eyes met he raised his eyebrows. I nodded towards the guy on the floor. What is he doing?

“It’s sonic technology that reduces stress and increases creativity.”

If it’s sonic what is happening in the goggles?

“It’s a light display that moves and evolves with the soundscape.”

I smiled and walked the remaining steps to join the queue for the coffee machine. As I waited, I looked around the room, appreciating how everyone seemed to be there to share what they perceived was most valuable to the world, reflecting the WEF’s belief in stakeholder theory, how our work should benefit all facets of society. I then closed my eyes, conducting my own visualisation exercise: what do I feel is most valuable, what does our world need?

I was abruptly pulled from my meditation by someone tapping on my shoulder. It was the person standing behind me, “it’s your turn.” I placed a paper cup in the centre of the tray and looked at the options on the screen and pressed FLAT WHITE. I walked back to our stall while sipping my coffee. I took my phone from my pocket and checked the calendar of events I had for the day. “11:00am – Big Questions: Cannabis & Psychedelics.” I looked at the current time at the top of my screen, it was 10:50am, so I gathered my belongings and rushed to the nearby hotel where the talk was held.

The WEF’s Annual Meeting are the sessions within The Congress, the exclusive area where political and corporate leaders gather each day, which requires an official invitation or a $19,000 (USD) ticket. This year, Congress speakers included Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI; Bill Anderson, the CEO of Bayer; Albert Bourla, the CEO of Pfizer; Sadie Creese, Professor in Cybersecurity at the University of Oxford; Mafalda Duarte, the Executive Director of the Green Climate Fund; Bill Gates, the Founder of Microsoft; David Gelles, the Managing Correspondent of The New York Times; Kristalina Georgieva, the Managing Director of the IMF; António Guterres, the Secretary-General of the United Nations; Mike Henry, the CEO of BHP; Nicolas Hieronimus, the CEO of L’Oréal; Jeremy Hunt, the Chancellor of the Exchequer in the UK; Paul Kagame, the President of Rwanda; Christine Lagarde, President of the European Central Bank; Emmanuel Macron, the President of France; Lynn Martin, the President of the New York Stock Exchange; Javier Milei, the recently elected President of Argentina; Jennifer Morris, the CEO of The Nature Conservancy; Sri Mulyani Indrawati, the Minister of Finance of Indonesia; Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, Director-General of the WTO; Chief Putanny of the Yawanawá people of the Brazilian Amazon; Tharman Shanmugaratnam, the President of Singapore; Kadri Simson, the Commissioner for Energy at the European Commission; Jürgen Stock, the Secretary-General of INTERPOL; Jens Stoltenberg, the Secretary-General of NATO; Mohammed Shyaa Al Sudani, the Prime Minister of Iraq; Nisia Trindade Lima, the Minister of Health in Brazil; Kathy Wengel, the Executive Vice-President of Johnson & Johnson; Volodymyr Zelenskyy, the President of Ukraine; and many others, including a dabble of entertainers like Angelique Kidjo, Nile Rodgers and Michelle Yeoh.

Surrounding The Congress, along Davos’ Promenade, are the various “houses” convened by organisations and governments, which can be visited by anyone willing to travel to Davos and pay the exorbitant rates for a nearby hotel room during the WEF. While walking along the Promenade, I spotted the AI House, Equality Lounge, Greek House, Maharastra House, Meta House and Uber House, all of which have taken over the usual stores that line Davos’ high street, and have been repurposed to host branded events and experiences.

I arrived at the Mountain Plaza Hotel, which wasn’t a “house” per se, as it lacked the customary branding. I had no idea where the talk was, so I asked the receptionist where is the cannabis and psychedelics event. “Go down that hall,” they pointed to a door behind me, “and take the elevator to level three.” I followed her instructions, which led me to a makeshift foyer on the third floor: there were two coat racks to my left, three tables serving food and drinks directly in front of me, and what now appeared to be the standard Davos self-service coffee machine to my right. There were also two signs indicating “Room A” and “Room B”. The door to “Room A” was open, and I could see nobody was inside, so I assumed the talk was in “Room B”. I opened the door, all the seats were taken, people were standing at the back, the room was full and the session was underway, so I smiled and closed the door. I made my way back to the Promenade and slowly walked by the branded houses to the “Table of Tomorrow” lunch, at the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals (UNSDG) Tent, which was next on my schedule.

