Tristes tropiques

XT

$12.50

by
CLAUDE LEVI-STRAUSS

Translated by JOHN R USSELL

Illustrated with 48 pages of photographs and
48 line drawings.

/ have sought a human society reduced
to its most basic expression.

His search has taken Claude Levi-
Strauss, eminent French anthropologist
and one of the founders of structural
anthropology, to the far corners of the
earth, not as a superficial sightseer, but
as a close student of man and the varied
cultures he has erected around himself.
While a professor at Sao Paolo Univer
sity in Brazil, M. Levi-Strauss travelled
extensively through the Amazon basin
and the dense upland jungles of Brazil
to the "Tristes Tropiques" of his title.
It was here, among the most primitive
of the Amerindian tribes, that he found
the basic humain societies he was seeking.
Tristes Tropiques is the story of his
experience among these tribes. Here
are intricate, detailed accounts of the
Caduveo, and the elaborate painted
designs behind which they hide their
"natural" faces . . . the rigid hier
archical society of the Bororo ... the
Nambikwara, who win a sort of security
by giving wives to their chief ... the
disease and superstition-ridden Tupi-
Kawahib, whose weird tribal dances
sometimes last for days.

Continued on back flap

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TRISTES TROPIQUES

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Tristes Tropiques

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Frontispiece

Two masked dancers and two girls,
Caraji-Indians of the Rio Araguaia. The
Caraji are closely related, both geo
graphically and culturally, to the Bororo
described in the book. They, too, are one
of the wandering tribes of Central Brazil.

DATE DUK

AUF2S 67

~WL

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-j p..

C. LEVI-STRAUSS

Tristes Tropiques

Translated by
JOHN RUSSELL

CRITERION BOOKS NEW YORK

English translation Hutchinson & Co. (Publishers) Ltd., London, 1961
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-7203

Originally published in France under the title

Tristes Tropiaues by Librairie Plon, Paris, 1955: Chapters

XIV, XV, XVI and XXXIX of the French

edition are omitted in this translation.

First American edition

Printed in Great Britain

61 15758

L c- - t

FOR LAURENT

minus ergo ante haec quam tu ceddere, cadentque.

Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, m, 969

61 15758

Contents

PART I

DESTINATIONS

1 Departure 17

2 On Board Ship 23

3 The Antilles 31

4 The Quest for Power 38

PART II

FROM A LOG-BOOK

5 A Backward Glance 49

6 How I became an Anthropologist 54

7 Sunset 65

PART III

THE NEW WORLD

8 The Doldrums 77

9 Guanabara 85

10 Into the Tropics 94

11 Sao Paulo 100

PART IV

A LAND AND ITS PEOPLE

12 Town and Country in

13 The Pioneer Zone 123

PART V

THE CADUVEO

14 Parana 133

15 Pantanal 141

16 Nalike 151

17 A Native Society and its Style 160

PART VI

THE BORORO

1 8 Gold and Diamonds 183

19 The Good Savage 198

20 The Living and the Dead 214

PART VII

THE NAMBIKWARA

21 The Lost World 235

22 In the Sertao 249

23 On the Line 262

24 Family Life 272

25 A Writing Lesson 286

26 Men, Women, and Chiefs 298

PART VIII

THE TUPI-KAWAHIB

27 By Canoe 3*3

28 Crusoe Country 323

29 In the Forest 332

30 The Crickets Village 342

3 1 The Japim Bird Takes the Stage 3 49

32 Amazonia 357

33 Seringal 363

PART IX

THE RETURN

34 The Apotheosis of Augustus 373

35 A Little Glass of Rum 381

36 Conclusion 393

Bibliography 399

Index 401

Illustrations

Frontispiece Two masked dancers and two girls, Caraja-Indians

BETWEEN PAGES 96 AND 97

THE CADUVEO

1 Virgin forest in Parana

2 ThePantanal

3 Nalike, capital of the Caduveo country
4-5 Caduveo women with painted faces

6 A Caduveo belle in 1895 (after Boggiani)

7 Face-painting; an original drawing by a Caduveo woman

8 Another face-painting, drawn by a native

9 Another face-painting, drawn by a native

10 A Caduveo girl dressed and painted for the rites of puberty

THE BORORO

11 The Bororo village of Kejara: in the centre the Men s House; at

the back, some of the huts of the Tugare moiety

12 A Bororo couple

13 The author s best informant in full regalia

14 A meal in the Men s House

15 Funeral dance

16 Dance of the Paiwe clan

17 Preparations for the mariddo dance

1 8 Funeral ceremony

THE NAMBIKWARA

19 The Nambikwara tribe on the move

20 Resting

21 A leaf shelter in the dry season

22 Little girl with a monkey

23 Building a hut for the rainy season

24 Two Nambikwara men. Note the cigarette rolled in a leaf and

tucked through the bracelet on the upper arm

25 Sabane the sorcerer

26 Chief Wakleto^u

27 Preparing curare

28 The Nambikwara position of the right hand in drawing the bow:

the so-called secondary position. Cf. plate 52

29 A Nambikwara woman piercing mother-of-pearl from the river

for ear-rings

30 The Nambikwara at work: grading pearls, threading them, and,

in the background, weaving

31 A polygamous family

32 A woman suckling her child in the native manner

33 A Nambikwara family

34 Siesta

35 Conjugal felicity

36 Affectionate frolics

37 ... and struggles meant only in fun

38 Looking for lice

39 Young woman with a monkey

40 Pregnant woman dozing

41 Carrying a child

42 The spinner interrupted

43 The sorcerer s two wives in conversation

44 Nambikwara youth with a nasal ornament and a stiff fibre lip-

plug

45 The day-dreamer

46 A Nambikwara smile

THE TUPI-KAWAHIB

47 Going up the Rio Pimenta Bueno

48 The Mund village amidst its plantations

49 The Mund village square

50 A Mund6 man with lip-plugs of hardened resin

51 The dome of a Mund hut seen from inside

52 Munde archer; note the position of the right hand (the Medi

terranean release ) which differs from that adopted by the
Bororo and Nambikwara, most often found in America. Cf.
plate 28

53 Two young Mund mothers

54 A Mund woman and her child whose eyebrows are coated with

wax ready for plucking

55 Sharing camp with the Tupi-Kawahib on the edge of the Rio

Machado

56 Lucinda

57 A Tupi-Kawahib man skinning a monkey. Note the belt, a recent

gift, and the penis-sheath

5 8 Taperahi, chief of the Tupi-Kawahib

59 Kunhatsin, chief wife of Taperahi, with her child

60 Pwereza, Taperahi s son

6 1 Penhana, the young wife of the two brothers

62 Maruabai, co-wife (withher daughter Kunhatsin) of Chief Taperahi

63 Carrying canoes to by-pass rapids on the Rio Gi-Parana

LINE DRAWINGS

1 Afiga found at Pompeii (the tip of the thumb has been

broken) 113

2 A rustic calvary in the interior of the State of Sao Paulo

decorated with various objects representing the instru
ments of the Passion 117

3 Ox-cart axle 120

4 Kaingang pottery 138

5 Water-jar, decorated in bright red and varnished with black

resin *54

6 Three examples of Caduveo pottery 157

7 Two wooden statuettes: the Little Old Man (left) and the

Mother of the Twins (right) 15?

8 Caduveo jewellery made of hammered coins and thimbles 158

9 Statuettes of mythological personnages in stone (left) and

wood (right) 159

10-11 Caduveo designs 163

12-13 Motifs used in body-painting 165

14-17 More motifs used in body-painting 167

18 Drawings made by a young Caduvean boy 169

19 Another drawing by the same artist 170

20 Two face-paintings, notable for the motif formed by two

opposed spirals which represent and are applied on

the upper lip 171

21 Design painted on leather 172

22-23 Body-painting: on the left as recorded by Boggiani in

1895 and on the right as recorded by the author in 1935 175

24-5 Two face- and body-painting motifs 177

26 A face-painting 178

27 Penis-sheath 201

28 Lip-plug and ear-rings of mother-of-pearl and feathers 201

29 Plan of Kejara village 203

30 Wooden club used in fishing 207

31 Bows decorated with rings of bark in the fashion character

istic of the owner s clan 207

32 Arrow shafts bearing clan ornamentation between the

feathering 209

33 Emblazoned penis-sheaths 209

34 Black pottery bowl 211

35 Two examples, one single and one double, of a Bororo

pocket-knife* 2II

36 Crescent-shaped pendant decorated with jaguar teeth 21 1

37 Improvised ornaments: painted crowns of dried straw 211

38 A bull-roarer 215

39 Ceremonial ear-rings made of pieces of mother-of-pearl

fastened to strips of bark, and trimmed with feathers and
hair 221

40 Bororo paintings of cult objects 223

41 Bororo painting of an officiant, trumpets, a rattle, and

various ornaments 224

42 Diadem of yellow and blue aura feathers carrying clan

marking 227

43 Diagram showing the real and apparent social structure of

the Bororo village 231

44-5 People of ancient Mexico, on the left from the south
east (American Museum of Natural History), on the
right from the Gulf coast (Exposition d Art Mexicain,
1952) 241

46-7 On the left Chavin culture, northern Peru (after Tello);
on the right Monte Alban, southern Mexico (from bas-
reliefs known as the dancers ) 243

48 Hopewell culture, eastern United States (after Charles C.

Willoughby. The Turner Group of Earthworks, Papers of
the Peabody Museum, Harvard University, Vol. VIII,
No. 3, 1922) 243

49 Chavin, northern Peru (after Tello) 245

50 Hopewell, eastern United States (after W. K. Moorehead,

the Hopewell mound. . . . Field Museum, Chicago

Anthropol. Series, Vol. VI, No. 5, 1922) 247

51 Bamboo sticks guarding the approach-way to the village 340

52 Detail of the paintings on the outside of a hut 343

53 Another example of hut-paintings 345

PART I

Destinations

Departure

T

1 RAVEL and travellers are two things I loathe and
yet here I am, all set to tell the story of my expeditions. But at least I ve
taken a long while to make up my mind to it: fifteen years have passed
since I left Brazil for the last time and often, during those years, I ve
planned to write this book, but I ve always been held back by a sort of
shame and disgust. So much would have to be said that has no possible
interest: insipid details, incidents of no significance. Anthropology is
a profession in which adventure plays no part; merely one of its
bondages, it represents no more than a dead weight of weeks or months
wasted en route; hours spent in idleness when one s informant has
given one the slip; hunger, exhaustion, illness as like as not; and
those thousand and one routine duties which eat up most of our days
to no purpose and reduce our perilous existence in the virgin forest to
a simulacrum of military service. . . . That the object of our studies
should be attainable only by continual struggle and vain expenditures
does not mean that we should set any store by what we should rather
consider as the negative aspect of our profession. The truths that we
travel so far to seek are of value only when we have scraped them clean
of all this fungus. It may be that we shall have spent six months of
travel, privation, and sickening physical weariness merely in order to
record in a few days, it may be, or even a few hours an unpublished
myth, a new marriage-rule, or a complete list of names of clans. But
that does not justify my taking up my pen in order to rake over
memory s trash-cans: At 5.30 a.m. we dropped anchor off Recife
while the seagulls skirled around us and a flotilla of small boats put out

from the shore with exotic fruits for sale

And yet that sort of book enjoys a great and, to me, inexplicable
popularity. Amazonia, Africa, and Tibet have invaded all our book
stalls. Travel-boob, expeditionary records, and photograph-albums
B 17

!g Destinations

abound; and as they are written or compiled with an eye mainly for
effect the reader has no means of estimating their value. His critical
sense once lulled to sleep, he asks only to be given more of the same
and ends by devouring it in unlimited quantity. Exploration has
become a profession; not, as one might suppose, that it s a matter
of unearthing new facts in the course of several years laborious study
not at all! Mere mileage is the thing; and anyone who has been far
enough, and collected the right number of pictures (still or moving,
but for preference in colour), will be able to lecture to packed houses
for several days running. Platitudes take shape as revelations once the
audience is assured that the speaker has sanctified them by travelling to
the other side of the globe.

For what do these books, these lectures, amount to? A luggage-list,
a story or two about the misdemeanours of the ship s dog, and a few
scraps of information scraps that have done a century s service in
every handbook to the region. Only the speaker s impudence and the
ignorance and naivety of his hearers could cause them to pass as an
eye-witness account or even, for all I know, as an original discovery .
Doubtless there are exceptions; every age has its authentic travellers,
and among those who today enjoy the public s favours I could point
to one or two who deserve the name. My aim, however, is neither to
expose the one nor to authenticate the other, but rather to understand
a moral and social phenomenon which is peculiar to France and is, even
there, of recent origin.

