Kava, Culture, and Commerce

About this paper — This is not the work of the American Kava Association. Douglas La Rose holds an MA in Applied Anthropology from San Diego State University and is Executive Director of the Kava Coalition; he is not affiliated with this organization. He has given us permission to republish his essay in full, and the text below is his, unedited. Our own assessment of it appears at the end, clearly marked and kept separate from his argument so that readers can weigh the two independently. A note on the author follows it.

There is a recurring objection to the argument that the modern kava industry has “commodified” a sacred Pacific plant: kava was already an instrument of exchange long before anyone opened a kava bar in Florida, California, or New York. It was brought to a bride’s family, presented to chiefs, offered in reconciliation, and rendered as tribute. If kava already functioned as something like money, the argument goes, then contemporary commercialization is not especially new. The objection is partly right, but the part that is right is more interesting than the conclusion usually drawn from it.

Kava certainly possessed exchange value, but exchange value is not the same thing as money, just as commerce is not synonymous with cultural degradation. Across its history, kava has moved through overlapping systems of meaning: ceremonial, relational, political, medicinal, recreational, agricultural, commercial, and increasingly global. The mistake on one side is to describe all of these forms as “currency.” The mistake on the other is to imagine that kava once existed within a single, pristine sacred sphere from which later commerce, innovation, or geographical expansion necessarily represents decline. Neither position adequately describes kava’s history.

The more useful question is not whether kava has changed; it plainly has. The more interesting questions are how those changes occurred, who participated in them, what new communities emerged around kava, and how contemporary innovation can proceed without obscuring origins, misrepresenting identity, or excluding the people who have historically cultivated it. Seen this way, kava is not a static cultural object but a plant around which multiple traditions, markets, and social worlds have developed.

Exchange, Value, and the Long History of Commerce

Kava genuinely circulated as a high-value item within Pacific systems of obligation. A description of tribute, or lala, arriving at Bau in the nineteenth century lists subject groups bringing carefully prepared goods including yams, coconuts, yaqona root, turtles, barkcloth, and mats (Mayer 1915). In Vanuatu, Lindstrom describes kava as an important token within gift economies, exchanged at births, circumcisions, marriages, deaths, and in dispute settlement (Lindstrom 1991). In Fiji, sevusevu—the presentation of yaqona when entering a village—remains an ordinary opening to consequential social relationships. Kava therefore had transactable value, sometimes very substantial value, but that does not make it currency.

Economic anthropology has long distinguished general-purpose money—fungible, denominated, and able to function simultaneously as a medium of exchange, unit of account, and store of value—from valuables whose circulation is morally, socially, or politically restricted (Bohannan 1955). Fiji offers a useful comparison. Even the tabua, the sperm-whale tooth that became perhaps the supreme Fijian valuable, did not operate straightforwardly as money because its value depended on the occasion, the people involved, and the meaning attached to its transfer. A marriage, an apology, a political submission, and a commercial purchase could not simply be converted into standardized quantities of tabua.

The mechanics of sevusevu make the distinction clearer still. A commercial purchase generally ends an obligation: money changes hands, ownership changes, and the parties can leave the transaction. Sevusevu works differently. The presentation asks for acceptance, and that acceptance establishes or acknowledges a relationship. The yaqona may then be prepared and consumed by host and visitor together, so the exchange creates or deepens social obligation rather than extinguishing it. Kava was valuable, it was exchanged, and it could be tribute, but in these settings it mediated relationships more than it functioned as money.

Commercial kava, however, is not a recent American invention. Lindstrom was already documenting kava’s movement from gift toward market economy in Vanuatu in 1991, before the emergence of the modern American kava-bar landscape. Urban ni-Vanuatu drinkers developed the Bislama term redimed, or “ready-made,” to distinguish commercially prepared nakamal kava from other contexts of use. Port Vila’s nakamal economy expanded dramatically in the late twentieth century, bringing routine cash payment, bulk preparation, and relatively open access into a practice that had previously been organized differently in many communities.