The UNSDG Tent was a well-heated marquee with two meeting rooms, a toilet and a bar area. The lunch was in the smaller of the two rooms, where seven tables faced a small stage, and was organised by Bayer, the German pharmaceutical and biotechnology company that also creates fertilisers and seeds for agricultural use; and Clim-Eat, an organisation focused on the intersection between food and climate to create collective action for a sustainable and healthy future. As attendees entered the room, they found their assigned seat at their assigned table. I put my jacket on the back of my chair and introduced myself to the man seated beside me, Franck, who worked at Innovate 4 Nature, a Swiss-based accelerator for “nature-positive solutions”. We swapped stories from our time in Davos until the host of the lunch, Professor David Nabarro, stepped onto the stage. He held a microphone that he used to introduce himself — “I am the Co-Director of the Institute of Global Health Innovation at Imperial College London and Strategic Director of the social enterprise 4SD” — the topic of the lunch — “over the past few years we’ve experienced a storm, where food insecurity and malnutrition are on the rise” — and to explain how the next two hours had been organised — “we’re going to enjoy great food, listen to great speakers, and discuss approaches to this significant moment in our collective history.”

The two speakers were Jennifer Baarn from the Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa, and Arnold Puech Pays d’Alissac, the President of the World Farmers’ Organisation. Both organisations, along with Clim-Eat, are partners of Bayer, so their perspectives were aligned. They spoke of the power of innovation and technology to ensure sustainability, equity and resilience in our food systems; how seed inputs increase yields; and how corporations provide knowledge and innovation to farmers. They also agreed how long-term trusting partnerships and stable investment were crucial to future food systems. When they finished speaking, Dhanush Dinesh and Leanne Zeppenfeldt from Clim-Eat spoke to the next phase of the lunch, facilitated conversations on each table. I don’t recall much of this conversation and I didn’t take notes, but what I found interesting and memorable were the different backgrounds and careers of the people surrounding me. It is easy to look at people and classify them as “corporate” or “in government” forgetting they have a personal history defined by an assortment of choices that led them to that room on that day. This thought inspired questions as I left the event and walked back to Trust House: what led me to that room, and where am I going?

I arrived back to our stall and sat down on a free chair. I watched Ben and Carlos speak with people who had just finished the Amazônia Viva experience, how they spoke of the Amazon rain forest with passion, fuelled by their belief in nature as a solution to the climate crisis. I turned my head to see Rudy speaking with a man about the Yorenka Tasorentsi Institute, and the importance of indigenous-led projects to support the protection and regeneration of vital ecosystems. Watching my friends and colleagues discuss the projects that brought them to Davos reminded me of why I was there too.

It’s easy to forget what moves us as individuals, our minds are so easily pulled into the conceptual thinking of Occidental knowledge systems through discussions on trickle-down economics, government budgets and impact investments. It’s easy to forget my why when I meet a confident entrepreneur and listen to how engaged they are with the solution they believe the world needs. Media platforms are predominantly focused on reporting problems that encourage anxious thought patterns, news that highlights what makes us weak rather than celebrating what makes us strong.

It was in that moment I was approached by Lars Bergmann, who was invited to join our group at the WEF by his long-time friend Daniel, from the Aguila Condor Foundation. Lars has worked in wastewater treatment for over 20 years. The first line of his LinkedIn profile explains how he is a “passionate innovator and tech enthusiast”, but when speaking with him, I learned how much he loves his wife and daughter, and how his focus on water is centred on its necessity to humanity and the systems we call life. He explained the technology and thinking that defines his work, how it transforms wastewater by removing polluting elements so that it can then be potentially reused for irrigation. I asked him why water is not a bigger talking point at Davos?

“I am surprised by this too.”

We spoke about the droughts that are now so prevalent in the world. I told Lars the story of how Rudy and I fought wildfires in the Amazon rain forest in September.

“How did it change you?”

Nobody had asked me that question since the experience. I responded how it was powerful to think back to that moment, how confronted I was to witness the drying of one of the world’s most precious freshwater systems, to see it overwhelmed by flames, and how far away it was from the WEF, from everyone explaining how their project or idea will solve global problems, and how speaking about solutions was not the antidote to the issues we face. Although they may lead to action, and I hope they do, because immediate action is necessary.

“So what is immediate, necessary action?”

Another good question, an important question, a question I left the WEF asking myself. A question I ask myself now, sitting here, writing. I don’t have an answer. If anything, I think the answer is another question with slightly more specificity.

What action am I focused on?

Or with even more specificity.

How can I nurture our world today?

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer. He leads storytelling at eco-nnect.

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This past month, when I open Instagram each morning, I am met with story after story focused on the situation in Israel and Palestine. I engage, reading the different perspectives, occasionally reposting one that resonates with my own, before I close the app and continue on with my day, a privilege of being a spectator of conflict. As time passes, and this stream of videos, photos and captions accumulate in my subconscious, my thoughts have repeatedly circled back to the concept of land, to Country, and my relationship with it.

I was born in Narrm, in East Melbourne, on Wurundjeri Country, in the south east of mainland Australia. 10 years ago, if you had asked me about my relationship with my birthplace, I would have told you I grew up in Eltham, and maybe described the eucalyptus trees endemic to that place, but I could not speak of a connection to that landscape, I hadn’t considered that possibility. 