Not many people travelled professionally in the 19305, and those
who returned to tell their tales could count not on five or six full
houses at the Salle Pleyel, but on a single session in the little, dark, cold,
and dilapidated amphitheatre that stood in a pavilion at the far end of
the Jardin des Plantes. Once a week the Society of Friends of the
Museum organized and may still organize, for all I know a lecture
on the natural sciences. Lantern lectures , they were; but as the screen
was too large for the projector, and the lamp too weak for the size of
the hall, the images thrown were intelligible neither to the lecturer,
who had his nose immediately beneath them, nor to the audience, who
could with difficulty distinguish them from the huge patches of damp
that disfigured the walls. A quarter of an hour before the appointed
time there was always doubt as to whether anyone would come to the
lecture, apart from the handful of habitu6s who could be picked out
here and there in the gloom. Just when the lecturer was losing all hope,
the body of the hall would half fill with children, each accompanied

Departure 19

by mother or nanny, some delighted by the prospect of a free change
of scene, others merely craving relief from die dust and noise of the
gardens outside. This mixture of moth-eaten phantoms and impatient
youngsters was our reward for long months of struggle and hardship;
to them we unloaded our treasured recollections. A session of this sort
was enough to sever us for ever from such memories; as we talked on
in the half-light we felt them dropping away from us, one by one, like
pebbles down a well.

If this, our return, had its funereal side, as much could have been
said of our departure, which was signalized by a banquet held by the
Franco- American Committee in a disused private house in what is now
the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. A caterer, hired for the occasion, had
arrived two hours earlier and set up his apparatus of hot-plates and china
and table-silver: too late, however, for a hasty airing to blow away
the stench of desolation.

No less unfamiliar to us than the solemnity of our surroundings was
the aroma of fusty tedium with which they were permeated. There had
been just time, quite clearly, to sweep clean the centre of the enormous
saloon in which we were to dine, and it was at the table- dwarfed, like
ourselves, by its environment that we made one another s acquaint
ance for the first time. Most of us were young teachers who had only
just begun work in provincial lycees; there had stretched before us a
damp winter, with lodgings in a second-rate hotel in a market-town
and an all-pervading smell of grog, cellars, and stale wine. And now,
George Dumas slightly perverse whimsies were to whisk us away from
all that and set us down in luxury-liners headed for the tropical seas:
an experience which was to bear only the most distant resemblance to
the stock notions of travel which were already forming within us.

I had been one of Georges Dumas students at the time of the Traite
de Psychologic. Once a week Thursday or Sunday morning, I can t
remember which the philosophy students would go and hear him in
one of the lecture-halls at the Hopital Sainte-Anne. The walls feeing
the windows were covered with hilarious paintings by madmen; these
set, from the very beginning, a peculiarly exotic note. Dumas was
robustly built, with a body like a billhook and a great battered head
that looked like a huge root which had been whitened and pared down
by a sojourn on the sea-bed. He had a waxy complexion that unified
his whole face with the white hair that he wore very short and en
brosse and the little beard, also white, that grew in all directions at once.
A curious fragment of vegetable matter, one would have said, with its

20 Destinations

rootlets still adhering to it, had not the coal-black gaze affirmed that
it was beyond doubt a human being. The antiphony of black and white
recurred in the contrast between the white shirt, with its starched and
do wnturned collar, and the large-brimmed black hat, the black tie with
its flowing knot, and the unvarying black suit.

We never learnt much from his lectures. He never got them up
in advance, because he knew that he never failed to cast a spell over his
hearers. His lips, though deformed by a continual rictus, were mar
vellously expressive; but it was above all the hoarse and melodious
voice that did the trick. It was a veritable siren s voice, with strange
inflections that took us back not only to his native Languedoc but to
certain ancient modes of speech, musical variants that went beyond all
regional considerations and partook of the quintessential music of
spoken French. In voice, as in looks, Dumas evoked a particular style,
at once rustic and incisive: the style of the French humanists of the
sixteenth century the doctors and philosophers of whom he seemed
to be the mental and bodily perpetuation.

A second hour, and sometimes a third, was devoted to the presenta
tion of individual cases . Often they were veterans who knew exactly
what was wanted of them, and we would then witness astonishing
displays of virtuosity in which they and the lecturer would vie with
one another in cunning and guile. Some would produce their symptoms
at exactly the right moment; others would offer just enough resistance
to call for a display of bravura from the lecturer. The audience, though
not taken in by these demonstrations, found them entirely fascinating.
Those who won the maestro s particular favour were allowed a private
interview with one or other of the patients. And never, in all my
experience of primitive Indian tribes, was I as intimidated as I was by
the morning I spent with an old woman who told me, from within
her enveloping shawls, that she likened herself to a rotten herring
buried deep in a block of ice: intact to all appearances, that is to say,
but menaced with disintegration should the protective cover turn
to water.

Dumas was not above mystification; and the general syntheses of
which he was the sponsor had, for all their ample design, a substructure
of critical positivism which I found rather disappointing. And yet, as
was to be proved later, he was a man of great nobility. Just after the
armistice of 1940, and not long before his death, when he was almost
blind and in retirement in his native village of Ledignan, he made a
point of writing me a discreet and considerate letter, with no other

Departure 21

object than to put himself firmly on the side of those who had been the
first to suffer from the turn of events.

I have always regretted not knowing him in his first youth, when
the scientific perspectives opened up by nineteenth-century psychology
had sent him off, wild with excitement and bronzed as a conquistador,
to make the spiritual conquest of the New World. Between Dumas
and Brazilian society it was to be a case of love at first sight: a
mysterious phenomenon, in which two fragments of a four-hundred-
year-old Europe met and recognized one another and were all but
joined together again. Certain essential elements had remained intact
in both cases: in a southern Protestant family, on the one hand, and on
the other in a fastidious, slightly decadent bourgeois society that was
turning over at half speed in the tropics. George Dumas mistake was
that he never grasped the authentically archaeological character of this
conjunction. The Brazil that he wooed and won was only one of the
possible Brazils, although it later seemed, when it came momentarily
to power, to be the real one. In Dumas* Brazil the ground landlords
were steadily moving their capital into industrial holdings financed
from abroad; seeking for an ideological cover of some sort, they settled
for a right-thinking parliamentarianism. Our students, meanwhile,
were the offspring of recent immigrants or squireens who lived by the
land and had been ruined by fluctuations in world prices; to them,
Dumas friends were the grao fino a bitter phrase that meant the
smart set . Oddly enough, the foundation of the University of Sao
Paulo, which was Georges Dumas greatest achievement, made it
possible for people of modest station to begin to climb up the ladder
by obtaining the diplomas which allowed them access to the civil
service. Our academic mission did, in fact, help to form a new elite.
But neither Dumas nor, later, the Quai d Orsay would realize that this
61ite was a very valuable creation. As a consequence it drew steadily
clear of our influence. It aimed, of course, to do away with the
feudal structure which we had introduced into Brazil; but we had,
after all, introduced it partly as a surety for good behaviour, and partly
as a way of passing the time.

But, on that evening of the Franco-American dinner, neither my
colleagues nor I and that goes, of course, for our wives, who were
to accompany us had any idea of the role which we were to play,
however involuntarily, in the evolution of Brazilian society. We were
too busy taking stock of one another and avoiding, in so far as we
could, the fatality of social error. Georges Dumas had just warned us

22 Destinations

that we must be prepared to lead the same life as our new masters:
the life, that is to say, of Automobile Club, casino, and race-course.
This seemed quite extraordinary to young teachers who had been
earning twenty-six thousand francs a year; more recently so few were
those who applied to go abroad our salaries had been tripled.

Above all, Dumas had said, you must be well dressed/ And as he
wanted to reassure us he added, with rather touching candour, that it
could be done at no great expense, not far from the Halles, at an
establishment calledALaCroix dejeannette, where they had fitted him
out very acceptably when he had been a young medical student in
Paris.

On Board Ship

w.

E HAD no idea, in any case, that for the next
four or five years our little group would constitute with a few rare
exceptions the entire complement of first-class passengers on the
Compagnie des Transports Maritimes passenger-and-cargo steamers
which plied between France and South America. We had a choice of
either second-class on the only luxury-liner which worked this route,
or first-class on the humbler sort of vessel. The intriguers went by
luxury-liner, paid the difference out of their own pockets, and hoped
by so doing to rub shoulders with an Ambassador or two and in some
way profit thereby. We others chose the bateau mixte; it took six days
longer, but we were its masters and, what is more, it made many stops
en route.

How I wish today that I had realized twenty years ago the full
value of what we were given! The unbelievable luxury, that is to say:
the royal privilege of sharing with eight or ten others exclusive rights
over the first-class deck, cabins, smoking-room, and dining-room on
a ship built to carry a hundred or a hundred and fifty passengers. We
were nineteen days at sea; our province was rendered almost illimitable
by the lack of other passengers; our appanage went everywhere with
us. After our second or third crossing we came back to our ships, our
own way of life; and we knew by name, even before we got aboard,
those sterling stewards from Marseilles, with their moustaches and
their heavy-soled shoes, who overpowered us with their garlicky smell
as they bent over us with supreme de poularde or filet de turbot. The
meals, planned in any case on a Rabelaisian scale, became even
more so from the fact that there were so few of us to sit down to
them.

That one civilization is ending and another beginning; that our
world has suddenly found itself to be too small for the people who live

24 Destinations

in it: these are facts which became real to me, not because of figures or
statistics or revolutions but because I happened, a few weeks ago, to
make a certain telephone call. I had been playing with the idea of
retrieving my youth by a return visit, after fifteen years, to Brazil. The
answer was that I should need to book my cabin four months in
advance.

And I had imagined that, since the establishment of regular air-
services between France and South America, the sea route was the
preserve of a few eccentrics! It is, alas, a mistake to suppose that because
one element has been invaded the other has been set free.

But in between the marvellous voyages of 1935 or thereabouts and
the one to which I returned an immediate No there was one, in 1941,
which was charged with symbolic meaning for the years to come.
Shortly after the armistice I was invited to the New School for Social
Research in New York. (This I owed in part to the friendly interest
which had been taken in my work by Robert H. Lowie and Alfred
Metraux, in part to the vigilance of relations of mine long settled in
the U.S.A., and, finally, to the Rockefeller Foundation s scheme for the
rescue of European scholars who might find themselves menaced by
the German occupation.) The problem was: how to get there? My
first idea was that I should pretend to be returning to Brazil in order
to continue my pre-war researches there. I went to the ground-floor
rooms in Vichy, where the Brazilian Embassy had set up its temporary
home, and asked to have my visa renewed. The interview was cruelly
brief. I was well known to the Ambassador, Luis de Souza-Dantas, and
he would, in any case, have behaved in the same way had I not known
him. He was just raising his hand to stamp my passport when one of
his staff reminded him, in tones of chilling respect, that under the new
regulations he could no longer renew visas. For several seconds his arm
remained poised, and there was a look almost of entreaty in his eyes
as he tried to make his junior turn aside for a moment. My passport
once stamped, I could at least have left France, even if I could not get
into Brazil. But he wouldn t; and at length the Ambassador had to let
fall his hand wide of my passport. No visa for me; he handed me back
my passport with a gesture of distress.

I went back to my house in the Cevennes not far from where, at
Montpellier in fact, I had been demobilized and began to hang about
Marseilles harbour. Eventually I heard a rumour that a ship wpuld soon
be sailing for Martinique, and, after a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing
from quayside to office and back again, I discovered that this ship

On Board Ship 25

belonged to that same Compagnie des Transports Maritimes which
had found such a faithful and exclusive clientele among the members
of our academic mission to Brazil. The winter bise was blowing
keenly when, in February 1941, 1 walked into the company s unheated
and three-quarters-closed offices. The official was one who had been
wont to come and greet us on the company s behalf. Yes, the ship did
exist; yes, it would shortly be leaving. But I couldn t possibly go on it.
Why not? Well, I didn t realize how things were; he couldn t explain,
but it wouldn t be at all what it used to be. How, then? Oh, it would
be endless, and so uncomfortable! He couldn t imagine my putting
up with it.

The poor man still saw me as a small-bore ambassador of French
culture, but I saw myself as marked down for a concentration camp.
Moreover, I had spent the previous two years, first in the virgin forests
of Brazil, and later in one improvised billet after another in the course
of a disorderly retreat that had taken me from the Maginot Line to
Beziers by way of the Sarthe, the Correze, and the Aveyron: cattle-
trains on the one hand and sheepfolds on the other: so that my inter
locutor s scruples seemed to me out of place. I saw myself going back
to my wandering life but on the oceans this time, sharing the labours
and die frugal repasts of a handful of seamen, sailing hither and yon on
a clandestine vessel, sleeping on deck, and gaining in health and
strength from the day-long nearness of the sea.

