Earth is not a platform for human life.
It’s a living being.
We’re not on it but part of it.
Its health is our health.
Thomas Moore
I feel the warm sun on my neck. The time is twelve and the sun is behind me to the south. I’m walking right to the north. This is heavenly! I’m so lucky to be able to do this! I have never visited the Finnmark tundra before, but I have heard about small game hunting and the tundra crossings from several of my friends, who have previously travelled here. I have wanted to do this walk for years! I look around. The earth is relatively flat. Its geological history is revealed by the sand between the large round rocks in the road. Ice and water have formed this land.
The wind rustles in the dry autumn leaves. A mountain birch (Betula pubescens czerepanovii) with three branches looks like a human with open arms welcoming me to the tundra. The tree line is at approximately 400 metres above sea level, and, due to a very dry summer, the flat tops reaching above this height are bare and dry. The hillsides and tops are dominated by the crawling birch (Betula pubescens appressa), a sibling of the mountain birch. Some smaller white spots of different sorts of reindeer lichen (Cladonia sp.) light up in between. I see a hill in front of me. I look at the map. “Bahásvárri”. It’s about twenty metres higher than where I am now and the highest point before Vuolit Mollešjohka. I hope to have an overview when I reach the top of that hill.
I stop and listen and decide to do sound takes for my fieldwork right now. I hear only the sound of the light breeze passing my body. “Ssshh”. The wind touches my ears very gently. I wonder how it will sound in the recording. “Swisjsjsj”. The leaves rustle. I put the recorder next to the bush to get a better sound take. “Swisjl-swisjl-srrrrr”. Some slow and some fast rustling depending on the speed of the wind’s gust. “Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump”. The mountain boots are hitting the sand with a thump sound. There’s a lighter pitch to the sound as I knock my toe and stumble on a big rock on the path. I’m finally walking into the soundscape of the Finnmark tundra.
The Arctic is a place associated with beauty, challenge and pristine but vulnerable nature (Johnston, 2011). It is a place where tourists come primarily to experience a world of difference. New groups of tourists have arrived in the Arctic lately, each with different reasons for visiting (Johnston, 2011; Müller & Viken, 2017). One of the growing categories of travellers is the group concerned about climate change, and, who are trying to travel in sustainable ways (Bernat, 2014; Johnston, 2011). Some specific tourism segments, like bird watchers, festival tourists or outdoor concert audiences, come to hear specific sounds and music connected to the region (Doughty, Duffy, & Harada, 2016; Duffy, Waitt, Gorman-Murray, & Gibson, 2011; Waitt & Duffy, 2010). Still, attention towards sound as an important part of a sensuous tourism experience has been scarce (Waitt & Duffy, 2010).
The idea for this thesis started out by listening to two of my fellow students telling stories about their travels in the Arctic. Especially, their perception of silence in remote places far away from people, and how this silence and absence of people and infrastructure made them feel unsafe and scared. This made me realise that silent remote places are not for everyone. How we relate to places and their qualities is situational (Haraway, 1988) and embodied in us (Veijola & Jokinen, 1994). While I feel that open spaces and silence is Heaven on earth, it scares the living daylights out of others. How you experience a silent, untouched nature is connected to ways of knowing (Qiu, Zhang, & Zheng, 2018). While some are able to slip into the landscape after a while (Lund & Willson, 2010), some are fully living Arctic landscapes (Østmo, 2013). A one-size Arctic does not fit all. With the stories of my fellow students in the back of my head, I started planning a research project focusing on the importance of sound in tourism. Inspired by abductive procedures (Alvesson & Sköldberg, 2017), I developed my project based on an “interest in the immediate sensuous experience of the world and to investigate the role of the senses – touch, smell, hearing and sight – in geographical experiences” (Rodaway, 1994), where hearing and sound was most appealing to me.
With an emphasis on sound and hearing in tourism, I conducted initial searches in the extant literature and found little in relation to tourism. Bringing attention to the ear, sounds, the acoustic and the sonic in tourism studies has been neglected in favour of the eye, light, the visual and the gaze (Adler, 1989; Urry, 1992). Several contemporary researchers have outlined the binary thinking of mind and body as the reason why the visual has become primary, in addition to the priority of observation in the history of science (Edensor, 2001, 2007; Franklin & Crang, 2001; Ingold, 2002, 2011; Veijola & Jokinen, 1994). The science community uses scientific methods to confirm answers obtained in their studies using a conventional step-by-step format. At the core of these methods are steps involving observations, hypotheses, predictions, experiments and conclusions. Everything that is to be known about a question or subject of study will be investigated during the observation step. Earlier, Fiumara (1990) argued that Western thinking about who has the right to speak has contributed most to the ways listening is marginalised. Such marginalisation leaves out important information about the world. Relatedly, Connell and Gibson (2004) purported that given the conventions of Western tourism performances, research and literature on listening, sound and music has not developed to its full potential. Moreover, Carolan (2009) reminds us that we live in an entanglement of notes, filled with consonance, dissonance and harmonies, the world is literally a symphony. In a similar vein, Waitt and Duffy (2010) emphasised the loss of information in tourism research by arguing that a new understanding of knowledge, social power and interconnections between actors and tourism can be uncovered by focusing our attention on the ear and the world of sounds. Haraway (2013) has argued that to face the narratives of speculative fiction and scientific facts we need to rethink the distinction between nature and culture. We need to move beyond observation in the sense of something done by the eye to using our vision in conjunction with all the senses and our entire body.