Hawaiʻi provides a much earlier documentary history of commerce. ʻAwa was cultivated, bought, and sold during the nineteenth century, and Hawaiian law regulated its sale by the 1840s, implying an established trade. By the early twentieth century, dried ʻawa was an ordinary article of commerce and Hawaiian root was being shipped beyond the islands. Fiji followed its own trajectory: yaqona was cultivated commercially on Vanua Balavu during the nineteenth century and sold through Levuka merchants (Sofer 1985), later becoming one of the most important cash crops in several peripheral island economies. Today, yaqona can be ceremonial substance, everyday social beverage, agricultural commodity, and export product at the same time.

None of this demonstrates that kava functioned as a generalized market commodity before European contact. The commercial history described here belongs largely to colonial and post-colonial political economies shaped by foreign shipping, merchant capital, plantation systems, state regulation, and new demand. Yet Pacific Islanders were not merely passive subjects within that transformation. Growers, traders, drinkers, entrepreneurs, and governments actively adapted kava to changing economic circumstances. Treating kava as something that could be cultivated for sale, priced, regulated, transported, and exported is therefore a Pacific practice of considerable historical depth, even if its nineteenth-century commercial forms should not be projected backward as an unchanged pre-contact economy.

Many Kava Cultures, Not One

One of the central difficulties in contemporary discussions of cultural appropriation is the tendency to speak of “Pacific kava culture” as though the phrase describes a single coherent tradition. It does not. There is no single Pacific society, and there is no single cultural grammar governing kava. In Fiji, yaqona is deeply embedded within vanua, chiefly relationships, hospitality, reconciliation, and sevusevu, yet Fiji also has a vast everyday “grog” culture in which yaqona is purchased for cash and consumed informally among friends, colleagues, and relatives. Ceremonial, political, recreational, and commercial forms coexist within the same national setting.

Vanuatu presents a substantially different history. Kava is associated with extraordinary cultivar diversity and with forms of kastom that vary considerably between islands and communities. Nakamal traditions do not simply reproduce Fijian sevusevu, and urban Port Vila later created another form again: commercial nakamals characterized by routine cash exchange, larger-scale preparation, broader admission, and recreational drinking. Kiribati illustrates cultural change from another direction. Kava is comparatively recent there, yet I-Kiribati communities have incorporated drinking into their own systems of sociability. The fact that a practice was introduced does not make the resulting culture meaningless or counterfeit; cultures routinely adopt, reinterpret, and localize practices that originated elsewhere.

Solomon Islands offers yet another trajectory. Kava is a comparatively recent commercial crop there, and its contemporary significance has developed substantially through agriculture, household income, land use, agroforestry, processing, and export opportunity. Field engagement in Western Province, Honiara, and Malaita has shown organized farmer groups, strong interest in expanded production, youth involvement, locally adapted cultivation systems, and persistent concerns around drying, transport, and quality incentives (La Rose 2025a). The importance of kava to a Solomon Island farmer therefore need not be measured by how closely that farmer reproduces Fijian ceremonial practice.

A Fijian understanding of yaqona is authentically Fijian, a ni-Vanuatu understanding of kava is authentically ni-Vanuatu, and a Kiribati drinking circle does not become culturally illegitimate because kava was introduced there relatively recently. A Solomon Island farming household likewise does not require a Fijian ceremonial genealogy before kava can acquire social and economic meaning. The Pacific is not one culture radiating outward from a single tanoa. A Fiji-centric, Tonga-centric, or Vanuatu-centric understanding can become ethnocentric when it is elevated from a particular cultural tradition into a universal measure of authenticity. Ethnocentrism here need not imply hostility or bad faith; it simply describes the familiar anthropological problem of evaluating other peoples’ practices primarily through the categories of one’s own cultural system.

Kava Beyond the Pacific

Recognizing kava’s Pacific origins does not require treating every cultural development outside the Pacific as permanently derivative or inauthentic. Plants travel with people, and practices travel with plants. American kava culture provides an important example. Kava bars in the United States are no longer simply isolated businesses selling an imported beverage. Over several decades, many have developed their own patterns of sociability, terminology, preparation, music, aesthetics, interpersonal etiquette, and community life. Regular customers form friendships, meet partners, organize events, discuss politics, play games, make music, and spend evenings together without alcohol. For many participants, the kava bar functions as a genuine “third place”—neither home nor work, but a recurring social environment with its own expectations and rituals.