I did at last get a ticket for the Capitaine Paul Lemerle. When the
time came to embark the quayside was cordoned off. Helmeted
gardes-mobiles, with automatic pistols at the ready, severed all contact
between passengers and the relatives or friends who had come to see
them off. Good-byes were cut short by a blow or a curse. This was not
the solitary adventure I had had in mind; it was more like the departure
of a convict-ship. If I had been amazed by the way in which we were
treated, I was dumbfounded by our numbers. Somehow or other we
were to be three hundred and fifty on board a little steamer which
as I lost no time in discovering could boast only two cabins, with
in all seven couchettes. One of these cabins had been allotted to three
ladies, and the other was shared between four men, of whom I was
one. This favour I owed and may I thank him here and now to
M.B., who felt that it was out of the question for one of his former
first-class passengers to be quartered like a cow or a pig. And, indeed,
all the other passengers men, women, and children had to pile into
the dark and airless hold, where the ship s carpenters had made a

26 Destinations

rough scaffolding of beds, one on top of another, with pallets of straw
for bedding. Of the four fortunate males, one was an Austrian,
travelling in metals, who doubtless knew what he had paid for the
privilege; the second was a young beke , a rich Creole, who had been
cut off from his native Martinique by the war; he deserved special
treatment in that he was the only person on board who was not
presumed to be either a Jew, a foreigner, or an anarchist. The third was
a mysterious North African who claimed to be going to New York
for just a few days (in itself an extravagant notion, since we were to
be three months en route), had a Degas in his luggage, and, although
as Jewish as I myself, appeared to be persona grata with the police,
immigration, and security authorities of every colony and protectorate
that we touched upon: an astonishing and mysterious state of affairs, at
that juncture, and one which I never managed to fathom.

The scum, as the gendarmes described us, included among others
Andre Breton and Victor Serge. Breton, by no means at his ease in such
a situation, would amble up and down the rare empty spaces on deck,
looking like a blue bear in his velvety jacket. We were to become firm
friends in the course of an exchange of letters which we kept up
throughout our interminable journey; their subject was the relation
between aesthetic beauty and absolute originality.

As for Victor Serge, the fact that he had been an associate of Lenin
was all the more intimidating, because it was difficult to reconcile it
with his looks, which were those of a maiden lady of high principles.
The smooth and delicate features, piping voice, and stilted, hesitant
manner added up to the almost asexual character that I was later to
encounter among Buddhist monks on the frontiers of Burma; they
were remote, certainly, from the superabundant vitality and positive
temperament which French tradition accords to the so-called sub
versive 3 agent. The point is that certain cultural types occur in all
societies, because they result from straightforward antitheses; but their
social function may differ widely from society to society. In Russia
Serge s particular type had been able to make contact with reality in
the course of a revolutionary career; elsewhere it might have found a
very different oudet. The relations between any two societies would
no doubt become very much easier if it were possible to establish, by
the use of a sort of grille, a system of equivalences between the ways
in which each would employ analogous human types in quite different
social functions. Instead of confining ourselves, as we do now, to
confrontations within certain professional groups (doctors with doctors,

On Board Ship 27

teachers with teachers, industrialists with industrialists) we might come
to realize that there exist certain subtler correspondences between
individuals and the roles they play.

In addition to its human beings the ship was clearly carrying some
sort of secret cargo. We spent an unconscionable amount of time both
in the Mediterranean and on the west coast of Africa in putting into
port after port seeking refuge, it appeared, from inspection by the
Royal Navy. Holders of French passports were sometimes allowed to
go ashore; the others had to stay parked in the few inches available to
them. As we got steadily nearer to the tropics the heat made the hold
more and more unbearable, and turned the deck into a mixture of
dining-room, dormitory, nursery, wash-house, and solarium. But most
unpleasant of all were the circumstances of what is sometimes called
personal hygiene . The crew had erected on either side of the ship,
port for the men and starboard for the women, two pairs of wooden
cubicles. These had neither light nor air. The one had two or three
douches which could be used for a short while each day; they were
filled each morning. The other had in it a long wooden trench, roughly
lined with zinc, which gave directly on to the ocean; you can guess its
purpose. Not everyone likes promiscuity in such matters, and in any
case the ship s rolling made it an unsteady business to squat in company:
the only way round this problem was to get there betimes, with the
result that the more fastidious passengers began to vie with one
another, until in the end it was only at about three o clock in the
morning that one could hope for some degree of privacy. People
simply gave up going to bed. Two hours later the same situation arose
in respect of the douches: once again modesty played its role and, in
addition, the press soon grew so great that the water, insufficient from
the start, was as if vaporized by contact with so many moist bodies and
seemed no longer to get through to the skin. In both cases we all made
haste to get on and get out. The unventilated huts were made of planks
of green and resinous fir-wood; these planks, impregnated with filthy
water, urine, and sea air, would ferment in the sun and give off a warm,
sweet, and altogether nauseating smell, which, when mingled with
other smells, soon became intolerable, more especially if a swell was
running.

After a month at sea we suddenly glimpsed, in the middle of the
night, the lighthouse of Fort de France. And the hope which filled all
our hearts was not that of enjoying, at long last, an eatable meal, a bed
with real sheets, or a night s unbroken rest. No: these people who had

2 g Destinations

been used, on land, to what the English call the amenities of civiliza
tion had suffered more from the unavoidable filth of these conditions
aggravated as these were by great heat than ^ from hunger, or
fatigue, or sleeplessness, or promiscuity, or others contempt. There
were young and pretty women on board, and there had been the
beginnings of flirtations. It was not simply from coquetry that these
women wanted to make the most of themselves before all went their
separate ways: it was rather an obligation, a debt to be honoured, a
proof that they were not altogether unworthy of the attentions which
they considered and with what charming delicacy! to have been
theirs by token only. So that when the traditional cry of Land^land!
was replaced by a unanimous shout of A bath, at last! A bath! there
was something pathetic in it, as well as much that was comical. And
everyone set about searching for the last morsel of soap, the undirtied
towel, the clean blouse that had been held in reserve for this great
occasion.

Bathrooms are not all that common in Fort de France, and in our
dreams of hydrotherapy we took, it may be, an unduly optimistic view
of the effect of four centuries of colonization upon that island. We
very soon learnt, in any case, that our filthy and overloaded ship was a
floating Eden in comparison with the welcome that we were to
receive. Hardly had we dropped anchor in the roads when The Military
came aboard, in a state of cerebral derangement which would have
offered a rewarding field of study, had I not needed all my intellectual
capacities for the struggle to avoid disaster at their hands.

Most French people had lived through the phoney war in ways
which deserved that adjective: none more so, however, than the
officers who formed the garrison on Martinique. Their sole duty was
to guard the Bank of France s gold; but this had gradually foundered
in a waking nightmare for which over-indulgence in rum punch was
only partly responsible. No less fundamental to it, and perhaps even
more insidious, were the position of the island, its remoteness from the
homeland, and a rich local tradition of piracy. The one-eyed peg-legs
of legend, with their golden ear-rings, had been replaced by phantoms
born of inspection by the U.S. Navy and the secret activities of
the German submarine fleet. Gradually there had spread among the
garrison an obsessional fever amounting almost to madness; and this
had gained ground in spite of the fact that never had a shot been fired
in anger or an enemy been sighted in the light of day. As for the
islanders, their talk revealed similar preoccupations, although they put

On Board Ship 29

them in more prosaic terms: Island s done for, if you ask me no more
cod, they say, and so forth. Others held that Hitler was none other
than Jesus Christ returned to earth to punish the white race for having
neglected his teaching.

When the armistice was announced all ranks sided with Vichy
rather than with Free France. They hoped to remain at a safe distance
from events ; physically and morally their resistance was at its minimum,
and such fighting spirit as they had ever had had long been dissipated.
It was a comfort for them to replace the real enemy one so distant
that it had become for them a kind of abstraction by an imaginary
foe that had the advantage of being near at hand and readily visible.
They exchanged, that is to say, America for Germany. Two ships of
the U.S. Navy kept a constant watch outside the harbour; an ingenious
member of the French C.-in-C/s staff took luncheon on board one of
them every day, while his superior busied himself with teaching his
men to loathe and despise the Anglo-Saxons.

To these people we were well-assorted specimens of The Enemy,
on whom they could work off the aggression which they had been
accumulating for months. We could also be held responsible for a
defeat which seemed to them quite foreign to themselves, since they
had taken no part in the fighting, but of which, in another sense, they
felt themselves confusedly guilty. Had they not exemplified and carried
to its farthest point the nonchalance, the power of self-delusion, and
the lassitude to which France, or a part of France, had fallen a victim?
It was a little as if the Vichy authorities, in allowing us to take ship for
Martinique, had marked us out as a cargo of scapegoats on whom
these gentlemen could work off their spleen. They installed themselves
steel-helmeted, guns at the ready, wearing tropical shorts- in the
captain s cabin; and when we appeared before them, one by one, it
was not for the normal interview with the immigration authorities,
but rather for an exercise in invective in which our role was to sit silent
and listen. Those who were not French were treated as enemies of
France; those who were French, on the other hand, had their Frenchness
called grossly in question and were at the same time reproached for
their cowardly abandonment of the motherland . . . reproaches,
contradictory in themselves, which rang particularly oddly in the
mouths of men who, since the day war was declared, had to all intents
and purposes been living under the protection of the Monroe Doctrine.

So it was good-bye to our baths! The authorities decided to intern
the whole lot of us in a camp called the Lazaret on the other side of the

3O Destinations

bay. Only three of us were allowed to go ashore: the *b6ke , who had
been ruled out of court, the mysterious Tunisian, who had had only
to show certain of his papers, and myself. The captain of our ship had
been second officer on one of the ships I had sailed in before the war;
we had met, therefore, as old acquaintances, and he had induced the
naval authorities to make an exception in my case

3 The Antilles

WH

HEN the clocks struck two in the afternoon
Fort de France was a dead town. There was no sign of life in the
hovel-bordered main square , which was planted with palm-trees and
overrun with rampant weeds a patch of dead ground, one would
have thought, in which someone had left behind a statue of Josephine
Tascher de la Pagerie, later Beauharnais. No sooner had the Tunisian
and I checked into the deserted hotel than, still shaken by the events
of the morning, we hired a car and set off towards the Lazaret, with the
intention of comforting our companions and, more especially, two
young German women who had led us to believe, during the voyage
out, that they would be unfaithful to their husbands just as soon as
they could get properly cleaned up. From this point of view the
business of the Lazaret was yet another disappointment to us.

As the old Ford stumbled up and down the rough tracks in first
gear I had the pleasure of rediscovering many vegetable species which
had been familiar to me in Amazonia. Here they had new names,
however: caimite foifruta do condeza artichoke in shape, with the
taste of a pear corrosol forgraviola, papaye for mammao, sapotille for
mangabeira. Meanwhile I went over in my mind the morning s painful
scenes and tried to relate them to others of the same sort. For my
companions, who had for the most part been hurled into their present
adventure after a lifetime of tranquillity, the soldiers mixture of im
becility and spite appeared as a unique, exceptional, hardly credible
phenomenon: they and their jailers were in the grip, they thought, of
an international catastrophe such as had never before occurred. But I
had seen much of the world in the preceding years, and the incident
was of a kind with which I was not entirely unfamiliar. I knew that,
slowly and steadily, humanity was breeding such situations as a sick
body breeds pus. It was as if our race was no longer able to cope with

31

^ Destinations

32

its own numbers and with the problems greater every day that
resulted from this. Facility of communication exacerbated these
feelings alike on the material and the intellectual plane. And, in the
French territory in question, war and defeat had accelerated a universal
process, and facilitated the establishment of an infection that would
never again disappear completely from the face of the world. No
sooner would it have vanished in one place than it would appear in
another. Not for the first time, I was experiencing those manifestations
of stupidity, hatred, and credulity which all social groups secrete within
themselves when history comes too close to them.

Only a short while before, for instance, on my way home to
France -it was a few months before the outbreak of war I went for
a walk in the upper section of Bahia. As I went from one church to
another there are said to be three hundred and sixty-five in all, one
for each day of the year, and varying in their architectural and
decorative style as if to fit the day and the season and photographed
such architectural details as took my eye, I was pursued by a gang of
half-naked little nigger boys who kept begging me to Tira o retrato!
Tira o retrato! Take a picture of us! I found it touching that they should
beg for a photograph that they would never see, rather than for a coin
or two, and in the end I agreed to do as they asked. I hadn t gone
another hundred yards when two plain-clothes policemen tapped me
on the shoulder. They had kept me company since the outset of my
walk; and now, they informed me, I had been caught in an act hostile
to Brazil. My photograph, if put to use in Europe, would confirm the
legend that some Brazilians have black skins, and that children in Bahia
go barefoot. I was arrested not for long, happily, because the ship
was about to sail.

That ship brought me bad luck, undoubtedly. Something of the
same kind had happened to me a few days before when I was
embarking, this time, and the ship was still at the quayside in Santos
harbour. Hardly was I on board when I was arrested and confined to
my cabin by a senior officer of the Brazilian Navy in full-dress uniform
and two marines with fixed bayonets. That mystery took four or five
hours to unravel: the Franco-Brazilian expedition of which I had been
in charge for a year had been subject to the rule by which all finds
were to be shared between the two countries. The sharing was to be
done under the supervision of the National Museum in Rio de Janeiro,
and this museum had notified every port in Brazil that if I were to
attempt to leave the country with more bows, arrows, and feather

The Antilles 33

head-dresses than had been allotted to France I must be put under
immediate and close arrest. Subsequently the museum had changed
its mind and decided to make over Brazil s share of the finds to a
scientific institute in Sao Paulo; consequently our French share had to
be despatched from Santos, and not from Rio. Meanwhile the previous
instructions had been forgotten and not, therefore, countermanded;
with the result that, in the eyes of the port authorities, I had committed
a crime.