My awareness of the tangible relationship we form with land was precipitated by my return to Australia, after living in the UK for two and a half years. I had lived in Manchester for six months, and then London for more than two years, and these densely populated concrete environments had become a familiar, normal reality. Upon my return to Narrm (Melbourne), I was struck by the space, by the wide view of the sky on every street. When I returned to the landscape of my childhood, to Eltham, it was the first time I truly appreciated the rare beauty of my home: the trees, the plants, the River. Depending on traffic, Eltham is a mere 30 minute drive from the centre of Melbourne, and I was shocked I could access an abundant natural environment in the same amount of time it took to travel from Bethnal Green to Soho.

Over the next few weeks, I looked for somewhere to live. I would visit sharehouses and meet my potential housemates, explaining my life and how I decided to move back to Narrm to study playwriting. I would often speak of how refreshing it was to be back in Australia with its abundance of natural space. After a few weeks, I received a message from my childhood friend Josh, who had heard I was looking for somewhere to live.

“We have a room in Warrandyte.”

His parents had moved out of their house — a ten minute drive from my childhood home — and he and his brother decided to stay and convert the space into a sharehouse.

“We’d love you to move in.”

My girlfriend at the time was living in Northcote, close to the city, and I had been staying at her place a few nights each week, so the prospect of living away from the urban bustle, after so long in London, didn’t seem as daunting. But within weeks of moving in, we split, and I was suddenly immersed in my decision to live amongst the trees and memories of my youth. 

It was May, the days had started to cool, signalling the coming winter, and on a Saturday morning I walked with my housemates to Birrarung, the Yarra River, which flows through the heart of Warrandyte. Swimming in the River was a strong memory from my childhood, and as we walked along the winding streets near our house, I tried to recall the last time I swam in its waters. When we reached Birrarung, I felt the cold water in the air, and I asked my housemate Kristian “it’s going to be freezing right?” He nodded.

“I’ll tell you a secret though, it’s best to swim in winter. In summer everyone swims, there are always people around, but in winter you’re the only one, and it feels like the River shares its secrets with you when it knows no-one else can listen.”

There was an energy in Kristian’s words that connected with me, and this feeling overcame my fear of submerging in the cold water. So I took off my clothes and hung them on the branch of a nearby tree and stepped into the River. It was colder than I expected, I thought to turn back, but I recalled Kristian’s words and they pushed me forward until the water reached my torso and I dove into the River’s brown depths. When I came up for air, I screamed out, reacting to the cold that had penetrated my body. I didn’t stay in for long, maybe 30 seconds, but I remember standing on the bank feeling warm even though the air surrounding me was only 12 degrees.

Despite swimming in Birrarung since my early teens, when I think of the beginning of our relationship, I think of this moment. For the next five months, I would visit the River three or four times each week, inspired by Kristian’s words, committed to understanding its secrets. Although this wasn’t a conscious thought at the time. I had experienced a lot of pain through my breakup with my girlfriend, and there was something in those cold swims that helped me heal. I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but the more I swam, the better I felt. It became a ritual, silent walks alone through the winter and eventually spring air, meeting couples walking their dogs, nodding as I passed, sometimes saying hello, and finally plunging into the cold Birrarung.

By October I got a job in the city. I decided to leave the trees and once again immerse myself in the urban hum, but I didn’t forget the River, and continued to visit it once or twice a fortnight. In summer, friends would join, and on New Year’s Eve, a group of us visited the same spot where I first connected with the River in April. It was a hot day, so once we were in Birrarung, we didn’t get out, and we sat amongst a part of the waters where rocks had accumulated. As we talked, I kept picking up the rocks, holding them for a minute or two before letting them go. Eventually I held a Rock that fit perfectly in the fist of my hand. It was shaped like a rectangular prism, and I held onto it for over an hour, until we decided to leave and drive back to the city where we were all attending a party. I went to drop the Rock in the waters as I stood up, but something in me said no. I closed my eyes to feel the Rock and I felt to take it with me. Having completed my studies in playwriting, I had decided to move to Europe, where my Dad lives, and feeling this Rock, I felt it was a way to continue my relationship with Birrarung.

The Rock remained with me for the next five months. When I felt anxious, I would put my hand into my pocket to hold the Rock, remembering that place and Birrarung, which brought me strength and clarity. The Rock went with me everywhere. When I slept, I would leave it on a table or floor next to me. After three months, I decided against creating a base in Europe, opting to travel to the Kimberley, in the north of Western Australia, accepting an invitation of a friend who was creating an event there. 

Before leaving, I was in London, walking around Holland Park with my friend Lili. She had just moved to the UK from Sydney and was feeling unsettled, she was feeling a lot come up around a former relationship she left in Australia. Thinking of the same experiences in me — of my breakup in Australia and the swims in Birrarung — I thought of the Rock and offered it to her to hold as we walked. When we went to say goodbye, she didn’t want to let go of it. 

“I feel so calm with this rock in my hand”. 