Being inspired by Science and Technology Studies (STS), which promotes ontological multiplicity and differences of practices and realities; the amount of information, literature, impressions and empirical data gathered have been abundant, sometimes overwhelming. The process has been messy and sorting out and structuring my thesis along traditional lines was not so easy (Law, 2004, 2007, 2017). This has provided a truly educational experience for me. Nevertheless, compared with work done on land and landscapes in a tourism context (Kramvig, 2005, 2017), my turning to STS theories was necessary in order to look into the complex dilemmas associated with sound and soundscapes. In STS, materiality is understood as a relational effect (Law, 2017). Something becomes material because it makes a difference – when it has an effect on other entities. It depends then, on a relationship between that which is detected and that which does the detecting. Matter including insignificant relationships only matter if they make a difference, then it means that they become material. This means that technology, landscape, politics and so on can have an effect on the objects that we want to investigate. Hence, we should pay attention to those networks through which our research objects appear to us. In addition, we need to pay attention to research as a messy practise as in all other practices where knowledge becomes known through multiple interests and connections (Law, 1992, 2017). Knowledge of landscapes is not constructed but enacted differently between scientific and indigenous people’s different ways of knowing (Law, 2004, 2007, 2017; Oskal, 1995; Østmo, 2013). It is also enlightened by the encounters between these different ways of knowing (Haraway, 1988; Joks & Law, 2017a, 2017b; Kalleberg, 2002). I turned to Meløe (1979) and Rudie (1994) to help me with sense-making of the experiences I had and landscape practises I met. I also looked to Verran (1998, 2013) to learn how to go about doing differences together and with care.
I have chosen to do an ethnographic study on tourism in the Finnmark tundra. I completed a case study in cooperation with a Sámi tourism business, the Vuolit Mollešjohka Duottarstophu, and the owner of this business, Per Edvard Johnsen, respectfully called Molleš Piera. He generously provided me with knowledge about his life and practises in his meahcci (nurture land, see chapter 2.3). He also invited me into his relationships and networks as a verdde (guest friend, see chapter 2.3) amongst his other verddes passing by the lodge, once in autumn and once in wintertime. During my two stays I was able to study the sounds, the people and the soundscapes in the surroundings of Vuolit Mollešjohka.
1.1 Research questions
Using an abductive research procedure (Alvesson & Sköldberg, 2017), my research is built up by following several lines of questions. In the following I will introduce the lead questions that has brought me through the research process. These questions have been formed and transformed several times. At the end of this process, they contribute to the outline of my thesis. The lead questions are highlighted in the bullet points below. First, I wanted to find out:
- How can we learn about sounds that are present in a nature-based tourism destination?
I answer this question in Chapter 5 by first attending to the theories from natural science of sound. I continue with investigating how this sound is heard, how we perceive the sonic characteristics of sound and how we can categorise “what” there is to hear in the world. Then I use my ethnography from Vuolit Mollešjohka to argue that we need to highlight how local soundscapes are enacted in tourism research, here represented by Vuolit Mollešjohka. Next, I zoom in and move a bit further, asking:
- How do we listen, and what connections are being made between humans and soundscape in nature-based tourism?
The discussion in Chapter 6 attempts to give answers to this question. I present theories to show the difference between hearing and listening. Further, I present different modes of listening. I present the thoughts on how bodies in soundscapes and soundscapes of bodies are entangled. Primarily, I use conversations with Piera’s guests to enlighten this question, but I also touch upon some of my own experiences as a tourist and researcher. From this, I move further in and ask the question:
- Can bringing attention to soundscape become an important quality enhancer of experiences in indigenous tourism, and if so in what way?
The basic theories in Chapter 7 describe how knowledge is transcended along lines and how kincentric ecology contributes in forming those lines behind an indigenous host – the “who”. I try to answer this question by presenting my experience of participating in the daily practices of Piera and watching how he uses his sonic skills and traditional ways of knowing to perform in his role as a Sámi host. Within this knowledge, I am mostly looking for tacit knowledge that is demonstrated by experiencing practises. This is where impressionist ethnography has contributed the most as a tool in this thesis. Finally, I zoom into the specifics of using soundscapes in ecological practises of taking care of the surroundings and whatever passes by Piera’s meahcci. I ask:
- When do sound become important to care for in relation to traditional knowledge in Sámi tourism?