Luckily, however, there still slumbered within every Brazilian
official at that time a tradition of anarchy. Tags from Voltaire and
Anatole France kept this tradition alive and had somehow been
incorporated, even in the depths of the forest, as elements of Brazilian
culture. (Once when I was in the interior I was forcibly embraced by
an old man who, doubtless, had never seen a Frenchman before. Ah,
monsieur, a Frenchman! he cried, almost in delirium. Ah, France!
Anatole, Anatole! ) I d met enough Brazilians to know that I musl
first show all possible deference to the Brazilian State, as a whole, and
more especially to its maritime authorities. Next I tried to strike a note
of deep feeling: and not withput success, for after several hours spent
in a cold sweat I was leaving Brazil for good, our collections had
been packed away with my library and my furniture, and I was haunted
by visions of my possessions lying in pieces on the quayside as the ship
drew out to sea I was able to dictate to my interlocutor the exact
terms of his report. In this he took upon himself the glory of having
averted an international incident, and in consequence a humiliation for
Brazil, by allowing me to sail with my baggage intact.

Perhaps I should have been less audacious had it been still possible
for me to take the South American police system quite seriously. But
something had happened, two months previously, to make this out of
the question. I had had to change aeroplanes in a large village in Lower
Bolivia. When the connection failed to arrive, my companion, Dr J. A.
Vdlard, and myself were held up there for several days. Flying in 1938
was very different from what it is now. In the remoter South American
regions it had jumped several stages of progress and offered itself as a
sort of mechanical pick-a-back for villagers who, hitherto, for lack of
decent roads, had had to reckon on a four or five days journey, on foot
or horseback, to their nearest market-town. And now it had suddenly
become possible for them to get their hens and ducks to market in a
matter of a few minutes flying time though with, as often as not, a
delay in departure of a week or more. The little aeroplanes were

c

34 Destinations

crammed with barefooted peasants, farmyard animals, and cases too
cumbrous to be dragged through the forest; and in the midst of all
this was oneself, squat-legged on the floor.

We were killing time in the streets of Santa Cruz de la Sierra when
suddenly a police patrol, seeing strangers, put us under arrest. We were
conducted, pending interrogation, to a room in the former palace of
the Provincial Governor. An air of old-fashioned high comfort clung
to the panelled saloon, with its glass-fronted bookcases, its rows of
richly bound volumes, and the astonishing handwritten notice
framed and glazed, likewise which I here transcribe from the Spanish:
On pain of severe sanctions it is strictly forbidden to tear out pages
from the archives for personal or hygienic purposes. All persons
infringing this order will be punished.

I must own that if my situation in Martinique took a turn for the
better, it was thanks to the intervention of a high official of the Fonts et
Chaussees whose opinions, though concealed beneath an appearance of
frigid reserve, were very different from those current in official circles;
perhaps I also owed something to my frequent visits to the offices of a
religious review, where the Fathers of some Order or other had
accumulated box upon box of archaeological remains, dating back to
the Indian occupation. I spent my leisure hours in making an inventory
of these

One day I went into the Assize Courts, which were then in session.
It was my first, and only, visit to a trial. The accused was a peasant who
had bitten off a part of another peasant s ear in the course of a quarrel.
Accused, plaintiff, and witnesses expressed themselves in a flood of
Creole eloquence which seemed almost supernatural, in such a place,
by reason of its crystalline freshness. All this had to be translated to
the three judges, whose robes, scarlet in colour and trimmed with fur,
had wilted in the heat and hung about them like bloodstained bandages.
In five minutes exactly the irascible negro was condemned to eight
years imprisonment. Justice had been, and is still, associated in my
mind with the notions of doubt, and scruple, and respect. I was stupefied
to find that a human life could be disposed of so quickly and with such
nonchalance. I could hardly believe that it had really happened. Even
today no dream, however fantastic or grotesque, can leave me so
entirely incredulous.

My travelling companions owed their release, meanwhile, to a
difference of opinion between the maritime authorities and the
Chamber of Commerce. To the one, they were spies and traitors; the

The Antilles 35

other saw them as a source of income which could not be exploited
while they were locked up in the Lazaret. The shopkeepers got their
way, in the end, and for a fortnight one and all were free to get rid
of their last French francs. The police kept a dose watch on all this
and did their best to involve all the passengers, and more especially
the women, in a network of temptation, provocation, seduction, and
reprisal. The Dominican Consulate was besieged with requests for
visas, and every day brought new rumours of hypothetical ships which
were on thek way to take us all a stage farther. A new situation
developed when the villages of the interior grew jealous of the harbour-
town and intimated that they too had the right to a share in the refugees.
And, from one day to the next, the entire company was moved to the
interior and told to stay there. I was exempt from this, once again, but
in my anxiety to visit my lady-friends in thek new residence at the
foot of the Mont Pele I came to cover on foot an unfamiliar and
unforgettable part of the island. Thanks, in fact, to the machinations
of the police I came to experience a form of exoticism more classical
than that to be found on the mainland of South America: dark tree-
agate, surrounded by a halo of beaches where the black sand was
speckled with silver; valleys deep in a milk-white mist where a
continual drip-drip allowed one to hear, rather than see, the enormous,
soft, and feathery leafage of the tree-ferns as it foamed up from the
living fossils of the trunks.

Hitherto I had been luckier than my companions. I was pre
occupied, none the less, with a problem which, if not satisfactorily
solved, would have made it impossible for this book to be written. I
had left France with a trunkful of material brought back from my
expeditions: linguistic and technological files, travel-journals, field-
notes, maps, plans, photographic negatives, thousands of sheets of
paper, filing-cards, and rolls of film. It had already been very dangerous
for thepasseur to get this heavy load across the line of demarcation, and
it was clear to me from our welcome in Martinique that I must not
allow Customs, police, or naval security authorities to get at my
possessions. The vocabularies would certainly strike them as an
elaborate system of codes, and the maps, plans, and photographs they
would interpret as pieces of military information. I therefore declared
the trunk luggage in transit and it was sealed up and left at the
Customs. Later I managed to effect a compromise by which the trunk,
if put dkecdy aboard a foreign ship, need not be opened by the
Customs. And so it was that I set sail for Porto Rico on board a

3 6 Destinations

Swedish banana-boat. For four days on this dazzlingly white vessel
I found myself back in pre-war conditions; the voyage was uneventful
and there were only seven other passengers on board.

I did well to make the most of it. For when I disembarked at
Porto Rico two things became clear. One was that the U.S. immi
gration laws had changed during the two months that had elapsed since
I left Marseilles. The documents I had received from the New School
for Social Research no longer sufficed for admission. Second, and
above all, the American police, when faced with my load of anthro
pological material, had their full share of the suspicions which I had
feared to meet with in Martinique. In Fort de France I had been
treated as a Jew and a Freemason who was probably in the pay of the
Americans. Here, in Porto Rico, I was taken for an emissary of Vichy
if not, indeed, of the Germans. I telegraphed to the New School to
get me out of it, if they could, and the F.B.I. was asked to send a
French-speaking specialist to examine my papers. (I trembled to think
how long it would take to find a specialist who could decipher my
notes, since these mostly related to the almost entirely unknown
dialects of central Brazil.) Meanwhile I was interned, at the shipping
company s expense, in an austere hotel in the Spanish style, where I
was fed on boiled beef and chick-peas, while two filthy and ill-shaven
native policemen took it in turns, night and day, to guard my door.

So it was at Porto Rico that I made my first contact with the U.S.A.
For the first time I smelt the lukewarm varnish and the wintergreen
tea olfactory extremes between which is stretched the whole gamut
of American comfort from motor-car to lavatory, by way of radio-
set, pastry-shop, and toothpaste and I tried to find out what thoughts
lay behind the farded masks of the young ladies in the drug-stores, with
their mauve dresses and their chestnut hair. There too, in the rather
special environment of the Grandes Antilles, I had my first glimpse of
certain characteristics of American urban life. The flimsiness of the
buildings, their preoccupation with effect, and their desire to catch the
eye all were reminiscent of a Great Exhibition that had not been
pulled down; at Porto Rico one seemed to, have strayed into the
Spanish section.

Ambiguities of this kind often confront the traveller. The fact of
having passed my first weeks on American territory in Porto Rico
made me feel, later, that Spain itself was Americanized. Similarly, the
fact that my first glimpse of British University life was in the neo-
Gothic precincts of the University of Dacca in eastern Bengal has since

The Antilles 37

made me regard Oxford as a part of India that has got its mud, its
humidity, and its superabundant vegetation under surprisingly good
control.

The F.B.L inspector arrived three weeks after I came ashore at
San Juan. I ran to the Customs house and threw open my trunk. A
solemn moment! He was a well-mannered young man, but when he
took up a card at random his face clouded over and he spat out the
words: This is in German! It was, in effect, a note drawn from the
classic work of von den Steinen, my illustrious and distant forerunner
in the Mato Grosso: Unter den Naturvolkern Zentral-Braziliens, Berlin,
1894. The long-expected specialist was reassured to hear of this, and
before long he lost all interest in my concerns, and I found myself free
to enter the U.S.A.

But that s quite enough. Each one of these trifling adventures calls
forth another from my memory; and I could summon up others, more
recent, if I drew upon my travels in Ask during the post-war years.
My charming inquisitor from the F.B.I. might not be so easily satisfied
today. The atmosphere thickens, everywhere.

4 The Quest for Power

1 ALWAYS remember the first occasion on which I
had some indication of the disturbances which lay below the surface
of pre-war life. The incident was a ridiculous one; and yet, like a
doubtful smell or a sudden shift in the wind, it was a portent of worse
things to come.

I had refused to renew my contract with the University of Sao
Paulo, preferring to make an extended foray into the interior, and with
this in view I left France some weeks earlier than the rest of my
colleagues. For the first time in four years I was the only academic
figure on board and, likewise for the first time, there were a great
many passengers. Some were foreign business men, but most were
members of a military mission on its way to Paraguay. The familiar
shipboard scene was rendered unrecognizable by their presence;
nothing remained of its old tranquillity. Officers and wives alike seemed
to mistake the transatlantic voyage for a colonial expedition; and
although they were to act as instructors to what was, after all, an army
of no great pretensions, they behaved as if they were about to occupy a
conquered country. And they made ready for this morally, at any
rate by transforming the boat-deck into a barrack-square, with the
civilian passengers enlisted as temporary natives . So blatant and so
gross was the insolence involved that the other passengers did not know
whereto go^ to be free from it; even the ship s officers felt uneasy.
The mission s commanding officer was very different from his sub
ordinates, and he and his wife were discreet and considerate in their
behaviour; one day they sought me out in the quiet corner to which I
had made my escape and, while showing a kindly interest in my
activities, past and future, they gave me a clear hint that their role in
the whole affair was that of witnesses who deplored the goings-on but
could do nothing to prevent them. There was something mysterious

38

The Quest for Power 39

in it all; three or four years later I happened on the senior officer s name
in a newspaper and realized that his personal situation had, in efiect,
something of paradox about it.

It was then that I learnt, perhaps for the first time, how thoroughly
the notion of travel has become corrupted by the notion of power. No
longer can travel yield up its treasures intact: the islands of the South
Seas, for instance, have become stationary aircraft-carriers; the whole
of Asia has been taken sick; shanty-towns disfigure Africa; commercial
and military aircraft roar across the still virgin but no longer unspoilt
forests of South America and Melanesia. . . . Travel, in such circum
stances, can only bring us face to face with our historical existence in its
unhappiest aspects. The great civilization of the West has given birth
to many marvels; but at what a cost! As has happened in the case of
the most famous of their creations, that atomic pile in which have been
built structures of a complexity hitherto unknown, the order and
harmony of the West depend upon the elimination of that prodigious
quantity of maleficent by-products which now pollutes the earth.
What travel has now to show us is the filth, our filth, that we have
thrown in the face of humanity.

I understand how it is that people delight in travel-books and ask
only to be misled by them. Such books preserve the illusion of some
thing that no longer exists, but yet must be assumed to exist if we are
to escape from the appalling indictment that has been piling up against
us through twenty thousand years of history. There s nothing to be
done about it: civilization is no longer a fragile flower, to be carefully
preserved and reared with great difficulty here and there in sheltered
corners of a territory rich in natural resources: too rich, almost, for
there was an element of menace in their very vitality; yet they allowed
us to put fresh life and variety into our cultivations. All that is over:
humanity has taken to monoculture, once and for all, and is preparing
to produce civilization in bulk, as if it were sugar-beet. The same dish
will be served to us every day.

People used to risk their lives in India and America for the sake of
returns which now seem to us derisory: redwood (bois de braise, from
which comes the name of Brazil); red dye, or pepper, for which there
was such a craze at the court of Henri IV that people carried a grain or
two with them everywhere, in bonbonnieres; such things gave an extra
stimulus to sight and smell and taste, and extended, as it were, the
sensory keyboard of a civilization which had not recognized its own
insipidity. Are we to draw a parallel with the Marco Polos of our own

40 Destinations

day who bring back from those same territories in the form, this
time, of photographs the heightened sensations which grow ever
more indispensable to our society as it founders deeper and deeper in
its own boredom?

