“How do we pay close attention to things we’d rather sweep under the (very heavy) rug of our good intentions?” 

Dr. Anu Taranath poses this question in her book Beyond Guilt Trips: Mindful Travel in an Unequal World. It’s a question that I have avoided for most of my lifetime out of fear of voicing a truth I don’t want to hear aloud. Yet Dr Taranath’s words cut very deep, and I’ve realized that burying my discomfort will only perpetuate the very challenges that make me squirm.

Though my ongoing research on climate change and human-wildlife conflict in Africa has been incredibly informative, my newfound understanding of power dynamics within research has been especially eye-opening and humbling. While reading through existing case studies, I discovered that increasingly frequent and extreme weather events are contributing to crop and livestock depredation in rural African communities that are already under food and water stress. I learned that local people who bear the greatest costs of living among wildlife also have the least say in how to conserve it. But perhaps most importantly, I realized the vast majority of the case studies I read were conducted by authors in the Global North who seldom acknowledged rural Africans as co-authors – despite that their findings couldn’t have been obtained without them.  

Parachute science, also termed colonial or parasitic science depending on the source, occurs when people from one locale travel elsewhere to conduct research either for their own benefit or without forming meaningful, collaborative relationships with communities. Though articles on parachute science are extensive, academics from the Global North continue to conduct interviews, workshops, focus groups, or case studies in less-advantaged countries without recognizing the valuable contributions of the people who actually live there. Oftentimes, local people are the ones who translate key interview questions into Indigenous languages, guide researchers on unfamiliar terrain, or even assist with the design of study protocols.  Nevertheless, they often don’t hear from researchers once a study is complete, thereby neither receiving the benefits of the research nor building a long-lasting rapport with the researchers they assisted. 

While learning about parachute science this summer through the literature, Dr. Taranath’s book, and thoughtful conversations with the African researchers on my team, I’ve become increasingly (and sometimes uncomfortably) aware of my own identity as an American middle-class student and researcher. I’ve begun to reflect on my own privilege and the opportunities that come with it – from the food on my plate that I too often take for granted, to the college education that millions of people do not have. In the process, I’ve discovered that I’m afraid of making mistakes when I conduct my own field research someday, and that my fears have kept me from having the conversations that I now know are essential.

Though I am unsure exactly what my second summer as a Laidlaw Scholar holds, I do know that having sincere dialogue about existing structures of power across the Global North and South is a must. I can say from experience that it’s often uncomfortable to talk about the opportunities I receive at others’ expense. However, like Dr. Taranath, I believe it’s a necessary discomfort — and a valuable first step in preventing unequal relationships from being perpetuated further. We all travel abroad with good intentions, but it’s worth discussing openly with our peers and with the communities we visit about the context around our travels, their unintended consequences, and the deep histories of colonialism and exploitation intertwined.

That is not to say that we shouldn’t venture abroad for research. Conducting research over the past several weeks has made me doubly excited and curious about what my next summer will bring. I have learned, however, that having difficult conversations about our identities can provide a much-needed reality check. My own research mentors have emphasized the importance of forming genuine, continued relationships with collaborators in Eastern and Southern Africa who can help me identify even my most subtle mistakes, and I hope to carry those lessons with me – one day and one slip up at a time.

Dr. Taranath rightfully says near the end of her sixth chapter, “You can decide what kind of traveler you want to be.” Making that decision will take honesty, vulnerability, and time, but I believe that recognizing the unheard voices at the foundation of so much of our research is a necessary start.