My last example of diet broadening comes from the Kaulong people of the island of New Britain, for whom garden-grown taro is the staple food and pig meat is ceremonially important. What the Kaulong call taim bilong hanggiri in Tok Pisin (i.e., “time belong hunger”) is the local dry season of October through January, when little food is available from gardens. At that time the Kaulong go into the forest to hunt, collect insects and snails and small animals, and gather wild plants about which they are understandably unenthusiastic. One of those plants is a toxic wild nut that has to be prepared by soaking it for several days to leach out its poison. Another of those second-choice plants is a wild palm tree whose trunk is roasted and eaten, and which at other times of year is scorned as pig food.
Aggregation and dispersal
Along with food storage and diet broadening, the remaining traditional solution to the problem created by a predictable season of food scarcity is to follow an annual cycle of population movement, aggregation, and dispersal. When food resources are few and concentrated in a few areas, people gather to live at those areas. At favorable times of year when resources are widely and uniformly distributed, people spread out over the landscape.
A familiar European example is that farmers in the Alps spend the winter at their farmhouses in the valleys. In the spring and summer they follow the growth of new grass and the melting of snow cover up the mountain slopes, to take their flocks of cows and sheep to alpine pastures. Similar seasonal cycles of aggregation and dispersal occur among many other farming societies around the world, and among many hunter-gatherer societies including Aboriginal Australians, Inuit, Pacific Northwest Coast Indians, Great Basin Shoshone, !Kung, and African Pygmies. The times of population concentration during the lean season provide the opportunity for annual ceremonies, dances, initiations, marriage negotiations, and other occasions of group social life. The following two examples illustrate how these cycles unfold for the Shoshone and the !Kung.
The Great Basin Shoshone Indians of the western United States live in an extremely seasonal desert environment whose summers are dry and hot (day temperatures over 90° or even 100° Fahrenheit), winters are cold (temperatures often below freezing all day), and most of the low precipitation (under 10 inches per year) falls in the winter as snow. The main foods consumed during the winter, which is the season of food scarcity, are stored pine nuts and mesquite starch. In the fall people concentrate at pine groves to harvest, process, and store large quantities of nuts within a short time. Groups of between 2 and 10 related families then spend the winter in a camp at a nut grove with a source of water. In the spring, as warming temperatures bring a resumption of plant growth and animal activity, the camps break up into nuclear families that spread out over the landscape to higher and lower elevations. The widespread and varied food resources during the summer enable the Shoshone to expand greatly their diet: they forage for seeds, roots, tubers, berries, nuts, and other plant food; they gather grasshoppers, fly larvae, and other insect food; they hunt rabbits, rodents, reptiles, and other small animals, plus deer, mountain sheep, antelope, elk, and bison; and they fish. At the end of the summer they gather again at their pine groves and group winter camps. In another desert environment, this one in southern Africa, the !Kung similarly follow an annual cycle dictated by water availability and food resources dependent on water. They concentrate at the few permanent waterholes during the dry season, and spread out over 308 less reliable or seasonal water sources during the wet season.
Responses to danger
Finally, now that we’ve discussed traditional dangers and responses to those dangers, let’s compare actual measures of danger (in whatever way it is measured) with our responses (i.e., how much we worry about dangers, and how extensively we defend ourselves against them). A naive expectation might be that we are completely rational and informed, and that our reactions to various dangers are proportional to their seriousness as measured by the number of people that each type of danger actually kills or injures each year. This naive expectation isn’t upheld, for at least five sets of reasons.
First, the annual number of people killed or injured by a certain type of danger may be low precisely because we are so aware of it and go to such great efforts to minimize our risk. If we were fully rational, perhaps a better measure of danger than the actual annual number of deaths inflicted (easy to count up) would be the annual numbers of deaths that would have been inflicted if we hadn’t taken counter-measures (hard to estimate). Two examples stand out among those that we have discussed in this chapter. Few people in traditional societies normally die of famine, precisely because so many of a society’s practices are organized so as to reduce the risk of dying of famine. Few !Kung are killed each year by lions, not because lions aren’t dangerous, but instead because they are indeed so dangerous that the !Kung take elaborate measures to protect themselves against lions: don’t leave camp at night, constantly scan the environment for tracks and signs of lions while out of camp during the day, constantly talk loudly and travel in groups while women are out of camp, watch out for old or injured or hungry or solitary lions, and so on.
A second reason for the mismatch between actual danger and our acceptance of risk is a modified version of the Wayne Gretzky principle: our willingness to expose ourselves to danger increases steeply with the potential benefits from the dangerous situation. The !Kung drive lions off carcasses with meat on which to feast, but they don’t drive lions off resting places without carcasses. Most of us wouldn’t enter a burning house just for the fun of it, but would do so to rescue our child trapped in the house. Many Americans and Europeans and Japanese are now making agonizing reappraisals of the wisdom of building nuclear power stations, because on the one hand Japan’s Fukushima nuclear station accident emphasizes the dangers of nuclear power, and on the other hand those dangers are offset by the benefits of reducing global warming by reducing coal, oil, and gas power generation.
Third, people systematically misestimate risks—at least in the Western world, where psychologists have made extensive studies of the phenomenon. When Americans are asked about dangers today, they are likely first to mention terrorists, plane crashes, and nuclear accidents, even though those three dangers combined have killed far fewer Americans over the last four decades combined than do cars, alcohol, or smoking in any single year. When Americans’ rankings of risks are compared with actual annual deaths caused (or with probability of death per hour of the risky activity), it turns out that people greatly overrate the risk of nuclear reactor accidents (ranked as the number-one danger by American college students and women voters), and also overrate the risks of DNA-based technologies, other new chemical technologies, and spray cans. Americans underrate the risks of alcohol, cars, and smoking, and (to a lesser extent) of surgery, home appliances, and food preservatives. Underlying these biases of ours are that we especially fear events beyond our control, events with the potential for killing lots of people, and situations involving new, unfamiliar, or hard-to-assess risks (hence our fear of terrorists, plane crashes, and nuclear reactor accidents). Conversely, we are inappropriately accepting of old familiar risks that appear to be within our control, that we accept voluntarily, and that kill individuals rather than groups of people. That’s why we underrate the risks of driving cars, alcohol, smoking, and standing on step-ladders: we choose to do those things, we feel that we control them, and we know that they kill other people, but we think that they won’t kill us because we consider ourselves careful and strong. As Chauncey Starr expressed it, “We are loath to let others do unto us what we happily do to ourselves.”