Another parallel seems to me more significant. The red peppers
of our own day are falsified, whether intentionally or not. This is not
because their character is purely psychological; but because, however
honest the traveller may be, he cannot, or can no longer, present them
to us in their authentic form. Before we consent to accept them they
must be sorted and sieved; and, by a process which in the case of
the more sincere travellers is merely unconscious, the stereotype is
substituted for the real. I open one of these traveller s tales : the author
describes a certain tribe as savage and lightly sketches in a caricature
of the habits which, according to him, have been preserved among
them since the beginnings of time; but it happens that, when I was a
student, I spent several years in the study of the books, some of them
fifty years old, some quite recent, which men of science devoted to
that same tribe before it was reduced, by contact with the whites and
the epidemics that resulted from this, to a handful of uprooted wretches.
Another group has been discovered and, in the space of forty-eight
hours, studied by a traveller, a mere boy, who glimpsed them while
they were being moved out of their territory. In his simplicity he
mistook their temporary camp for a permanent village. Nor was
anything said of the available means of approach to the area: the
missionary post which for twenty years has maintained unbroken
contact with the natives, and the little motor-boat line which runs
deep into the interior. To an experienced eye this latter is instantly
revealed by certain small details in the explorer s photographs; the
trimmer has left in some of the rusted cans which show where these
unknown people have set up their kitchen.

If we examine the vanity of these pretensions, the naive credulity
which not only welcomes them but calls them forth, and the talent
which goes into these pointless activities (pointful they may be how
ever, if they extend further the deterioration which, outwardly, they
do their best to conceal) ; if we examine all these, we shall find that they
appear to corresponds powerful psychological demands, alikein the per
formers andintheirpublic; andthestudy of certain primitive institutions
may help us to analyse the nature of these demands. Anthropology
must help us, in short, to understand the fashion which has attracted in
our direction so many auxiliaries who do us nothing but harm.

The Quest for Power 41

Among many North American tribes the social prestige of any
particular individual is determined by the nature of the ordeal to
which he has submitted himself in adolescence. Some have themselves
cast off alone, on a raft, without food; others seek the isolation of the
mountainside, where they are exposed to rain, and cold, and wild
beasts. For days, weeks, months even in some cases, they go without
cooked food; eating only raw stuffs, or fasting altogether for long
periods, they accentuate their bodily dilapidation by the use of emetics.
They do everything possible to break through to the world beyond:
prolonged immersion in ice-cold baths, the voluntary amputation of
one or more fingertips, and the tearing of the aponeuroses. (In this last
instance wooden pins are thrust beneath the muscles of the back; to
these pins are attached lengths of string, and on the end of each string
is a heavy weight which the victim must haul along as best he can.)
Not all go quite so far; but at the very least they must exhaust them
selves in some pointless activity, plucking the hairs one by one from
their bodies, or picking away at fir-branches until not a spine remains,
or hollowing out a huge block of stone.

Lassitude, weakness, and delirium result; and they hope, while in
this state, to enter into communication with the supernatural world.
Their prayers, and the intensity of their sufferings, will be rewarded; a
magic animal will present itself to them, and in a vision there will be
revealed to them both the spirit who will henceforth be their guardian
and the particular power, derived from that spirit, which will define
their rank, and the number of their privileges, within their social group.

Could one say of these natives that Society has nothing to offer
them? It is as if their customs and institutions seemed to them to
function mechanically: luck, chance, and talent are of no avail, and the
man who wishes to wrest something from Destiny must venture into
that perilous margin-country where the norms of Society count for
nothing and the demands and guarantees of the group are no longer
valid. He must travel to where the police have no sway, to die limits
of physical resistance and the far point of physical and moral suffering.
Once in this unpredictable borderland a man may vanish, never to
return; or he may acquire for himself, from among the immense
repertory of unexploited forces which surrounds any well-regulated
society, some personal provision of power; and when this happens an
otherwise inflexible social order may be cancelled in favour of the man
who has risked everything.

This would be, none the less, a superficial interpretation. The

,- Destinations

42

question among these North American tribes is not one of the anti
thesis between individual convictions and the doctrines of Society. The
dialectic springs directly from the customs and the philosophy of the
group. From the group the individual learns his lesson; the belief in
guardian spirits is the creation of the group, and Society as a whole
teaches its members that their only hope of salvation, within the
established social order, lies in an absurd, and despairing attempt to get
free of that order.

Quite clearly the relationship between the French public of today
and its favourite explorers is a naive variant of this ancient convention.
Our adolescents, like those of the North American Indians, are en
couraged to get clear, by one means or another, of civilization. Some
climb mountains; some go far below ground; others escape horizon
tally and penetrate some distant land. Or it may be that the sought-
after extremity lies in the moral sphere; some choose to be put in
situations so difficult that, as far as we can now tell, they cannot
possibly survive them.

Society is completely indifferent to the rational consequences, if one
may so describe them, of these adventures. Scientific discovery plays
no part in them. Nor can they be considered to enrich the literature of
the imagination ; for very often they are abominably written. It s the
attempt that counts, and not its object. Once again the parallel is very
close: any young man who isolates himself for a few weeks or months
from the group and exposes himself to an extreme situation of any sort
may count on being invested, on his return, with a kind of magic
power. (Some of our contemporaries are men of sincere conviction,
some are sly and calculating; these same distinctions occur in primitive
societies also.) In our world the power comes out in newspaper articles,
best-selling books, and lectures with not an empty seat in the hall. Its
magic character is evident in the process of auto-mystification of the
group and by the group which is, in every case, the basis of the
phenomenon. Lofty and lucrative are the revelations which these
young men draw from those enemies of Society savages, snowbound
peaks, bottomless caves, and impenetrable forests which Society
conspires to ennoble at the very moment at which it has robbed them
of their power to harm. Noble they are today, but when they were
really the adversaries of Society they inspired only terror and disgust.
Today the savages of the Amazonian forests are caught, like game-
birds, in the trap of our mechanistic civilization. I can accept as
inevitable the destruction of these vulnerable and powerless beings;

The Quest for Power 43

what I will not be deceived by, on the other hand, is the black magic ,
more paltry even than their own, which brandishes before an eager
public an album in full colour . Now that the Indians masks have
been destroyed, these albums have taken their place. Perhaps our
readers hope, by the intermediacy of these colour-plates, to take on
something of the Indian s charms? To have destroyed the Indians is not
enough the public may, indeed, not realize that the destruction has
taken place and what the reader wants is tb satisfy, in some sort, the
cannibal-instincts of the historical process to which the Indians have
already succumbed.

Myself the already-grey predecessor of these explorers , I may well
be the only white traveller to have brought back nothing but ashes
from my journeys. Perhaps my voice alone will be heard to say tihaC
travel no longer offers an escape? Like the Indian in the legend, I have
been to the world s end and there asked questions of people, and of
things; and like him I was disappointed with what I heard* An4 he
stood there, in tears; praying and groaning aloud. And he heard no
mysterious sounds; nor did he fall asleep, to be carried away while
sleeping to the temple of the magic animals. He could doubt no longer;
no power, from any source, had been given to him. . . .

Missionaries used to speak of dreams as the savage s god , but
through my hands, at any rate, they have always slipped like mercury.
Where did I sense some small part, some glittering particle of their
power? At Cuiaba, where the earth once yielded gold by the nugget?
At Ubatuba, the now-deserted port where two centuries ago the great
galleons put in to load? Flying over the Arabian desert, pink-and-
green-streaked like the mother-of-pearly ear-shell? In America or in
Asia? On the Newfoundland banks, the plateaux of Bolivia, or the
hills on the frontiers of Burma? I choose at random a name still charged
with the authority of legend: Lahore.

A landing-ground, vaguely in the suburbs; interminable avenues,
tree-lined, villa-bordered; and then, in an enclosure, an hotel remini
scent of a Normandy stud-farm, where a number of identical buildings,
with doors opening directly on to the road, were laid out like so many
diminutive stables. Each door opened on to a uniform apartment:
sitting-room, bedroom, bathroom. Haifa mile or more away, along
the avenue, was a little square, such as one finds in a French market-
town, and at considerable intervals along the avenues that stretched out,
star-w&e, from that square there were three or four shops : chemist, photo
grapher, bookseller, watchmaker. A captive in these unmeaningful

. . Destinations

44

expanses, I felt my objective slipping beyond reach. Where could
it be, the old, the authentic Lahore? To get to it, at the far end
of the badly kid-out and already , decrepit suburbia, one had to
cross a lengthy bazaar-area, in which were to be found cosmetics,
medicines, imported plastic materials, and shoddy jewellery made,
this kst, by the operation of a mechanical saw on gold the thickness of
white lead. As I sought for the real Lahore at the end of those shaded
alleys I had constantly to flatten myself against the wall: flocks of sheep
were passing sheep with pink and blue lights in their wool or
buffaloes, each as big as three cows, or, most often, lorries. Perhaps the
secret ky with the wooden buildings that were falling to pieces from
sheer old age? I could have appreciated the lacy, finely chiselled working
of the wood had I not been kept at a distance by the metallic spider s
web of primitive electric wiring that crossed and criss-crossed from one
wall to the next. From time to time, too, and for the space of two or
three paces, an image or an echo would rise up from the recesses of
time: in the little street of the beaters of silver and gold, for instance,
there was a clear, unhurried tinkling, as if a djinn with a thousand arms
was absent-mindedly practising on a xylophone. No sooner was I out
of this labyrinth than I came to the area where huge avenues have been
sketched out among the ruins (due, these, to the riots of the recent
years) of houses five hundred years old. So often, however, have these
houses been destroyed and patched together again, so absolute is their
decrepitude, that the notion of period has no meaning in their context.
And that is how I see myself: traveller, archaeologist of space, trying
in vain to repiece together the idea of the exotic with the help of a
particle here and a fragment of debris there.

At this point Illusion begins to set its insidious traps. I should have
liked to live in the age of real travel, when the spectacle on offer had
not yet been blemished, contaminated, and confounded; then I could
have seen Lahore not as I saw it, but as it appeared to Bernier,

Tavernier, Manucci There s no end, of course, to such conjectures.

When was the right moment to see India? At what period would the
study of the Brazilian savage have yielded the purest satisfaction and
the savage himself been at his peak? Would it have been better to have
arrived at Rio in the eighteenth century, with Bougainville, or in
the sixteenth, with Lery and Thevet? With every decade that we
travelled further back in time, I could have saved another costume,
witnessed another festivity, and come to understand another system of
belief. But I m too familiar with the texts not to know that this back-

The Quest for Power 45

ward movement would also deprive me of much information, many
curious facts and objects, that would enrich my meditations. The
paradox is irresoluble: the less one culture communicates with another,
the less likely they are to be corrupted, one by the other; but, on the
other hand, the less likely it is, in such conditions, that the respective
emissaries of these cultures will be able to seize the richness and
significance of their diversity. The alternative is inescapable: either I
am a traveller in ancient times, and faced with a prodigious spectacle
which would be almost entirely unintelligible to me and might, indeed,
provoke me to mockery or disgust; or I am a traveller of our own day,
hastening in search of a vanished reality. In either case I am the loser
-and more heavily than one might suppose; for today, as I go groaning
among the shadows, I miss, inevitably, the spectacle that is now taking
shape. My eyes, or perhaps my degree of humanity, do not equip me
to witness that spectacle; and in the centuries to come, when another
traveller revisits this same place, he too may groan aloud at the
disappearance of much that I should have set down, but cannot. I am
the victim of a double infirmity: what I see is an affliction to me; and
what I do not see, a reproach.

For a long time I was paralysed by this dilemma, but now it seems
to me that the cloudy liquid is beginning to clear. To what is this due,
if not to the passage of time? Forgetfulness has done its work among
my recollections, but it has not merely worn them thin, not merely
buried them. It has made of these fragments a construction in depth that
offers firmer ground beneath the feet and a clearer outline for the eye.
One order has been substituted for another. Two cliffs mark the distance
between my eye and its object; in the middle ground Time, which
eats away at those cliffs, has begun to heap up the debris. The high
ridges begin to fall away, piece by considerable piece; Time and Place
come into opposition, blend oddly with one another, or become
reversed, like sediment shaken clear by the trembling of a withered skin.
Sometimes an ancient and infinitesimal detail will come away like a
whole headland; and sometimes a complete layer of my past will
vanish without trace. Unrelated events, rooted in the most disparate
of regions and periods, suddenly come into contact with one another
and take shape as a crusader castle which owes its architecture not to
my private history but to some altogether wiser designer. As Chateau
briand wrote in his Voyage en Italic: Every man carries within himself
a world made up of all that he has seen and loved; and it is to this
world that he returns incessantly, though he may pass through, and

46 Destinations

seem to inhabit, a world quite foreign to it/ Henceforth I can pass
from one of these worlds to the other. Between life and myself, Time
has laid its isthmus; and it is a longer one than I had expected. Twenty-
years forgetfulness has enabled me to elucidate an old experience: one
that I had pursued to the ends of the earth without managing either to
decipher its meaning or to remain on intimate terms with it.