These practices remain historically connected to the Pacific. The plant, much of the agricultural knowledge, and much of the language surrounding kava originated there, and acknowledging that history matters. Historical connection, however, does not require cultural stasis. Repeated practice creates local tradition: people establish habits, transmit them to newcomers, attach meanings to places and objects, develop etiquette, and remember earlier generations of participants. Culture is not conferred solely by antiquity; it is also created through social life. American kava-bar culture can therefore be understood as a kava culture in its own right while remaining connected to and indebted to the Pacific histories from which kava emerged.

Similar processes may develop elsewhere. Diaspora communities have already carried kava into Australia, New Zealand, Hawaiʻi, and North America, and distinctive communities may increasingly emerge in the United Kingdom and continental Europe as legal and commercial opportunities expand. Their forms cannot be prescribed in advance. They may borrow from Fijian, Tongan, ni-Vanuatu, American, or diaspora practices while developing conventions of their own. That does not mean every new practice automatically deserves endorsement; it means novelty by itself is not evidence of cultural illegitimacy. Cultures emerge through repetition, adaptation, borrowing, and transmission, and kava is no exception.

This makes it difficult to identify a historical moment before which kava practice was “authentic” and after which it became corrupted. Fijian yaqona practices changed through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; Hawaiians commercially sold and exported ʻawa; ni-Vanuatu entrepreneurs developed urban nakamals; Pacific migrants produced diaspora practices suited to new settings; Kiribati communities incorporated a relatively new beverage into local social relations; Solomon Islanders developed a new agricultural economy around it; and American drinkers built kava bars that increasingly function as recognizable social institutions. There is no defensible baseline year at which kava culture can be frozen and declared complete. Tradition is not the absence of change; it is one way communities organize continuity through change.

Authenticity, Innovation, and the Question of Authority

Apo Aporosa has become one of the most visible scholarly voices in contemporary discussions of kava, cultural knowledge, and appropriation, and his arguments deserve to be treated seriously and represented accurately. His concern is not simply that non-Pacific people should never drink kava. Rather, he has criticized the removal of kava from Pacific knowledge systems, misleading representations of its identity, products presented as culturally equivalent despite substantial differences, and commercial arrangements in which Pacific communities may lose control over the representation or economic value of something intimately connected to their histories. Some of these concerns are important, particularly where identity, labeling, and representation are concerned.

There is, however, an important distinction between defining traditional kava and defining the only legitimate cultural context in which kava may appear. Consumers should be able to understand what they are buying, and plant identity, cultivar, plant parts, processing, preparation, and labeling all matter. At the same time, kava can also be an ingredient, and the incorporation of other botanicals into kava preparations is not simply a modern commercial innovation. In Pohnpei, Federated States of Micronesia, traditional sakau is prepared from fresh kava and pressed through the fibrous inner bark of sea hibiscus (Hibiscus tiliaceus), whose mucilage and sap become part of the finished beverage (Balick and Lee 2002; Einbond et al. 2017). The hibiscus contributes to the distinctive dense character of sakau and provides a long-established example of a culturally recognized kava preparation incorporating another plant. Laboratory work has also found that sea hibiscus sap enhanced particular biological effects of kava in vitro, although this should not be interpreted as evidence that hibiscus necessarily increases psychoactive potency in people (Einbond et al. 2017). The Pohnpeian example is important because it demonstrates that variation in composition and preparation has long existed within Oceanic kava traditions themselves. A contemporary beverage may likewise contain kava alongside other botanicals, flavors, or functional ingredients without thereby desecrating kava, diminishing Pacific cultures, or becoming culturally illegitimate. Such formulations can be understood as part of the continuing evolution of kava as it enters new markets, communities, and systems of consumption, provided that formulation, safety, labeling, and cultural representation are approached thoughtfully.