She reluctantly placed it into my open palm. So I held the Rock, and closed my eyes, feeling whether to offer it to her so she too could maintain a connection to the Country of her birth. I felt the Rock tell me she could look after it but I had to make sure she brought it back, so it could return to the spot where I had taken it, the small rapids in Birrarung near Warrandyte. I explained to Lili the terms of the Rock, she looked at me with bewilderment, but then began to nod, appreciating I was serious.

“Okay, I will look after it and bring it back before the end of the year.” 

We shook hands, embodying the agreement, and then parted ways.

I travelled to the Kimberley and within a day of arriving I was told the event was no longer happening. I was confused why I was there and tried to think of a new plan. I thought to message people I knew who had visited that part of Australia. I remembered one of the lecturers in my playwriting degree, Tom, had told me he directed a play with a community in the Kimberley, so I messaged him and he responded with excitement, telling me to find two Bunuba Elders he worked with. He offered one of their phone numbers, while the other he explained couldn’t be contacted. 

“You need to go to Windjana Gorge, he will be there, it’s worth the trip.” 

Later that day I went to Cable Beach in Broome, to swim in the calm waters of the Indian Ocean. After my swim I was standing on the beach, looking out at the ocean, wondering why I was there. A woman approached. 

“Hello.”

I turned to respond, surprised by this stranger walking up to me.

“Sorry, I saw you looking out over the ocean for a while and felt like coming over. Are you okay?” 

I told her I was, “thank you”, then smiled.

“I”m Petrine.” 

Petrine had tanned skin and bright eyes. She stood solidly, like her bare feet were rooted into the sand below. The conversation between us started to flow. She asked why I was in the Kimberley. “If I’m honest, I don’t know.” Petrine asked if I knew anyone in the region? “Not really, but I was given two names a few hours ago by a former lecturer. I have one of their phone numbers, but the other one I have to go to Windjana Gorge to find.”

“Windjana Gorge? Are you talking about Dillon Andrews?” 

I checked the name in the message from Tom. 

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“I am going camping with him on Friday, do you want to come?”

During the five hour drive to Windjana Gorge two days later, Petrine explained more about the project with Dillon.

“Dillon, his niece Denise and I are meeting with five members of the Regional Services Reform Unit. We’re meeting to discuss a response – from Dillon and Denise’s community Biridu – to the Western Australian Government’s plan to close remote communities. Dillon and Denise felt it was important for any meeting to happen on Country, so the government representatives can literally feel the spirit of the land and witness Dillon and Denise’s connection to it. The plan is to visit three sacred sites of the Bunuba” – Dillon and Denise’s language group – “Tunnel Creek, Windjana Gorge and Carpenter’s Gap.”

The two days I shared with Dillon, Denise, Petrine and the representatives of the Government is its own story, too long to share here. These days deeply shifted my life along a new pathway I am still walking. The initial steps led me to Sydney, where I decided to live, and after a month of moving there, I received a call from Petrine asking me to help write the report we eventually submitted to the Government. 

Throughout this time I kept thinking of the Rock, and at the end of the year Lili returned to Sydney to visit her family, and we met two days after her arrival and she returned the Rock to me. I kept it in my pocket and beside my bed, until I travelled to Narrm, to Melbourne, and to Warrandyte. It was my first journey back to Birrarung since I had left for Europe, and when I arrived to that sacred swimming spot, I took the Rock from my pocket and threw it back into the water, in the rapids where I had sat with my friends over a year earlier. I felt a tension release within my body, not realising the responsibility I had assumed when I removed the Rock from its home. I didn’t fully appreciate this at the time, I had just felt the energetic relief within my body, but it was upon meeting Thunghutti and Bundjalung man Warren Roberts, that I started to understand this story. 

Warren and I had a mutual friend, Charlie, who told Warren about the report I wrote with the Bunuba. He wanted to meet me, so Charlie invited us both to his apartment for lunch, and I learned about YARN Australia, the organisation that Warren founded, which uses storytelling to create intentional relationships between the Original Sovereign Nations of Australia and people all over the world. Warren and I had an immediate connection, and from that day we started our walk together, in relationship, both focused on storytelling as a tool for understanding the many relationships we share in life. Like with the Bunuba, I began to document Warren’s ideas and visions through writing.

In one of the first few YARN workshops I collaborated with Warren, he shared a story he named “sticks and stones”, which recalls a day his Grandmother took him and his cousins to connect with a River close to his childhood home. The story explains how his Grandmother taught him not to remove stones from the Country he found them, how those stones have a connection to that Country, and it’s important to respect that relationship. In that workshop, Warren was explaining the practice of a Welcome to Country and an Acknowledgement of Country. A Welcome to Country is a ritual that has become common practice in public and private events held in Australia. This practice has also spread to Turtle Island, or North America, where a traditional custodian of the Country the event is taking place will welcome the attendees to the Country of their people. In Australia, for a welcome to be recognised as official, it must be performed by an Elder from the Original Peoples of that land. If an Elder or a traditional owner of that Country is unable to be present, an Acknowledgement of Country is offered, recognising the Country where the attendees are gathered and the Original Peoples of that place. During the workshop, Warren explained the intention that guides this practice.