PART II

From a Log-book

5 A Backward Glance

IVlY CAREER was initiated one Sunday morning
in the autumn of 1934. At nine o clock the telephone rang. It was
Celestin Bougie, who was then the Director of the cole Normale
Superieure. For several years he had taken a kindly interest in my
affairs; and if that interest had hitherto been rather distant, and that
kindness entirely inactive, it was first because I was not a Normalien,
and above all because, even if I had been one of his former students, I
should not have been a member of the group whom Bougie held in
exclusive esteem. No doubt he had turned to me as a last resort. D you
still want to do ethnography? he asked without preamble. Why, of
course! Then apply at once for the post of Professor of Sociology at
Sao Paulo University. The outskirts are full of Indians and you can
spend your week-ends studying them. But you must give Georges
Dumas a definite answer before twelve this morning.

Neither Brazil nor South America meant much to me at that time.
But I can still see, in every detail, the images which formed in my mind
in response to this unexpected suggestion. Tropical countries, as it
seemed to me, must be the exact opposite of our own, and the name
of Antipodes had for me a sense at once richer and more ingenuous
than its literal derivation. I should have been astonished to hear it said
that any species, whether animal or vegetable, could have the same
appearance on both sides of the globe. Every animal, every tree, every
blade of grass, must be completely different and give immediate notice,
as it were, of its tropical character. I imagined Brazil as a tangled mass
of palm-leaves, with glimpses of strange architecture in the middle
distance, and an all-permeating smell of burning perfume. This latter
olfactory detail I owe, I think, to an unconscious awareness of the
assonance between the words BrfoT (Brazil) and grtsftkr (sizzle), No
D 49

5O From a Log-book

amount of later experience, in any case, can prevent me from still
thinking of Brazil in terms of burning scent.

Now that I look back on them, these images no longer seem to me
so arbitrary. I have learnt that the truth of any given situation does
not yield so much to day-to-day observation as to that patient and
fractionated distillation which the equivocal notion of burning scent
was perhaps already inviting me to put into practice. The scent brought
with it, it may be, a symbolic lesson which I was not yet able to
formulate clearly. Exploration is not so much a matter of covering the
ground as of digging beneath the surface: chance fragments of land
scape, momentary snatches of life, reflections caught on the wing-
such are the things that alone make it possible for us to understand and
interpret horizons which would otherwise have nothing to offer us.

Quite other problems, meanwhile, resided in the wild promise
which Bougie had made me. How could he have come to suppose that
Sao Paulo, or its outskirts, comprised a native settlement? Doubtless he
was confusing it with Mexico City or Tegucigalpa. The philosopher
who had written a book on the caste regime in India without wonder
ing for one moment if it would not be better to go there and see for
himself (What was the lofty phrase he had used in his preface of 1927?
That in the flux of events it is institutions that float free ) was not the
man to suppose that the condition of the Brazilian native could yield
serious ethnographical results. Nor was he the only one of the official
sociologists to profess this indifference: others of the breed are still
with us.

Be that as it may, I was too innocent not to welcome an illusion
that so happily seconded my intentions. Georges Dumas, as it happened,
was equally ill-informed: he had known southern Brazil at a time when
the extermination of the native population was not yet concluded; and,
moreover, he had enjoyed the society, unenlightening in that respect,
of dictators, feudal lords, and Maecenases.

I was therefore very much surprised to hear, at a luncheon-party
to which Victor Margueritte had taken me, the official point of view in
such matters. The speaker was the Brazilian Ambassador in Paris:
Indians? he said. Alas, my dear sir, the Indians have all been dead and
gone for many a year. It s a sad page yes, and a shameful one in the
history of my country. But the Portuguese colonists in the sixteenth
century were a brutal, money-grubbing lot. Who are we to reproach
them if they behaved as everyone else behaved at that time? They used
to grab hold of the Indians, tie them to the cannons mouth, and blow

A Backward Glance 51

them to pieces. That s how they went, every man Jack of them.
There ll be plenty to interest you, as a sociologist, in Brazil but as
for the Indians, you d better forget about them, because you ll never
find a single one. . . .

Today it seems to me incredible that even a graofino, and even in
1934, should have talked in this way. But at that time things are
different now, I m glad to say the Brazilian upper classes could not
bear to hear the natives mentioned. The primitive conditions which
existed in the interior of Brazil were likewise taboo, unless it were a
question of admitting or even suggesting that an Indian great-
grandmother might have been responsible for a certain barely per
ceptible exoticism of feature. There was never any mention of those
drops, or rather those pints, of black blood on which their ancestors of
the Imperial era had prided themselves, but which they now preferred
to forget. And yet it was undeniable, for instance, that Luis de Souza-
Dantas was of predominantly Indian descent; he could, indeed, have
afforded to boast of it. But he was an export Brazilian , and France
had been his adopted country ever since his adolescence. He had lost
all contact with the real Brazil, preferring to substitute for it a lay-figure
of officialdom and high breeding. Certain things he could hardly have
forgotten: but no doubt he found it more convenient to blow upon
the memory of the Brazilians of the sixteenth century than to tell his
hearers of the way in which the men of his parents* generation and
even, in some cases, those of his own had amused themselves. Their
favourite pastime had been to call at the hospital for the clothes left
behind by those who had died of small-pox: these they would then
strew, together with other presents, along the lanes still used by the
natives. This brought about the following brilliant result: that whereas
in 1918 two-thirds of the State of Sao Paulo (as big as France, by the
way) was marked on the map as unexplored territory, inhabited only
by Indians , not one single native Indian was left at the time of my
arrival in 1935 with the exception of a few isolated families on the
coast, who sold so-called curiosities every Sunday on the beaches of
Santos. So that there were no Indians in the outskirts of Sao Paulo; but
luckily they were still to be found some two thousand miles away, in
the interior.

I cannot pass over this period without kindly mention of a quite
different world. It was Victor Margueritte the same who introduced
me to the Brazilian Ambassador who made it possible for me to
glimpse it. I had been his secretary for a short while during my last

52 From a Log-book

years as a student, and lie remained kindly disposed towards me. My
task had "been to help to launch one of his books La Patrie Humaine
by taking round to some five score Parisian personalities a copy which
the Master (for so he liked to be called) had himself inscribed for them.
Thad also to draft reviews and paragraphs of inside gossip which might
lighten the critics work and generally set them on the right road. If
I still remember Victor Margueritte, it is not only because he always
treated me so well, but because (as is the case with all that makes a
lasting impression upon me) of the contradiction which existed
between himself and his work. Margueritte himself was as memorable
as his work was over-simplified and, for all its warmth of nature,
disagreeable of access. His features had the grace of a Gothic angel, and
something of that angel s femininity, and there was something so
iioble and so natural about his manner that even his failings, of which
vanity was not the least, did not shock or irritate but seemed rather as
auxiliary evidence of some privilege either of blood or of intellect.

He lived over towards the iyth arrondissement in a large old-
fashioned middle-class apartment. He was nearly blind, and his wife
took all possible care of him. As a young woman she had probably
been admired for a certain piquancy of looks and manner; but with age,
which renders impossible the confusion of moral with merely physical
characteristics, this piquancy had been broken down into ugliness, on
the one hand, and over-animation on the other.

He entertained hardly at all not only because he supposed himself
to be largely unknown among the younger generation but, above all,
because he had set himself upon a pedestal so lofty that it was becoming
difficult for him to find people good enough for himself to talk to.
Wittingly or not (that I could never judge) he had banded together
with a few others to found an international brotherhood of supermen,
five or six in number: himself, Keyserling, Ladislas Reymond, Romaiii
Rolland, and I believe, for a time Einstein. The basis of the system
was that whenever any member of the group published a book the
others, though scattered all over the world, would hurry to salute it
as one of the highest manifestations of human genius.

But what was really touching about Victor Margueritte was the
simplicity with which he wished to sum up, in his own person, the
whole history of French literature. This was all the easier for him in that
he came of literary stock: his mother was a first cousin of Mallarm6:
anecdote and reminiscence could always be called in to support his
affectations. Zola, the Goncourts, Balzac, and Hugo were talked of

A Backward Glance 53

at the Marguerittes as if they were uncles and grandparents whose
appointed trustee he was. They say I ve no style! he would cry. But
when did Balzac have style, after all? And you would have thought
yourself in the presence of one who, himself descended from ruling
monarchs, would explain away his outbursts by allusion to the
imperious temperament of some royal forbear. A legendary tempera
ment, this, which the common run of mortals would speak of, not
as a characteristic that they might share, but as the accepted explanation
of some great upheaval in contemporary history. It was with a shiver,
but a shiver of pleasure, that they would see it reborn in Monsieur
Margueritte. Other writers have had more talent; but few, I think, have
forged for themselves so graceful, and above all so aristocratic, a
conception of their profession.

6 How I became an Anthropologist

1 WAS reading for a philosophy degree not because
I had any true vocation for philosophy, but because I had sampled
other branches of learning and detested them, one and all. I had begun
my philosophy classes with a vague liking for a form of rationalistic
monism. This I meant to justify and reinforce, and to this end I pulled
every string to get put up to the teacher who was reputedly the most
advanced in his views. Gustave Rodrigues was, as a matter of fact, an
active member of the S.F.I.O.; but as far as philosophy was concerned
his mixture of Bergsonism and neo-Kantianism was a sad disappoint
ment to me. Arid and dogmatic as he was, he advanced his views with
great fervour from the first lecture to the last, gesticulating the while
like a man possessed. Never have I seen such skimpy intellectual
processes put forward with such ingenuous conviction. He killed
himself in 1940 when the Germans entered Paris.

It was then that I began to learn how any problem, whether grave
or trivial, can be resolved. The method never varies. First you establish
the traditional two views of the question. You then put forward a
commonsense justification of the one, only to refute it by the other.
Finally you send them both packing by the use of a third interpretation,
in which both the others are shown to be equally unsatisfactory.
Certain verbal manoeuvres enable you, that is, to line up the traditional
antitheses as complementary aspects of a single reality: form and
substance, content and container, appearance and reality, essence and
existence, continuity and discontinuity, and so on. Before long the
exercise becomes the merest verbalizing, reflection gives place to a kind
of superior punning, and the accomplished philosopher may be
recognized by the ingenuity with which he makes ever-bolder play
with assonance, ambiguity, and the use of those words which sound
alike and yet bear quite different meanings.

54

How I became an Anthropologist 55

Five years at the Sorbonne taught me little but this form of mental
gymnastics. Its dangers are, of course, self-evident: the mechanism is
so simple, for one thing, that there is no such thing as a problem which
cannot be tackled. When we were working for our examinations and,
above all, for that supreme ordeal, the legon (in which the candidate
draws a subject by lot, and is given only six hours in which to prepare
a comprehensive survey of it), we used to set one another the bizarrest
imaginable themes, I brought myself to the point at which, given ten
minutes preparation, I could lecture for an hour on the respective
merits of the tramway and the omnibus and miss not one of the
arguments for either side. The method, universal in its application,
encouraged the student to overlook the many possible forms and
variants of thought, devoting himself to one particular unchanging
instrument. Certain elementary adjustments were all that he needed: it
was as if music could be reduced to one single tune, as soon as he
realized that it was played sometimes in G Major and sometimes in F.
From this point of view philosophy, as taught at the Sorbonne,
exercised the intelligence but left the spirit high and dry.

It seems to me even more dangerous to confuse the advance of
knowledge with the growing complexity of intellectual organization.
We were invited to bring into being a dynamic synthesis in which we
would start from the least adequate of philosophical systems and
end by appraising the subtlest among them. But at the same time (and
because all our teachers were obsessed with the notion of historical
development) we had to explain how the latter had gradually grown
out of the former. Philosophy was not andlla sdentiarum, the handmaid
and auxiliary of scientific exploration: it was a kind of aesthetic
contemplation of consciousness by consciousness. We watched self-
consciousness in its progress through the ages elaborating construc
tions ever lighter and more audacious, resolving problems of balance
and implication, inventing refinements of logic; and the more absolute
the technical perfection, the more complete the internal coherence, the
greater was the system in question. It was as if the student of art-
history had been taught that Gothic was necessarily better than
Romanesque, and flamboyant Gothic better than primitive Gothic,
without stopping to wonder what was beautiful and what was not.
The signification was what mattered, not the thing signified: nobody
connected the one with the other. Know-how had taken the place of
the passion for truth. After spending several years on exercises of this
sort I found myself still falling back, when alone, on unsophisticated

56 From a Log-book

convictions which I had held, more or less, since I was a boy of
fourteen. I was better able, perhaps, to see where they fell short of my
needs; but at least they were instruments adapted to my purpose, and
I was in no danger either of being deluded by their internal compli
cation or of forgetting, in the excitement of watching the marvellous
machinery go round, that it was meant to serve practical ends.