The more useful standard is not purity of form but clarity and responsibility. Traditional aqueous kava, concentrated extracts, and multi-ingredient beverages can all have legitimate places in a modern market while still representing different categories that consumers deserve to understand. The problem is not mixture itself; the problem arises when meaningful differences are concealed or products are represented in ways that confuse consumers about what they contain, how they were made, or what traditions they represent. A carefully formulated beverage containing kava alongside other botanicals can be a legitimate contemporary development, and innovation itself can become part of cultural evolution when it proceeds thoughtfully.

The appropriation discussion also raises a separate question about who has authority to speak for kava cultures. Aporosa is a New Zealand-born scholar who identifies through maternal ancestry with Naduri in Macuata, Fiji, and has spent a substantial part of his academic career studying kava, Fiji, and Pacific cultural questions. Those connections and his scholarship deserve recognition on their own terms. But ancestry, cultural participation, academic expertise, and representative mandate are not interchangeable. A scholar does not automatically become the representative of a population by studying it, belonging to it, or advocating for it, just as an industry advocate does not speak for all farmers and a government ministry does not speak for every cultural practitioner.

This distinction matters most when the category invoked is not one village, one island, or even one nation, but “Pacific peoples.” Melanesia, Polynesia, and Micronesia encompass societies with different languages, political histories, religions, economies, systems of authority, and relationships with kava; even within Fiji or Vanuatu there is substantial internal diversity. A scholar can persuasively argue that a particular practice sits uneasily within the Fijian tradition he or she knows, but it is a much larger step to claim that Pacific peoples collectively regard that practice as illegitimate. The latter proposition requires broader evidence and a clearer representative mandate than the former.

There is an irony here. An effort intended to protect Pacific peoples from Western cultural universalism can inadvertently reproduce another form of universalism by presenting one Pacific tradition as though it were the Pacific tradition. A Fijian framework emphasizing vanua, yaqona, sevusevu, tanoa, and bilo is culturally rich and historically important, but it is not Vanuatu kastom, Kiribati’s comparatively recent kava culture, the agricultural framework through which many Solomon Island farmers understand the crop, or the social culture that has developed around American kava bars. Nor does it predetermine what kava culture may become in London, Berlin, Accra, Santo Domingo, or elsewhere. The better anthropological approach is plural: there are kava cultures, not one kava culture.

Commerce Can Create Culture

Much of the debate depends on treating culture and commerce as opposing forces, but anthropologically that division is difficult to sustain. Markets themselves generate relationships, conventions, and institutions. A Port Vila nakamal is commercial, but it is also cultural. A Suva yaqona market exists because money changes hands, yet the relationships surrounding yaqona do not disappear at the point of sale. A family growing kava for cash in Solomon Islands participates simultaneously in agriculture, household economics, and emerging cultural practice. The same can be true of an American kava bar.

People may enter a kava bar initially because they are purchasing a beverage, but over time they become regulars, learn vocabulary and etiquette, develop preferences for cultivars or preparations, form friendships, celebrate birthdays, grieve deaths, meet future spouses, and accumulate shared stories. Commerce creates the meeting place, but the relationships formed there cannot be reduced to commerce. In this respect, the modern kava bar reverses the distinction with which this essay began: a commodity transaction can become the starting point for relational value. The customer buys a shell, but what develops around that shell may eventually become community.

Pacific governments and institutions also complicate any simple opposition between culture and market. Across the region, governments, farmer organizations, and industry bodies have actively pursued larger international markets for kava. Regional strategies emphasize production, standards, value chains, and export development; Fiji seeks greater export earnings, Vanuatu depends substantially on kava as an agricultural export, and Solomon Islands is encouraging cultivation, farmer organization, quality improvement, and commercial expansion. This does not prove that every commercial practice is culturally appropriate, because a ministry of agriculture cannot settle a question of cultural meaning merely by setting an export target. But an appropriation argument cannot reasonably ignore the agency of Pacific farmers, exporters, entrepreneurs, governments, and institutions that actively want kava to circulate internationally. Their economic aspirations are also Pacific voices.