In Chapter 8, I narrow in on what caring becomes in Sámi tourism. Sound has shown another reality by materialising the tacit of knowledge. I try to show that even though materiality of sound doesn’t show, and are tacit, it does not mean it does not exist. Through this research I have found that sound perform ecologies that are contested. Sound shows the effect materials have and enlighten our understanding of different ways of knowing. It also shows that important knowledge has been overlooked by attending to observation as the Western traditional method. I describe the ways of taking care through Piera’s and his family’s local knowledge, beings and doings at Vuolit Mollešjohka Duottarstophu where they all live and host. I sum up my thesis by showing to his practises and ways of knowing, and what there is to learn from Piera. I then, metaphorically, pull the knitwork together with the red thread that I essay to lay out throughout the thesis chapters.
1.2 Structure of the thesis
In the following chapter (chapter 2) I start out by presenting some of the main issues and implications found in indigenous and Sámi tourism. In addition, I introduce you to the case of my research and present some of their ways of life. I present some of the Sámi concepts that are important tools in my analysis. These are meahcci (nurture land), jávredikšun (nature management) and verddevuotha (guest friend cooperation). I will argue that these Sámi concepts transgress the nature-culture divide where caring for the land and sound is part of the traditional knowledge. In addition, the concept verddevuotha may enact the tourist as a more responsible and caring actor.
In the third chapter, I present a methodology that has informed the design of this process. Using abductive procedures (Alvesson & Sköldberg, 2017), I was able to recognise the elements that highlighted the best methods for this particular case (Tomaselli, Dyll, & Francis, 2008). The methodology is based on a position recognised as indigenous ethnography (Denzin, Lincoln, & Smith, 2008) with an emphasis on the relational paradigm of native indigenous research presented by Wilson (2008). Other theories also contribute to informing the basis of the methodology. These include the theories of the phenomenologist, Tim Ingold (2002, 2007, 2010, 2011, 2012a, 2012b; Ingold & Kurttila, 2000), the Wittgenstein praxeologist, Jacob Meløe (1979), and the philosophical social anthropologist, Ingrid Rudie (1994). On top of that, I have added STS-inspired theories of situated knowledge by Donna Haraway (1988; Haraway & Teubner, 1990), and feminist indigenous theories linked to Actor Network Theory (ANT) (van der Duim, Ren, & Jóhannesson, 2017). Further, I have added other layers of STS-theories, such as material semiotics discussed by John Law (Joks & Law, 2017a, 2017b; Law, 1992, 2004, 2007, 2017), how practices are locational as described by Britt Kramvig (Brattland, Kramvig, & Verran, 2018; Kramvig, 2005, 2017; Kramvig & Førde, 2013), and the role of caring purported by Helen Verran (Brattland et al., 2018; Verran, 1998, 2013; Winthereik & Verran, 2012). I have tried to build upon a methodology that makes it possible to talk about research as involving multiple and messy practices, which tries to build bridges and break fences between the natural and social sciences (Law, 2004, 2007, 2017) and between Local Ecologic Knowledge (LEK)/Traditional Ecologic K nowledge (TEK) and science (Joks & Law, 2017a, 2017b; Oskal, 1995; Verran, 1998, 2013; Østmo, 2013). My main argument in this chapter is that engaging in indigenous ethnography is dependent upon a joint performance between practitioners of research and traditional ways of being and doing. This is necessary to develop a convergent understanding of the tacit knowledge involved in those practices.
The fourth chapter describes the becoming of my methods. First, I introduce the methods of performance ethnography (Hamera, 2011) by which I have been inspired and have used in my own indigenous ethnography. This was done both through the embodied practice of walking and moving around in the footsteps of a practitioner on the tundra, as well as writing ethnographic (embodied) stories about those situations (Edensor, 2010; Ingold, 2002). Technical equipment and practical methods are presented in this chapter as well as a short description of the laps I walked and my whereabouts during fieldwork. Then, I explain my thinking about writing an ethnography (Van Maanen, 2011) in an indigenous context (Wilson, 2008). I consider pre, during and post fieldwork (Emerson, Fretz, & Shaw, 2011). Finally, I reflect upon ethics in indigenous research (Battiste, 2008; Mitchell, 2007; Nagell & Grung, 2002). In this chapter my main argument is that using acoustic methods contributes to knowledge building but is dependent upon the sonic skills of both the researcher and the practitioner (Bijsterveld, 2019b).
My lead questions have provided the main structure of the thesis and are found in Chapter 5-8. This structure has been described above. I use these chapters to show that there has been close to no research undertaken regarding the relationship between tourism and sound even though there has been some research conducted on soundscape in anthropology and in relation to museum exhibitions (Bijsterveld, 2013). In each of the chapters 5-7, I incorporate theories in the beginning related to the specific stories that I build my analysis on. These theories are used as basic tools and I tie them to my ethnography as light poles through the chapters. In chapter 8 I let my stories be the light poles and I add theories to support my thinking about caring and different ways of knowing, being and doing.
My final aim in Chapter 9, is to show that sound and acoustic knowledge are important skills in Sámi tourism, and by introducing Verdde tourism at Vuolit Mollesjohka Duottarstophu, they knit a nice work that shows how this can be done as a best practice. I also show that sound has the ability to become an actor that enlighten the effect of materials that relate to one-another in Sámi tourism practises.