“Connection to Country is about connecting to who you are. Let’s say you’ve got your grandmother’s Italian recipe, are you not going to acknowledge it, are you going to say it’s my recipe? Are you not going to acknowledge the people you are in relationship with, like when you lived in Melbourne and grew up with your family, are you not going to acknowledge them? Of course, every time you see them you are going to acknowledge them in some way. So we acknowledge our people and our connection to our Country, just like everyone else has the right to recognise where they come from, and that connection and that acknowledgement is based on their relationships. If you don’t want to acknowledge, does that mean you are not in relationship with the people and places you experience life?

“See back in the day, we would acknowledge each other through our ochre, through the ways we dressed, and because we don’t wear our ochre and our traditional things anymore, we have to acknowledge it in the open, so we know who is who, but traditionally we would know who we are through the way we spoke and the way we carved our instruments and our artefacts. 

“Acknowledgement has always been in our culture. When you would travel from one Country to the next, you had to be welcomed, you couldn’t just walk across Country because you felt like it, you had to get permission to travel from here to there. Respect for Country is about respecting the people who were there before. For us, we’ve always been here, we haven’t left, so we all continue to acknowledge the people who came before us because they’re in the land. Our people are in Country, and all of the creation stories, all of the things that make us who we are, are in our Country.”

When the workshop finished we packed up the space and reflected on the proceedings of the day. Before we left, I shared this story with Warren, about the Rock from Birrarung, he just smiled and nodded.

“It’s an important lesson that one.”

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer. He leads storytelling at eco-nnect.

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The sea, for me, is the place I go to for deep contemplation and connection. It’s where I feel suspended in time, as one with the elements, in touch with the deeper layers of my soul. Saltwater washes away my doubts, it heals my wounds, it quells my fears. Nothing compares to the sense of peace that pervades my senses when I’m submerged and surrounded by the graceful creatures of the mysterious blue.

I grew up with the Mediterranean Sea. It envelops every shore of Italy, and my childhood is etched with memories of the sun disappearing into its depths. Our family would look for a type of vongole in shallow waters, and collect the plastic lollipop sticks on the beach. I remember when I was ten, a dermatologist prescribed me the sea for my dry skin, and my parents made sure every once in a while my feet touched the Med to heal.

In my 20s my passion for the deep deepened, and I was very privileged to witness the beauty of several other seas. From the volcanic islands of the Pacific, to the mystic force of the Atlantic, and the abundant coral reefs in the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea. As I traveled abroad in search of the euphoria I felt from a pod of dolphins swimming around me, I realised a disturbing truth: the Mediterranean is dying. The monk seals left, the whales rarely visit, the turtles avoid it, the coral has become jewellery, the schools of fish a by-gone memory, and its sharks are killed every day. Meanwhile, everyone in Europe happily refers to it as a swimming pool (including my past self).

A deep sadness overwhelms me now when I swim the empty blues of the Mediterranean Sea, longing for a creature to swim with me. Perhaps it’s time Mediterraneans took responsibility for their dying Sea. Perhaps it’s time it was officially recognised as a swimming pool, a place of recreation devoid of the ecosystems that support life. Maybe then its human inhabitants will start regenerating what was once the enchanted sea of sirens.

Isabella Cavalletti is a storyteller and co-founded eco-nnect.

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In 2009 Ecuador and Bolivia changed their constitutions to include the notion of Sumak Kawsay* and officially recognise nature as an entity in need of legal standing. Since then legal battles against extractive corporations have been won thanks to this change to their respective constitutions.

In 2009 the leaders of Ecuador and Bolivia also campaigned to the United Nations General Assembly to officially recognise April 22nd as International Mother Earth Day. This change might seem superfluous to some, seeing as Earth Day has been celebrated across the USA since 1970, yet words hold meaning and Ecuador and Bolivia’s leaders knew that.

Adding the word mother changes the entire relationship we hold with nature, acknowledging her importance, her nurturing role and our dependence on her health. All of a sudden we are not fighting for a rock we call Earth, which we can extract and exploit at our leisure, rather we are respecting Mother Earth’s intelligence, acknowledging the symbiotic relationship between all living things including with the planet we inhabit.

Bolivia and Ecuador gifted the world a word, but in reality they gifted the world their cosmovision. The climate is not in “crisis”, the west’s relationship with nature is. Shifting Earth Day to International Mother Earth Day was a subtle yet symbolic message to the West: heal your relationship with Mother Earth, listen to her and live in harmony with the natural world. That’s how we can really honor life, today and every day.