What Responsible Evolution Requires

Recognizing cultural evolution does not mean that every commercial practice should be accepted uncritically. The challenge is to distinguish genuine problems from novelty itself. Product quality remains important, and kava products should be manufactured responsibly, accurately labeled, and subjected to appropriate standards. La Rose (2025b; 2026a) has argued through commercial product testing for routine independent analysis, stronger quality systems, transparent sourcing, and better understanding of microbial quality, chemotype, contaminants, and product identity. These are practical questions of stewardship and regulation, not evidence that commercialization itself is illegitimate.

The same distinction applies to contemporary formulations. A multi-botanical beverage containing kava is not problematic simply because other ingredients are present; such products may represent exactly the kind of experimentation through which new consumer traditions emerge. What matters is that manufacturers consider carefully how products are formulated and presented, and that consumers can distinguish traditional aqueous kava from concentrated extracts and multi-ingredient beverages. Transparency allows these forms to coexist without forcing one to invalidate another.

There is also an economic justice question. If global demand expands while Pacific smallholders receive only a small fraction of downstream value, concerns about pricing, branding, agricultural resources, traceability, and value capture deserve serious attention. Pacific countries have legitimate interests in protecting germplasm, maintaining quality standards, preserving agricultural knowledge, and ensuring that producers participate meaningfully in the economic benefits created by global demand. La Rose (2025c) has argued that sustainability in the kava economy must encompass more than environmental protection; it should include farmer livelihoods, cultural resilience, economic participation, traceability, and the long-term health of the communities on which the industry depends.

Commercial growth and cultural respect therefore need not be opposing objectives. A well-governed global market can increase farmer income, preserve agricultural knowledge, and create new communities around kava at the same time. Product integrity, cultural representation, formulation and innovation, agricultural resources and germplasm, fair economic participation, and the emergence of kava cultures outside the Pacific are distinct questions. Collapsing all of them into the single word “appropriation” makes each harder to understand and obscures the areas where genuine stewardship is most needed.

From a Pacific Plant to Global Kava Cultures

Kava remains profoundly Pacific in origin. Its domestication, much of its agricultural diversity, the oldest known systems of knowledge surrounding it, and many of its most enduring ceremonial traditions belong to Pacific peoples. That history should not be erased, but origin and cultural exclusivity are not the same thing. Tea originated in Asia and became central to British social life without ceasing to possess Chinese, Japanese, or South Asian histories; coffee developed distinctive Ethiopian, Arab, European, and American cultures. Kava is undergoing its own version of this process, and its particular history deserves to be understood on its own terms.

The emergence of global kava cultures does not require the disappearance of Pacific ones; in some circumstances, one may strengthen the other. A drinker in Baltimore can learn where a cultivar comes from, a kava bar in Florida can build direct relationships with growers in Vanuatu or Fiji, a future British kava community may develop its own social conventions while recognizing the plant’s Oceanic history, and a Solomon Island farmer can participate in global markets while developing locally specific farming traditions. An American beverage company can formulate kava alongside other botanicals while treating the plant, its suppliers, and its history responsibly. None of these possibilities requires everyone to drink kava in the same way. Respect does not require replication.

The useful correction, then, is neither that kava was money nor that it was once purely sacred and only recently became commercial. Kava has historically occupied multiple spheres of value: it has mediated relationships between chiefs and visitors, accompanied reconciliation and marriage, circulated as tribute, served as medicine and recreation, become an agricultural crop, entered cash markets, and travelled internationally. The historically important development was not the sudden destruction of a pristine gift sphere by commerce, but the emergence of additional spheres of value alongside older relational ones. Those spheres continue to coexist.

A bundle of yaqona presented as sevusevu in a Fijian village and a kilogram of the same cultivar sold in a market are botanically related but socially different things. A shell purchased at a Port Vila nakamal occupies another context; a bag of Solomon Island kava grown as a family cash crop carries another history; kava shared among friends in Kiribati belongs to a cultural trajectory that scarcely existed there several generations ago. A bowl served in Baltimore, Tampa, or Denver participates in another history, and a multi-botanical beverage containing kava may participate in another still. Communities that develop around kava in Britain, continental Europe, Africa, Latin America, or elsewhere will create additional histories of their own.

