Fieldnotes: May 15th-28th, 2003
Rio Branco
May 28, 2003
Dear friends, family, and colleagues:
Yesterday marked two weeks since I arrived in Rio Branco, capital of the westernmost Brazilian state of Acre, with the goal of furthering and bringing to some decently well-developed state preparations for longer-term dissertation fieldwork. I would like to tell a bit about what I have been doing in the last few days, but first I will say a bit about this region and its history to orient those of you who don’t know anything about it.
Acre, a Brazilian state since 1962, looks a bit like a tilted bow appended to the western edge of the state of Amazonas, with its ‘string’ running NW-SE. Its territory is comprised principally of the drainages of two of the six or eight largest tributaries of the Amazon, the Purus and Juruá rivers. The headwaters of these rivers lie in Peru, due west, and in Bolivia, located to the south and southwest. Acre was formed as a political-geographical entity because of the rubber boom, which lasted roughly from 1877 to 1912, when Asian plantation rubber caused worldwide prices to fall, and made the exploitation of the distribution of wild trees in the Amazon prohibitively expensive.
Natural rubber, or latex, is acquired by making superficial cuts in the bark of certain trees, most notably Hevea brasiliensis, and collecting the milky liquid that wells into the cuts. While rubber had been exploited for millennia by Indians and for more than a century by Europeans, the development of the process of vulcanization (which makes rubber resistant to extreme temperatures), of the pneumatic tire, and the advent of the mass-produced automobile set the demand for latex climbing dramatically between 1850 and 1900.
Acre is one of the richest regions in the rubber tree. Bolivia and Peru had historical claims to it based on colonial-era treaties that were signed between Spain and Portugal when no Europeans lived here, but when it came to the question of sending laborers into the region and getting rubber out of it, Brazilians had the great advantage of possessing control of the waterways that passed through indisputably Brazilian territory. The ownership of this area had never been an issue, quite naturally, until the demand for rubber created the possibility of acquiring wealth through the taxation of its extraction. Right around the turn of the 20th century, Bolivia pressed its claim to sovereignty over the Acre territory, and a serious conflict with Brazil was narrowly averted through diplomatic means, including payoffs to the Bolivian government and to the “Bolivian Syndicate,” an American-backed multinational corporation that would have been granted charter company-like control over the region (akin to that of the East India Company or the Hudson’s Bay Company), had Bolivia gained title. This was in 1903. By 1909, another dispute with Peru had been resolved, and Acre became a Brazilian territory more or less of the size and shape it is today.
My project focuses on the so-called “ayahuasca churches” that have sprung up in this region in the course of its settlement and development by Euro-Brazilians. “Ayahuasca” derives from Quechua—the Inca language and the lingua franca of the Catholic missions in Peru—and means “vine of the soul” or “vine of the dead.” This term is but one of many used by indigenous peoples of the upper Amazon to denote a family of potions or teas based on the combination of vines of the genus Banisteriopsis with various admixture plants, but has been adopted as the default term by western writers. According to ethnographers, travelers, botanists, and other scholarly sources, ayahuasca is of presumably ancient and widespread use across very large portions of the Amazon basin, particularly in eastern Peru and Ecuador, western and northwestern Brazil, and southwestern Colombia. It is one of many plant preparations used by indigenous peoples to gain access to the spiritual dimensions of reality for various purposes: to diagnose and cure illness, to cause harm to rivals, to locate game animals, to reaffirm connections with ancestors from primordial times, and so on.
There are still many groups of indigenous people who use ayahuasca, including the Kaxinawá and Ashaninka of this region, but my focus is on the appropriation of ayahuasca by the rubber tappers and its subsequent diffusion into urban Brazilian society. From the initial contacts of Brazilians with ayahuasca in the early 20th century, formalized churches based on its sacramental consumption have been developed and spread throughout Brazil and to Europe, North America, and Asia.