*A Quechuan system of knowledge and living based on the communion of humans and nature and on the harmonious totality of existence with all living beings.

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I visited London during the first two weeks of January. It had been six years since my last visit and I was quickly reminded of the city’s famous grey skies and drizzly rain. On a Thursday, when the grim weather passed and the sun emerged through the clouds, I went for an afternoon walk in the neighbourhood near the flat I was staying. I walked through Islington up to Newington Green, where I ordered a coffee in a bakery that doubled as a cafe. When my mug was empty I returned to the cold air, walking along the streets of Stoke Newington. I turned a corner and was greeted by two Christmas trees taking up most of the footpath, I laughed, judging whoever dumped these trees, appreciating the consumptive behaviour of Christmas consumerism. I walked another thirty metres when I noticed another tree lying on the pavement, parallel to the fence. Around another corner I walked by a house where a tree was laid across a brick fence and two metal trash cans. I went to cross the street and noticed another smaller tree, conveniently stuffed under a hedge.

I retraced my steps and took photos with my phone of what I had seen. I posted the photos to my Instagram profile and was greeted with many responses, the most common was a sad face emoji with a single tear. One friend said “So bizarre, to me this summarises the climactic expression of consumerism, kill a tree to stick a bunch of mostly oil based shit wrapped in other trees to then rip off, throw out. And then forget about the ‘gifts’ and throw out the tree. Humans are insane hey?”

While I appreciate that Stoke Newington is clearly filled with young families enthusiastic about modern western Christmas rituals, I reflected how I previously thought this was a progressive area that would be concerned about the developing problems associated with our environment. Another friend commented, “People could at least go plant it somewhere.” Surely there is a company that provides this service? A quick Google search presented a range of results, including this page from the British government offering alternatives to dumping trees on the street:

“Christmas trees are recyclable and can be shredded into chippings, which are then used in parks or woodland areas. Alternatively you can replant them, meaning you can enjoy your tree for years to come.”

This reminded me of a recent interview with filmmaker Luc Marescot. I asked Luc, if all the people in the world were sitting in his living room (where we were seated), what would he say to them? Luc had been speaking about the behavioural change he hoped to see in western society and this question inspired him to deeply consider what he would say. He began to speak to me as though I represented the world’s population, discussing the problem of lobbying and how many corporations take advantage of herd mentality through their marketing, particularly to children.

“McDonald’s is making toys and entertaining kids… Coca Cola is doing the same, and Nutella is doing the same, and all these big brands are doing the same, because they studied that phenomenon (of herd mentality) in our society. And where we can see that your children are impacted by this… go to a primary school with a big sheet of paper with 20 logos on it, no names just the logos, and the children recognise all 20 logos. You take a similar big sheet with 20 leaves of 20 different trees from their local land, maybe they will recognise the oak, but that’s about it, and so you can see there are some roots missing.

“So maybe I will say to these eight billion people, I mean most probably the parents and the grandparents, I would say do me a favour, just do one thing, go and plant a tree with your kid, because you are going to use the same mechanism as those big brands who anchor the taste of their products into your children and guarantee a consuming audience for many years. Just create moments of nature with your kids so they have that same phenomena but for things related to nature. If you plant a tree you create a moment with your child, with the earth on your hands, and then that tree will grow, so you can come back to it. Even if you don’t have a garden, even if you don’t have a terrace or balcony, just pick one tree where they sell the little trees, you go on a hike that you like, and you can find a place where you can plant this tree, wherever. And you plant this tree and you come back to it every year, every two years, every three years, and that will be part of your story, and maybe simple actions like this will lead to a better world.”

It’s a beautiful thought, which inspires a suggestion, particularly for the families of Stoke Newington: don’t buy a Christmas tree this year, buy a native tree in a pot that you can surround with presents, and on Christmas Day or Boxing Day go and plant it somewhere, a physical activity that will help you process all of the food you’ve eaten. Create a ritual that can be the centre of your Christmas celebrations for years to come. It will be a gift to your kids, your grandkids, your current and future family, and the natural environment you all call home.

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer. He leads storytelling at eco-nnect.

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In the lead-up to Christmas, I was sent different articles from different friends who encouraged me to write about the supposed psychedelic roots of the holiday. I welcomed their enthusiasm — “Christmas is pagan” — appreciating the growing interest in European folk traditions.

All of the articles explore the relationship between Christmas and the Amanita muscaria, a red and white mushroom that I first encountered while playing Super Mario Brothers as a child. I was unaware then that Mario’s growth, as he consumed these mushrooms, reflected his openness to the psychedelic experience. It was nearly twenty years later, when two friends went searching for these mushrooms in the north of London that I was introduced to these supposed gifts that grow under conifer and birch trees. I’ve never tried them, put off by the dedication required to prepare the Amanita muscaria for consumption, their toxicity requiring multiple rounds in boiling water before ingestion. But this didn’t put off eastern Siberian shamans. According to popular belief, the shamans would follow reindeer — who had a taste for these red and white treats — waiting for them to eat, digest and finally to urinate. The shamans would then drink the urine, which contained psychoactive materials, and traverse into alternate spiritual realms. Muscaria, in Latin, means fly — hence flying reindeer — and when you combine this with bearded Siberian shamans and red and white mushrooms that grow under pine trees, you have Christmas, or so they say.