These newer forms should not automatically be treated as replicas of Pacific culture, nor should they be dismissed as culturally empty merely because they are new. Culture is not defined solely by age; it is created when people repeatedly gather around practices, attach meaning to them, transmit those meanings, and establish relationships through them. Kava’s Pacific origins deserve particular recognition without requiring the conclusion that all legitimate kava culture must remain geographically Pacific or reproduce one inherited model. Pacific voices should carry particular weight in discussions of kava’s history, agricultural heritage, and traditional knowledge, but those voices must remain plural.

The international kava community therefore needs something more difficult than either rigid preservation or uncritical commercialization: reciprocity without cultural stasis, innovation without amnesia, commerce without exploitation, and respect without insisting that cultural authenticity can exist in only one place or one form. Critics such as Aporosa have usefully forced the international kava community to consider whether commercialization can detach kava from its history, misrepresent its identity, or exclude the people whose knowledge and agricultural labor made a global industry possible. Those questions should remain part of the conversation, but recognizing them does not require imagining a singular, unchanging Pacific tradition.

The historical record suggests almost the opposite. Kava has endured because people have repeatedly carried it into new relationships, new economies, and new worlds. As La Rose (2026b) has argued, the future of kava requires science, tradition, and responsible commercial practice to move together. Scientific standards need not erase culture; global markets need not require cultural amnesia; innovation need not constitute desecration; and respect for Pacific origins need not depend on freezing kava within a single historical form. The challenge is not to stop kava from changing, but to ensure that its next transformations occur thoughtfully—and that the expanding global cultures forming around kava remain connected, in different ways and on their own terms, to the histories that made those transformations possible.

Editor's note: the American Kava Association's assessment

The section below is the Association's own commentary. It is not part of Douglas La Rose's paper and he is not responsible for it.

We think this is the best treatment of the appropriation question anyone has published, and we are grateful to the author for letting us reproduce it. Its strength is that it refuses the two easy positions. Most writing on this subject either dismisses the concern entirely or accepts a version of it so total that no commercial kava anywhere could ever be legitimate. La Rose does neither, and the reason he can do neither is that he brought an actual analytical apparatus to the question instead of an opinion.

The move we admire most is the one in the opening section. "Kava was already an instrument of exchange" is the argument our own industry reaches for most often, and it is the argument La Rose takes apart — not to concede the opposing case, but because it is imprecise and the imprecision costs us. Bohannan's distinction between general-purpose money and restricted valuables is exactly the right tool, and the sevusevu example makes it concrete in a way no amount of assertion could: a purchase ends an obligation, a presentation creates one. That is a real difference, it is worth understanding, and it does not weaken the case for commercial kava in the slightest. Getting a favourable conclusion by way of a sloppy premise is worth less than getting a more careful conclusion honestly, and this paper chooses the second.

The historical section is equally disciplined. Hawaiian law regulating 'awa sale by the 1840s, yaqona sold through Levuka merchants in the nineteenth century, Lindstrom recording the shift from gift to market in Vanuatu in 1991, ni-Vanuatu drinkers coining redimed for ready-made nakamal kava — these together dispose of the idea that commerce arrived with the American kava bar. But La Rose immediately adds the qualification most writers would have left out: that this commercial history belongs largely to colonial and post-colonial political economies, and should not be projected backward as an unchanged pre-contact economy. Then he adds the point that qualification might otherwise obscure — that Pacific Islanders were not passive within that transformation, and that growers, traders and governments actively adapted kava to it. Holding all three of those at once is what good history looks like.

"There are kava cultures, not one kava culture" is the sentence we expect to be quoted longest, and it is the paper's central contribution. The observation that an argument built to defend Pacific peoples against Western universalism can end up installing one Pacific tradition as the measure of all the others is genuinely uncomfortable, and it is offered without any triumphalism. Note how carefully the surrounding passage is written: Aporosa's scholarship and his connection to Naduri are acknowledged on their own terms, his concerns about labeling, identity and representation are called important, and the disagreement is narrowed precisely to the step from "this sits uneasily within the Fijian tradition I know" to "Pacific peoples regard this as illegitimate." Disagreeing with a scholar while representing him accurately and generously is harder than it looks, and this paper does it.

