In the midst of the boom of artificial intelligence and algorithms that seem to know more about us than we do ourselves, we’ve somewhat lost sight of another buzz from a few years ago: the Internet of Things (IoT), the digital network that allows devices to be connected and communicate to each other, and to us. For the ‘moderately’ (ehem) tech-savvy like myself, this might conjure up images of smart fridges that know when you’re home and suggest a healthy dinner with whatever’s left inside.

Environmental law and Indigenous peoples’ relationship with the world sometimes – fortunately – have more in common than one might expect. “We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children,” says a proverb that reflects well the worldview of many Indigenous traditions, where cooperation and trust between generations and within ecosystems are key to their preservation.

If I were to ask you about “human-fungi relations”, you might answer that they’re something we eat, cure with, or avoid in damp corners (or on our body, for that matter!). And you’d be right. But there’s another relevant dimension to them: in recent years, fungi have been proving themselves as a source of building materials.

So-called « low-tech » technologies are useful, sustainable, and accessible solutions designed to meet the fundamental needs of individuals or communities (water, food, energy) while minimizing their environmental impact.

It’s a lot more common in recent years to hear how we need to reinvent the economy, change cities, rethink how we live within planetary boundaries. However, actual examples to follow seem to be very small-scale and dreams of change project large-scale visions. “Real life” examples beyond hobbies or purely volunteer models are a bit harder to find.