Others say the roots of Christmas are the stories of Saint Nicholas, a Christian Bishop from Greece who is the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, children, brewers, pawnbrokers, unmarried people and students. He is also the origin of Santa Claus, whose story was adapted by American poets from the historical accounts of the Saint.

Saint Nicholas was the Bishop of Myra, a small town in modern Turkey, around 280 AD. Living through the Great Persecution — when Roman Emperors killed Christian practitioners for going against the more prevalent spiritual traditions of the Empire — Saint Nicholas fought for his beliefs in the face of execution. He was imprisoned for his behavior, until he was released with the Edict of Milan, when Emperor Constantine ended all Christian persecutions. For hundreds of years, Saint Nicholas was celebrated on December 6th, his feast day, but the Reformation shifted this practice, centring end of year festivities around Jesus Christ.

One of the other articles spoke of Yuletide, and the celebrations that focused on Europe’s winter solstice, the longest night of the year, as days once again lengthen in time. Another article spoke of Santa Claus being an appropriation of the Norse god Odin, who travelled in a chariot pulled by goats. My favorite article was published by National Geographic, which looks at the birth of Jesus through a sociological lens. I appreciated its focus on the familial and social dynamic that may have been present when Jesus was born, how Mary’s pregnancy may have been viewed by her husband and her community, and the importance of a divine intervention to avoid potential death in the face of possible claims of adultery. Although very different to the culture I grew up in, the article’s focus on the relationship between Mary and Joseph inspired thoughts of my own family and the many Christmas celebrations I have shared with them.

I write this article in Lugano, Switzerland, in the home of my father. I grew up with my mother and sisters in Australia, and my Dad was travelling or based in Switzerland for most of my life. Although I remember convincing myself, as a five year old, that I saw Santa out of my sister’s bedroom window when walking around the house one Christmas eve, the myth of the bearded shaman quickly lost potency, and Christmas represented presents, food and family. My Dad would often come and visit us at Christmas, so the day always felt special because it was the brief moment my family would all come together. But as I got older, and my life shifted away from the family dynamic, Christmas celebrations have become more infrequent, as I have often been away travelling or living abroad.

I woke up today in my Dad’s spare bed. I got up and did some yoga, as I usually do, and then went to the kitchen to make porridge, as I usually do. My Dad and I related like we did yesterday, neither of us felt to give today more importance than any other. Dad cooked burgers for lunch, as there had been a special on the best quality patties at the local store. I then went for a walk to the top of the hill behind his home. I discovered a cemetery where Herman Hesse is buried, and a beautiful church, directly across the road, which was open. I went inside. The church was small, the light was dim, there was a mood to the space, accentuated by the recording of a choir singing hymns through speakers attached to the walls. I walked to the pulpit where a model of Jesus’s birth was positioned to its right. It reminded me of my Nonno, my father’s father who would recreate the nativity in a huge model in his living room every year. I left the church and walked back down the hill, towards my Dad’s home. I walked through the door and, soon after, my Dad opened a bottle of Amarone that he had been saving for a special occasion. We clinked our glasses, said Merry Christmas, and then both enjoyed a sip of the wine. It was good and as it descended through my body, I reflected on Christmas and what it means to me: like any ritual, its meaning changes with context and time.

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer. He leads storytelling at eco-nnect.

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I recently visited my family in Costa Rica, and in each restaurant we visited, salmon was omnipresent. It was my grandmother’s go-to meal, she even ordered it when we went to the fishmongers. It made me wonder, with two bountiful coast lines, why is this country obsessed with a fish that isn’t caught in its waters? How has the salmon industry infiltrated our global consciousness with its “glamorous” appeal that has blinded locals from their own delicacies? What is it about salmon that has made its way onto virtually every menu on the planet? When did salmon become ubiquitous?

I was speaking to my father in Italy, and commented on the world’s salmon obsession. I asked him, when did salmon become a thing? He reminisced: well, I remember that when I was young in Rome salmon was considered a luxury, at the same level as caviar, just more accessible — we would buy it for celebrations. I thought of smoked salmon, blinis and caviar, and how salmon seemed to have had the opposite fate of lobster, going from occasional and high end to the second most consumed fish in the world. How did this happen? From Costa Rica to Jakarta, no matter which ocean you reside on, salmon is a thing.

Salmon farming began in Norway in the 90s as a solution to overfishing wild stocks. In fact, farmed salmon now accounts for 70% of salmon consumption worldwide and has played a key role in its meteoric rise — with a 500% production increase since 1995.