I also had my own personal reasons for turning away in disgust
from professional philosophy and looking to anthropology for my
salvation. My first year as a teacher at the Lycee de Mont-de-Marsan
had been a happy one, for I had been able to work out the syllabus of
my courses as I went along. At the beginning of the next year I went to
Laon, where I had been transferred, and was horrified to find that for
the rest of my life I should have to go on giving the same lectures. Now,
my mind has the particularity and it may well be an infirmity that I
find it difficult to concentrate twice on the same subject. Most people
consider their University finals as an inhuman ordeal by which, whether
they like it or not, they earn the right to relax for the rest of their lives.
For me it was just the opposite. Though the youngest in my year, I had
got through at my first attempt, steeplechasing at my ease through
doctrines, theories, and hypotheses. My ordeal began later: it proved
physically impossible for me to address my students if I were not
delivering an entirely new series of lectures. This incapacity proved an
even greater embarrassment when I had to appear in the role of exam
iner; I would take questions at random from the examination-schedule
and find that I no longer knew even what answers the candidates
should have given. Even the fatuous among them seemed to me to say
all that there was to be said. It was as if the subjects dissolved before me
from the mere fact of my once having applied my mind to them.

Today I sometimes wonder if I was not attracted to anthropology,
however unwittingly, by a structural affinity between the civilizations
which are its subject and my own thought-processes. My intelligence
is neolithic: I have not the gift of regular sowing and reaping, year by
year, in one particular field. Like a brush-fire, my mind burns its way
into territory which may sometimes prove unexplored; sometimes
these excursions prove fertile, and I snatch at a harvest or two, leaving
devastation behind me. But, at the time of which I am writing, I knew
nothing of these deep-lying motives. I knew nothing of ethnology, and
had never studied it systematically; when Sir James Frazer paid his last
visit to the Sorbonne and gave a memorable lecture there in 1928, I
think it never entered my head to go and hear him.

How I became an Anthropologist 57

I had, as matter of feet, been making a collection of exotica since
my early childhood. But I did this purely as an antiquarian, and an
antiquarian in search of a field he could afford. When I reached
adolescence I was so far from having shown any one particular bent
that the first person who tried to plumb the matter my philosophy
teacher at school: Andre Cresson was his name considered that I was
temperamentally best suited to the study of law. I have always been
very grateful for the half-truth which underlay his mistake.

I therefore gave up the idea of the cole Normale, and put my name
down for law school. I went on reading for a philosophy degree, none
the less, because it looked so easy. A curious fatality hangs over the
teaching of law. Sandwiched between theology, with which it had
certain intellectual affinities at that time, and journalism, towards which
recent reforms have sent it swerving, it seems unable to find firm and
objective ground on which to take its stand. The firmer it is, the less
objective: and vice versa. Himself a subject for serious study, the jurist
is, to me, like an animal trying to explain to a zoologist the work
ings of a magic lantern. At that time, as luck would have it, law
examinations could be got up in a fortnight, if one learnt certain aides-
memoire by heart. And if law study was sterile, the law student was
himself a repulsive creature. Whether the distinction is still valid, I
can t say, but in 1928 or thereabouts first-year students could be
divided into two species two races, I might almost say law and
medicine on the one hand, letters and natural sciences on the other.

Little as I care for the terms extrovert 5 and introvert , they are
doubtless the best way of defining the antithesis. On the one hand,
youth (in the sense in which traditional folklore employs the word
to designate a certain age-class): noisy, aggressive, out to make itself
felt by no matter what vulgar means, politically (at that time) drawn
to the extreme right; and, on the other side, adolescents already
middle-aged, solitary, untalkative, in general Left-minded, and hard
at work making their way among the grown-ups whom they were
schooling themselves to resemble.

This difference is quite easily explained. The apprentice doctors and
lawyers had a profession ahead of them. Their behaviour reflected their
delight in having left school behind and assumed a sure place in the
social system. Midway between the undifferentiated mass of the lycee
and the specialized activity which lay before them, they felt themselves
in, as it were, the margin of life and claimed the contradictory
privileges of the schoolboy and of the professional man alike.

58 From a Log-book

Where letters and the sciences are concerned, on the other hand, the
usual outlets teaching, research-work, and a variety of ill-defined
careers are of quite a different character. The student who chooses
them does not say good-bye to the world of childhood: on the contrary
he hopes to remain behind in it. Teaching is, after all, the only way
in which grown-ups can stay on at school. Those who read letters or
the sciences are characterized by resistance to the demands of the
group. Like members, almost, of some monastic order they tend to
turn more and more in upon themselves, absorbed in the study,
preservation, and transmission of a patrimony independent of their own
time: as for the future savant, his task will last as long as the universe
itself. So that nothing is more false than to persuade them that they are
committed; even if they believe that they are committing themselves
the commitment does not consist in accepting a given role, identifying
themselves with one of its functions, and accepting its ups and downs
and the risks in which it may involve them. They still judge it from
outside, and as if they were not themselves part of it. Their commit
ment is, in fact, a particular way of remaining uncommitted. Teaching
and research have nothing in common, as they see it, with apprentice
ship to a profession. Their splendours reside, as do also their miseries,
in their being a refuge, on the one hand, or a mission, on the other.

An antinomy, therefore, in which we have a profession on the one
hand, and on the other an ambiguous enterprise, oscillating between a
mission and a refuge, bearing within itself elements of both and yet
always recognizably one rather than the other. Anthropology has in all
this an especially favoured place. It represents the second alternative in
its most extreme form. The ethnographer, while in no wise abdicating
his own humanity, strives to know and estimate his fellow-men from a
lofty and distant point of vantage: only thus can he abstract them from
the contingencies particular to this or that civilization. The conditions
of his life and work cut him off from his own group for long periods
together; and he himself acquires a kind of chronic uprootedness from
the sheer brutality of the environmental changes to which he is exposed.
Never can he feel himself at home anywhere: he will always be,
psychologically speaking, an amputated man. Anthropology is, with
music and mathematics, one of the few true vocations; and the
anthropologist may become aware of it within himself before ever he
has been taught it.

Personal particularities and one s attitude to Society may be
decisive, therefore, but motives of a purely intellectual character must

How I became an Anthropologist 59

also be considered. The period of 1920-30 was marked in France by
widespread diffusion of the theories of psycho-analysis. These taught
me that the static antinomies around which we were encouraged
to build our philosophical essays (and, eventually, our examination
answers) rational and irrational, intellectual and affective, logical and
pre-logical -were no more than meaningless games. In the first place
there existed beyond the rational a category at once more important
and more valid: that of the meaningful. The meaningful is the highest
form of the rational, but our masters (more concerned, no doubt, with
the perusal of the Essai sur les donnees immediates de la conscience than with
F. de Saussure s Cours de linguistique generale) never so much as men
tioned its name. Freud s works then made it clear to me that our
antitheses were not real antitheses, since those actions which seem most
purely affective, those results which seem least logical, and those
demonstrations which we call pre-logical, are in point of fact precisely
those which are meaningful in the highest degree. Acts of faith and
Bergsonian question-begging were used to reduce people and things to
pap-form the better, of course, to body forth their ineffable essence;
but I became convinced that, on the contrary, people and things could
be apprehended in essence without losing that sharpness of outline
which serves to distinguish one from the other and gives to each a
decipherable structure. Knowledge was not founded upon sacrifice or
barter: it consisted in the choice of those aspects of a subject which were
true which coincided, that is to say, with the properties of my own
thought. Not at all, as the neo-Kantians claim, because my thought
inevitably exerted a certain constraint on the object under study: but
rather because my thought was itself such an object. Being c of this
world , it partook of the same nature as that world.

Much of these intellectual processes I shared with other men of my
generation, but they bore, in my case, a particular colour by virtue of
the intense curiosity which had drawn me, ever since childhood, to the
study of geology. One of the memories dearest to me is not so much
that of my excursions into the unknown centre of Brazil as that of the
search, on a limestone plateau in Languedoc, for the line of contact
between two geological strata. It s a very different thing from just
taking a walk, or even from the straightforward exploration of a given
area: what seems mere incoherent groping to an uninformed observer
is to me the very image of knowledge-in-action, with the difficulties
that it may encounter and the satisfactions it may hope to enjoy.

Every landscape offers, at first glance, an immense disorder which

60 From a Log-book

may be sorted out howsoever we please. We may sketch out the history
of its cultivation, plot the accidents of geography which have befallen
it, and ponder the ups and downs of history and prehistory: but the
most august of investigations is surely that which reveals what came
before, dictated, and in large measure explains all the others. From that
pale broken line, that often imperceptible difference in the form and
consistency of the jumbled rocks, I can detect that, where there is now
nothing but an arid waste, one ocean once followed another. The
investigator who establishes, trace by trace, the evidence of their
millenary stagnation may not seem to make much sense as, indifferent
alike to footpath and barrier, he negotiates the obstacles- landslips,
cliff-faces, stretches of bush, farmland that stand in his way. But his
contrariness springs from a determination to find the master-key to the
landscape; baffling this may well be, but in comparison with it all others
are deformed or incomplete.

And sometimes the miracle happens. On one side and the other of a
hidden crevice we find two green plants of different species. Each has
chosen the soil which suits it; and we realize that within the rock are
two ammonites ? one of which has involutions less complex than the
other s. We glimpse, that is to say, a difference of many thousands of
years; time and space suddenly commingle; the living diversity of that
moment juxtaposes one age and the other and perpetuates them.
Thought and sensibility take on a new dimension, in which every
drop of sweat, every movement of muscle, every quick-drawn breath
becomes the symbol of a story; and, as my body reproduces the
particular gait of that story, so does my mind embrace its meaning. I
feel myself luxuriating in a state of heightened perception, in which
Place and Period make themselves known to one another and have at
last a common language in which to communicate.

When I first read Freud his theories seemed to me to represent
quite naturally the .application to individual human beings of a method
of which geology had established the canon. In both cases the investi
gator starts with apparently impenetrable phenomena; and in both he
needs a fundamental delicacy of perception sensibility, flair, taste:
all are involved if he is to detail and assess the complexities of the
situation. And yet there is nothing contingent, nothing arbitrary, in
the order which he introduces into the incoherent-seeming collection
of facts. Unlike the history of the historians, history as the geologist and
the psycho-analyst see it is intended to body forth in time rather in
the manner of a tableau vivant certain fundamental properties of the

How I became an Anthropologist 61

physical or psychical universe. A tableau vivant, I said: and, in effect, .
the acting-out of proverbs does provide a crude parallel to the
activities of geologist and psycho-analyst. These consist, after all, in
the interpretation of each act as the unfolding in time of certain non-
temporal truths. Proverbs are an attempt to pin down these truths on
the moral plane, but in other domains they are just called laws . In
every case our aesthetic curiosity acts as a springboard and we find
ourselves immediately in a state of cognizance.

When I was about seventeen I was initiated into Marxism by a
young Belgian socialist whom I had met on holiday. (He is today one
of his country s Ambassadors abroad.) Reading Marx was for me all
the more enthralling in that I was making my first contact, by way of
that great thinker, with the philosophical current that runs from Kant
to Hegel. A whole world was opened to me. My excitement has never
cooled: and rarely do I tackle a problem in sociology or ethnology
without having first set my mind in motion by reperusal of a page or
two from the iS Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte or the Critique of Political
Economy. Whether Marx accurately foretold this or that historical
development is not the point. Marx followed Rousseau in saying
and saying once and for all, as far as I can see that social science is no
more based upon events than physics is based upon sense-perceptions.
Our object is to construct a model, examine its properties and the way
in which it reacts to laboratory tests, and then apply our observations
to the interpretation of empirical happenings: these may turn out very
differently from what we had expected.

At a different level of reality, Marxism seemed to me to proceed
in the same way as geology and psycho-analysis (in the sense in which
its founder understood it). All three showed that understanding con
sists in the reduction of one type of reality to another; that true
reality is never the most obvious of realities, and that its nature is
already apparent in the care which it takes to evade our detection. In all
these cases the problem is the same: the relation, that is to say, between
reason and sense-perception; and the goal we are looking for is also
the same: a sort of super-rationalism in which sense-perceptions will be
integrated into reasoning and yet lose none of their properties.

And so I stood out against the new tendencies in metaphysical
thinking which were then beginning to take shape. Phenomenology
I found unacceptable, in so far as it postulated a continuity between
experience and reality. That the one enveloped and explained the other
I was quite willing to agree, but I had learnt from my three mistresses

62 From a Log-book

that there is no continuity in the passage between the two and that to
reach reality we must first repudiate experience, even though we may
later reintegrate it in an objective synthesis in which sentimentality
plays no part. As for the trend of thought which was to find fulfilment
in existentialism, it seemed to me to be the exact opposite of true
thought, by reason of its indulgent attitude towards the illusions
of subjectivity. To promote private preoccupations to the rank of
philosophical problems is dangerous, and may end in a kind of shop
girl s philosophy excusable as an element in teaching procedure, but
perilous in the extreme if it leads the philosopher to turn his back on his
mission. That mission (he holds it only until science is strong enough to
take over from philosophy) is to understand Being in relation to itself,
and not in relation to oneself. Phenomenology and existentialism did
not abolish metaphysics: they merely introduced new ways of finding
alibis for metaphysics.