The study of urbanized ayahuasca use has grown in popularity among Brazilian anthropologists in recent years, and there has been a proliferation of books and master’s theses on the subject, and even a few doctoral dissertations. Many, if not most of these works have been authored by people who are themselves members of ayahuasca churches, often the ones they write about. (This is not unprecedented: J.S. Slotkin, author of a useful and respectable monograph on North American peyote churches, wrote as both anthropologist and church member. It does, however, raise compelling questions about anthropological authority and the presumption of scholarly disinterestedness.)
I met with one anthropologist of this new generation last weekend who is not a member of the church he studied, nor, apparently, of any other ayahuasca church. He is the author of a study of the Barquinha church, founded here in Rio Branco in the 1940s, which focuses on the construction of sacred space within the church’s rituals. He also works at the state government’s Environmental Institute here in Rio Branco, as well as teaching anthropology classes at two local universities.
I thought we would get together and have some serious intellectual conversation, but he took me instead to meet some of his friends from Rio Branco—his hometown—and we cruised around to various bars in town. We ended up at one where they were having a semi-open mike night of Brazilian country music, turned up way too loud. That’s when Wladimyr decided to start talking to me about anthropology, as in: “What do you think about Gregory Bateson?” Some of you have probably experienced the frustration of trying to converse over loud music in a bar; now imagine doing it in a second language, about topics requiring delicate and subtle treatment. In retrospect it is really pretty funny, but I’m not sure we had much of an intellectual exchange there.
Earlier that same day I went and met with Mestre Tim, one of the leaders of the main local União do Vegetal center. He is staying at a doctor’s house, recuperating from a broken arm and leg he suffered in a fall off a roof at a construction site (I gather he’s like a foreman). We talked about his introduction to the UDV when he was working as a miner and rubber tapper in Rondônia (an Amazonian state east of Acre), as well as some of the key values of the UDV. While the União teaches tolerance, it is generally made clear that certain forms of behavior, of family, and of sexuality are more in line with nature and God’s plan than others. Since the notion of spiritual evolution is key in the UDV (which also affirms the reality of reincarnation), abstinence from alcohol, marital fidelity, and moderation in all things are expected from more ‘advanced’ members, who are supposed to serve as examples.
We talked about many things in the course of a 3-hour discussion. Mestre Tim really wants to go to the US, so I told him about some things there, too. He is the first person I met in the UDV, since at the time he was the designated Representative of the main center here in Rio Branco, and I was directed to him to ask permission to come to one of the group’s sessions. We took a quick liking to one another, me to him and vice-versa. He really has been my greatest ally within the UDV, with the possible exception of Elizaldo, with whom I have been developing something more like an “ordinary” friendship.
Elizaldo is from the city of Manaus in the state of Amazonas, and of pretty humble origins. Through his skill at soccer, however, he ended up turning pro and spending time in Brasília, the national capital, and later had a stint in Germany for 2 ½ years. He teaches soccer classes at a local sports club at the military base, and last Saturday he took me there. The place has some of the biggest and cleanest open spaces I have seen around here, including a nice reservoir with a path to walk around it. Behind a dance hall there is a sand volleyball area and a soccer field, carved out of the bamboo and jungly vegetation. Elizaldo goes there every Saturday and meets up with a bunch of guys to play pickup soccer. They curse one another and run around, playing ten-minute periods and switching up the teams. I mainly sat and watched, taking a few pictures. After the games pretty much everybody went and sat in the steambath, where their constant loud chatter was deafening, bouncing off the tiles. They talked about soccer and told jokes about southerners.
Also recently (Monday) I finally met with the history prof at the Federal University who wrote the book on Acre’s history that served as a jumping-off point in my work this last year. We had a good old chat in his office, among bookcases full of volumes packed in plastic against the tropical humidity. I told him I combed through his book in vain for information on the history of the ayahuasca churches, and he somewhat sheepishly explained that he didn’t dare to write anything about it since there are so many people who know so much about it and who really care how its history is represented. He gave me a ride back into town and we parted very amicably, with him telling me I could count on his assistance with my work.
There’s more to tell, but that is all for now.
Best wishes to all and hugs from Brazil!