“The global salmon fish market size was valued at USD 14.87 billion in 2021 and is expected to expand at a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 8.5% from 2022 to 2030. Increasing product launches in various forms including frozen, canned, and freeze-dried are likely to favor the overall growth.”- Global Opportunity Analysis and Industry Forecast

So I dug deeper into the salmon industry, big businesses with fishy marketing tactics tied to large seafood lobbies. In the US the American Heart Association includes salmon in its dietary recommendations to prevent heart strokes, twice a week it reads. This made me recall a similar tactic used by the dairy industry in its famous “Got Milk?” advertisements.  Today evidence shows that milk doesn’t protect against bone fractures and is actually linked to certain types of cancer, yet those ads halted the decrease of milk consumption and actually increased it by 11%.  

Salmon follows a similar story. In 2004, scientists found highlevels of polychlorinated biphenyls, a carcinogen known as PCBs, in farmed Atlantic salmon. Other more recent studies also show unsafe levels of antibiotics in farmed salmon. According to the WHO, people who eat even one farmed Atlantic salmon per month will accumulate unsafe levels of these toxins and can even show antibiotic resistance, which begs the question, when did corporate interests become synonymous with questionable national health recommendations?

The tie between corporate salmon interests and lack of federal regulation is staggering. An investigation conducted by the General Accounting Office revealed that the FDA inspected only 86 samples out of 379,000 tons of salmon in 2017. In fact, for the general public it is often very difficult to even know basic information, like whether the salmon is farmed, or which chemicals or antibiotics were used in the process. It seems the industry has remained conveniently ambiguous. 

But let’s go back to the sustainability question: isn’t it better for the wild salmon population that we are mainly eating farmed salmon instead? Well in reality the farms are driving wild salmon to extinction. Picture this, millions of salmon spend two to three years in open-net farms of 10 or 12 cages that are anchored to the seabed, usually in coves in Norway, Chile, Alaska or Scotland. Similar to crammed chicken coups, this overcrowding leads to sea lice infestations and viruses. Farmers respond to these threats with pesticides — including neurotoxins — and antibiotics. These toxins are released into the local ecosystem, attacking wild salmon populations and the surrounding wildlife.

Salmon are carnivores, so farmers feed them unnatural fishmeal. Yes, farmed fish are fed smaller, wild-caught fish, such as anchovies, mackerel and herring, which are also known as forage fish. Apparently up to 30% of wild-caught fish is turned into fishmeal. Usually these fisheries are found in West Africa or Peru, where trawlers are destroying local fish stocks to meet the rising demand for salmon. This has huge consequences on the local populations that rely on forage fish as their protein source and for the entire marine ecosystem: research demonstrates that this overfishing is a leading cause for the rapid decline in seabird populations.

What would truly sustainable salmon look like? Well, did you know that once upon a time, wild salmon migrations criss-crossed continental Europe and the USA? Virtually every stream in Northern Europe was full of wild salmon. Yet due to our shifting baseline syndrome — where our accepted understanding of the natural environment gradually changes due to our lack of memory or knowledge of its past condition — we have started to accept our empty rivers once thriving with salmon migrations. This is the result of an underlying problem: how governments and corporations work together to create unnatural global demand for products and industries located in the northern hemisphere, at the expense of the local culture.

Through my salmon investigation I started noticing a similar pattern in other food choices in Costa Rica. Virtually every tropical fruit grows on trees above your head, yet the supermarket aisles are filled with apples and grapes from Europe. Of course this is a country with 83% European descent. So it’s not salmon that is omnipresent, it’s Europe importing and imposing its culture. Did you know that we eat the same 20 vegetables in almost every corner of the globe? Despite the existence of over 20,000 plant species, zucchini and broccoli rule the world. The old world not only conquered cultures, it homogenized them too.

As my grandmother and I walked the supermarket aisles, deciding on what to eat for dinner, I suddenly realized that Europe’s dark history of conquest and arrogance was hiding the beauty and abundance that Costa Rica’s rich lands offer, which wasn’t only happening here but in many other colonized countries where native communities had diminished considerably. USA, Brazil, Colombia, Australia, to name just a few. Perhaps originally colonists had imported the foods and traditions they knew out of comfort, but today it seems that a new form of corporate colonization has taken hold, where products tied to Europe are marketed as better, healthier and more luxurious than local offerings.

Our food system is rotten and broken. Instead of celebrating diversity, heritage and natural abundance, we are still living within a framework influenced by our colonial past. To rewild our souls we must rewild our culture, and to rewild our culture we must rewild our food systems. To rewild our food systems we must rewild our plates. 

So I offer some food for thought: next time you order salmon, think about how close or far you are from the now empty streams of Northern Europe. Isn’t it time to focus on bringing life back to the rivers rather than expanding a clearly harmful industry?

Isabella Cavalletti is a storyteller and co-founded eco-nnect.

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