The Pohnpei sakau example deserves particular mention. Sea hibiscus bark pressed into the beverage is a culturally recognized Oceanic preparation that incorporates another plant, and it settles the question of whether multi-botanical kava is inherently a modern corruption more efficiently than any argument from principle could. We note too that the author declines to overclaim it — the in vitro result is reported and then explicitly fenced off from any conclusion about psychoactive potency in people. That restraint recurs throughout, and it is why the paper persuades.

On the standard he proposes, we agree without reservation, and it is close to the position this Association already tries to hold: not purity of form but clarity and responsibility. Traditional aqueous kava, concentrated extracts and multi-ingredient beverages are different categories, all of them can be legitimate, and the failure mode is concealment rather than mixture. His insistence that the economic justice question be kept distinct — germplasm, traceability, farmer livelihoods, where the downstream value actually lands — is the part of this debate our industry is least entitled to wave away, and he is right that collapsing it into the single word "appropriation" makes it harder rather than easier to address.

Finally, the section on commerce creating culture describes something we have watched happen. People come in to buy a drink and end up with a place where they know the etiquette, have preferences among cultivars, and have marked birthdays and losses. La Rose's formulation of it — the customer buys a shell, and what develops around that shell may eventually become community — is more precise than anything we have managed ourselves, and it earns its place by having done the analytical work first rather than asserting it.

How this paper came to us — Douglas La Rose wrote this independently. He is not a member of this Association, we did not commission it, fund it, suggest it, or see it before it was finished, and he had no input from us at any stage. We read it after the fact, thought it was the best treatment of these questions available, and asked his permission to republish it. He gave it. The argument is entirely his, and the credit for it is entirely his.

Author spotlight: Douglas La Rose

La Rose holds an MA in Applied Anthropology from San Diego State University, where his research examined livelihoods and agricultural adaptation to environmental change in Ghana's forest–savanna transition zone. That is a useful thing to know before reading the essay above, because it explains the shape of the argument: it is written by someone trained to look at how people actually make a living from a crop, in a specific place, under changing conditions — not by someone approaching kava as a symbol first.

The rest of the background runs along the same line. He is an agronomist and international development specialist with more than twenty years in agriculture, market systems and global value chains, and has worked on agricultural development in over thirty countries across sub-Saharan Africa, Latin America and Oceania, largely on horticultural value chains and food systems. Anyone who has done that work has watched the question this essay is about — what happens to a crop, and to the people growing it, when it enters a wider market — play out in a dozen commodities that are not kava.

His involvement with kava is older than his professional standing in it. He founded Kavasseur in 2007 as a review-and-news blog at a point when almost nothing about kava was being written for drinkers in English, and it grew into discussion groups, a podcast and a YouTube channel. For a long stretch of the American kava scene's development, Kavasseur was one of the few places a newcomer could find a considered account of what a particular cultivar or vendor was actually like. A good deal of the vocabulary the American kava-drinking public now uses passed through it.

Since February 2025 he has been Executive Director of the Kava Coalition, working with Pacific Island governments, industry, researchers and policymakers on quality standards, market access and regulatory recognition. That work intersects this library directly: the Coalition's 2025 voluntary framework sets the 0.4% w/w dry limit on total flavokavains that the American Kava Quality Standard adopts, and the Coalition's 2025 mission to the Solomon Islands, Vanuatu and Fiji is cited in this paper's own reference list.

Why we are noting his current role — The Kava Coalition and the American Kava Association are separate organizations with overlapping interests and no shared membership. Readers should know that the author of this essay leads one of them, and should weigh the argument with that in mind — which is easier to do than usual here, because the essay's conclusions cut against the commercial interest of every kava trade body including his own: it insists that the economic justice question, about germplasm, traceability, farmer livelihoods and where downstream value lands, be kept separate and not waved away. His professional profile is at linkedin.com/in/douglas-larose.