Rio Branco, Acre
Thursday, May 15, 2003, 11:10am
I slept a little better last night, and got up this morning at 5:30 to go running at the “Maternity Park.” Even at such an early hour there were a lot of people out and about. I ran on the nice paved paths along the canal (there’s one for bikes, and another, brick-like, for walkers). If you can get used to the smell of sewer water it’s not so bad (there are even snack stands and a restaurant along the way!), although the heavy and rather polluted air tests one’s fitness.
The park ended down by the main city bus terminal, which is right by the farmers’ market and the supermarket where I’ve done much of my shopping up till now. The park reminds a little of a miniature golf course: there is nice grass along the edges of the canal, and colorful wooden bridges go back and forth over it now and again.
Back at the hotel I showered and washed the clothes I’d run in, hanging them to dry on a chair in front of the AC. I bought a paper and had breakfast. A little kid, maybe 3 years old, was intently looking at me in the restaurant, so I looked back and smiled. He (I think) had some nice new boots with a cartoon character on them, which he proudly called attention to.
After breakfast I went and sat in the plaza for a good while, something I’ve not done previously. The plaza was populated mainly by students, many of them probably from the school named after the Baron of Rio Branco right across the street (he was Brazil’s foreign minister during the height of the rubber boom, and negotiated a diplomatic resolution to the dispute over the Acre territory when the Bolivian army was ready to march up here and it looked like things might get out of hand; also is the city’s namesake). Besides the students there were a surprising number of working-aged men who seemed to have lots of time on their hands, although one fellow, probably the most upper-class in the park, had a briefcase in his lap and seemed to be conducting business on his cell phone. There are boys who do shoeshines for r$1, people constantly walking through. The guy with the cell phone got a shoeshine. The military police is headquartered right across the street, too, on the opposite side from the school, and seemed to have its marching band practice going on.
Back at the hotel I called Professor Fernando, He was happy to hear from me and we decided to have lunch together. I may also get to give another go at talking to his class about the American anthropology curriculum, for which I’ve brought Ira’s syllabus from 301 as a guide.
This morning in the paper I read that some local school or learned organization is inaugurating a library tonight, and that the roundtable discussion that will mark the event includes not only the very Carlos Alberto Alves da Souza that I emailed yesterday, but also Wladymir Sena Araújo, an anthropology MA who studied the Barquinha church and put together the volume on the “ritual use of ayahuasca” with Bia Labate. Both of them, by the way, are students of Robin Wright, the American anthropologist from Stanford who’s at the university in Campinas, and whom I contacted on George’s recommendation for possible help with getting my Ph.D. project off the ground. So, needless to say, I am planning to go to the event.
4:20pm
Impressions: Smells of diesel, and in some places rotting fruits on the sidewalk from some kind of tree. Uneven curbs, many crumbling. Little neighborhood joints, small rooms crowded with signs for beer, little snacks, a few stools and some men sitting around. It’s easy to tell who’s who here. People wear social class in their clothes—t-shirt or collared shirt? Wrinkly, leathery skin from years in the sun or smooth and smelling of aftershave? Slacks and cell phone or dirty jeans? Skin color itself, as Charles Wagley says, seems to mean little, but kinky hair means a lot. There are, by the way, very few really African-looking people in this part of Brazil. There are also rather few really light-skinned folks by WASP standards.
It’s common for men to turn and gawk at women they pass in the street, even to comment. Sometimes women do the same: I had a couple of young women call me a “gato” on the street yesterday (literally “cat,” it’s a polite term for handsome).
A guy with one arm. A fellow with his left flip-flop nearly sideways on a club foot.
Watch out for the cars, they won’t stop for you and expect you to yield to them. God, the air is bad. I wonder how Marlo would do here. It’s crazy that I associate diesel exhaust with a romantic “Brazilian feeling,” as bad as it must be for the lungs.
Women crowd together in a little clothes shop, talking and laughing. A fellow in an artisans shop (new since last year—gotta check it out) arranges things and looks up to nod at me as I pass by.
So much social activity. The raw sewage canal that was a dark eyesore down in a dip last year has been transformed into a 13-km lighted greenway, with arches and benches here and
 Back Home |
| Matt's Fieldnotes |
Send E-Mail to: mme4a@virginia.eduCopyright © 2003 . All Rights Reserved