Marxism and psycho-analysis are human sciences whose per
spectives are social in the one case, and individual in the other. Geology
is a physical science, but it is also the mother and wet-nurse of history,
alike in its methods and in its aims. Between these is the kingdom that
ethnography has spontaneously marked out for itself. For humanity,
which we imagine to have no limitations other than those of space, puts
quite a different complexion on the transformations of the terrestrial
globe which geological history has bequeathed us. This history is an
indissoluble activity which has gone forward from one millennium to the
next, in the work of societies as anonymous as telluric forces and the
work of individuals, each one of whom, to the psycho-analyst, repre
sents a particular case. Anthropology affords me an intellectual satis
faction: it rejoins at one extreme the history of the world, and at the
other the history of myself, and it unveils the shared motivation of one
and the other at the same moment. In suggesting Man as the object of
my studies, anthropology dispelled all my doubts: for the differences
and changes which we ethnographers deal in are those which matter to
all mankind, as opposed to those which are exclusive to one particular
civilization and would not exist if we chose to live outside it. Anthro
pology set at rest, what is more, the anxious and destructive curiosity
of which I have written above: I was guaranteed, that is to say, a more
or less inexhaustible supply of matter for reflection, in the diversity of
human manners, customs, and institutions. My life and my character
were reconciled.

This being so, it may seem strange that I should so long have

How I became an Anthropologist 63

remained deaf to a message which had after all been transmitted for me,
ever since I first began to read philosophy, by the masters of the French
school of sociology. The revelation did not come to me, as a matter
of fact, till 1933 or 1934 when I came upon a book which was already
by no means new: Robert H. Lowie s Primitive Society. But instead of
notions borrowed from books and at once metamorphosed into
philosophical concepts I was confronted with an account of first-hand
experience. The observer, moreover, had been so committed as to keep
intact the full meaning of his experience. My mind escaped from the
closed circuit which was what the practice of academic philosophy
amounted to: made free of the open air, it breathed deeply and took on
new strength. Like a townsman let loose in the mountains, I made
myself drunk with the open spaces and my astonished eye could hardly
take in the wealth and variety of the scene.

Thus began my long intimacy with Anglo-American anthropology.
Nurtured at a distance by reading, and later reinforced by personal
contacts, this was to be the cause of serious misunderstandings. In
Brazil, to begin with, the University faculty had expected me to
contribute to the teaching of a sociology derived from Durkheim. The
positivist tradition is very strong in South America, and they were also
anxious to give a philosophical basis to the moderate liberalism which
is the oligarchy s usual safeguard against excessive personal power. I
arrived as an avowed anti-Durkheimian and the enemy of any attempt
to put sociology to metaphysical uses. I was certainly not going to help
to rebuild those derelict walls at the very moment when I was trying
with all my strength to broaden my horizons. I have been reproached
since then for being, as people suppose, in fief to Anglo-Saxon thought.
What an imbecility! Quite apart from the fact that I am probably at
this moment nearer than any of my colleagues to the Durkheimian
tradition and the fact has not passed unnoticed abroad the authors
to whom I gladly acknowledge my debt Lowie, Kroeber, Boas
seem to me to stand at the furthest possible remove from that American
philosophy which derives from William James and Dewey (and now
from the so-called logical positivists) and has long been out of date.
European by origin, and themselves educated in Europe, or by
European masters, they stand for something quite different: a synthesis
reflecting, where knowledge is in question, the synthesis for which
Columbus provided the objective opportunity four centuries ago; they
applied vigorous scientific methods to that unique field of experiment,
the New World, and they did it at a time when libraries were already

64 From a Log-book

improving and it was possible to leave one s University and enter
primitive territory with no more difficulty than we encounter in
leaving Paris for the Basque country or the Mediterranean. It is to a
historical situation, not an intellectual tradition, that I am paying
homage. The reader must imagine to himself the privilege of making
contact with primitive societies which were more or less intact and had
never before been studied seriously. Just how recently, as luck would
have it, the whites had set out to destroy them will be clear from the
following story: the Californian tribes had still been quite wild at the
time of their extermination, and it happened that one Indian escaped,
as if by a miracle, from the holocaust. For years he lived unknown and
unobserved only a dozen miles from the great centres of population,
and kept himself alive with his bow and the sharp-pointed arrows
whose stone heads he carved himself. Gradually there was less and less
for him to shoot, and finally he was found, naked and starving, on the
outskirts of a city suburb. He ended his days in peace as a college porter
in the University of California.

7 Sunset

WAS on a February morning in 1934 that I arrived
in Marseilles to embark on the ship that was to take me to Santos. It
was to be the first of many such departure-mornings, and they have
merged in my memory, leaving an impression of, above all, the gaiety
that is peculiar to the south of France in winter-time; the clear blue
sky even more immaterial than usual, and a bite in the air that was
almost painfully pleasant like a glass of iced soda-water drunk too
quickly when one is parched with thirst. Over-heated, by contrast, was
our ship as it lay motionless by the quay; and in its corridors the smells
hung heavy sea-smells, some of them, mixed in with fresh paint and
an overflow from the kitchen. And I remember with what satisfaction,
what stillness of spirit, what tranquil happiness, almost, I listened in
the middle of the night to the muffled throbbing of the engines and
the susurration of the sea as it rushed along the hull s flanks. It was as if
the ship s movement related to an idea of stability that not even immo
bility itself could approach; a ship s stillness when it puts into an
anchorage by night, for instance has often, indeed, the contrary effect,
and provokes a feeling of insecurity and uneasiness, and an impatience,
too, that the natural course of things , as we have learnt to regard it,
should have been interrupted.

Our ships put in at many ports. The first week of our passage was,
in fact, spent almost entirely on shore, as far as we were concerned,
because the ship travelled at night and spent the day loading and
unloading its cargoes. Each morning we woke to find ourselves in a
new port: Barcelona, Tarragona, Valencia, Alicante, Malaga, some
times Cadiz; or Algiers, Oran, and Gibraltar, and then the longer
hops that took us first to Casablanca and then to Dakar. Only then did
the passage proper begin, either direct to Rio or Santos, or, less often,
with a further bout of harbour-hopping along the Brazilian coast, with
E 65

66 From a Log-book

stops at Recife, Bahia, and Victoria. The air grew steadily warmer, the
Spanish sierras filed by on the horizon, and mirages of cliffs, or sand
hills, kept the spectacle in being for several more days, though we were
by now steaming alongside the African coastline which at that stage
was too flat and marshy to be visible. It was the opposite of travel , in
that the ship seemed to us not so much a means of transport as a place
of residence a home, in fact, before which Nature put on a new show
each morning.

I was, as yet, so little of an anthropologist that I never thought
to take advantage of these opportunities. I ve learnt, since, that these
brief glimpses of a town, a region, or a way of life, offer us a school of
attention. Sometimes so great is the concentration required of us in
the few moments at our disposal they may even reveal to us char
acteristics which in other circumstances might have long remained
hidden. But other things attracted me more; and it was with the
ingenuousness of a beginner that I stood on the empty deck and
watched, each day at sunrise and again at sunset, the supernatural
cataclysms which were played out in full, as it seemed to me, with
beginnings, development, and end, across the four corners of a sky
vaster than any I had as yet seen. I felt that if I could find the right
words to describe these ever-changing phenomena, if I could com
municate to others the character of an event which was never twice the
same, then I should have penetrated or so I felt to the inmost secrets
of my profession: bizarre and peculiar as might be the experiences to
which I should be subject in my career as an anthropologist, I could
be sure of putting them, and their implications, at the disposal of the
common reader.

Many years have passed, and I don t know if I could recapture that
early state of grace. Could I re-live those moments of fever when,
notebook in hand, I would jot down, second by second, phrases evoca
tive of the evanescent and constantly renewed forms before me? It s a
gamble that still fascinates, and I m often tempted to begin it all over
again.

Shipboard notes

To the scholars, dawn and twilight are one and the same phenomenon;
and the Greeks thought the same, since they used the same word for
both, qualifying it differently according to whether morning or
evening was in question. This confusion is an excellent illustration of
our tendency to put theory first and take no account of the practical

Sunset 67

aspect of the matter. That a given point on the earth should shift its
position in an indivisible movement between the zone of incidence of
the sun s rays and the zone in which the light vanishes or returns to it is
perfectly possible. But in reality no two things could be more different
than morning and evening. Daybreak is a prelude, and nightfall an
overture but an overture which comes at the end, and not, as in most
operas, at the beginning. The look of the sun foretells what the next
hours will bring; dark and livid, that s to say, if we are in for a wet
morning, and pink, frothy, and insubstantial if the weather is to be
fine. But as to the rest of the day, the dawn makes no promises. It
simply sets the meteorological stage and adds a direction: Fine 9 or
1 Wet . The sunset, on the other hand, is a complete performance, with a
beginning, a middle, and an end: a synopsis of all that has happened
during the previous twelve hours. Dawn is simply the day s beginning;
sunset the day run through again, but fifty times as fast.

That is why people pay more attention to sunset than to sunrise.
Dawn merely adds a footnote to what they have already learnt from
barometer and thermometer or, in the case of the less civilized , from
the phases of the moon, the flight of birds, and the oscillations of the
tide. Whereas a sunset reunites within its mysterious configurations the
twists and turns of wind and rain, heat and cold, to which their
physical being has been exposed. Much else may be read into those
fleecy constellations. When the sky is first lit up by the setting sun (just
as, in the theatre, the sudden blaze of the footlights indicates that the
play is about to begin) the peasant stops dead in his tracks, the fisherman
ties up his boat, and the savage winks an eye as he sits by a fire that
grows pale. Remembrance is a source of profound pleasure though
not to the extent that it is complete, for few would wish to live over
again , literally, sufferings and exhaustions which are, none the less, a
pleasure to look back upon. Remembrance is life itself, but it has
another quality. And so it is that when the sun lowers itself towards the
polished surface of a flat calm at sea, like a coin thrown down by a
miser in the heavens, or when its disc outlines the mountain-tops like a
metal sheet at once hard and lacy, then Man has a brief vision a
hallucination, one might say of the indecipherable forces, the vapours
and fulgurations whose obscure conflicts he has glimpsed vaguely,
within the depths of himself, from time to time during the day.

These inner spiritual struggles must have been sinister indeed, for
the day had not been marked by any outward event that might have
justified an atmospheric upheaval. It had, indeed, been featureless.

68 From a Log-book

Around four in the afternoon just at that moment when the sun is
half-way through its run and is becoming less distinct, though not, as
yet, less brilliant, and the thick golden light pours down as if to mask
certain preliminaries the Mendoza had changed her course. A light
swell had set her rolling, and with each oscillation the heat had become
more apparent, but the change of course was so small that one might
have mistaken the change of direction for a slight increase in the ship s
rolling. Nobody had paid any attention to it, for nothing is so much
like a transfer in geometry as a passage on the high seas. There is no
landscape to point up the transition from one latitude to the next, or
the crossing of an isotherm or a pluviometric curve. Thirty miles on
dry land can make us feel that we have changed planets, but to the
inexperienced eye each of the three thousand miles at sea is much like
the last. The passengers were preoccupied neither with our position,
nor with the route we had to follow, nor with the nature of the
countries which lay out of sight behind the horizon. It seemed to them
that if they were shut up in a confined space, for a number of days that
had been decided in advance, it was not because a distance had to be
covered but because they had to expiate the privilege of being carried
from one side of the world to the other without making, themselves, the
smallest exertion. They d gone soft: he-abed mornings, to begin with,
and indolent meals which had long ceased to be a pleasure and were
now merely a device (and one that had to be made to last as long as
possible) for getting through the day.

Nowhere on the ship was there any visible sign of the efforts which,
somewhere and on someone s part, were being made. The men who
were actually running the ship did not want to see the passengers any
more than the passengers wanted to see them. (The officers, too, had
no wish for the two groups to mingle.) All that we could do was to
drag ourselves round the great carcase of the ship; a sailor retouching
the paintwork, or a steward in blue overalls swabbing down the first-
class corridors these are much as we saw, or would ever see, in token
of the thousands of miles that we were covering.

At twenty to six in the evening the sky in the west seemed
encumbered with a complicated edifice, horizontal at its base, which
was so exactly like the sea that one would have thought it had been
sucked up out of it in some incomprehensible way, or that a thick and
invisible layer of crystal had been inserted between the two. Attached
to its summit suspended, as it were, to the very top of the sky as if
by some heaviness in reverse were flimsy scaffoldings, bloated

Sunset

pyramids, vapours arrested in the act of boiling not clouds, one would
have said, but sculptured imitations of clouds; and yet clouds have
themselves that same quality, the polished and rounded look of wood
that has been carved and gilded. The whole mass masked the sun and
was dark, with occasional highlights, except towards the summit,
where it was beginning to break into little flames.

Higher still in the sky were mottled shapes that came apart in
insubstantial and fugacious wisps and curls: pure light, they seemed, in

texture.

Following the horizon round towards the north one could see the
main edifice grow thinner and vanish in a complication of clouds
behind which, in the far distance, a lofty strip of vapour could be
discerned; it was effervescent along its top, and on the side nearest the
still-invisible sun the light gave its outline a heavily modelled hem.
Farther to the north the element of modelling disappeared and nothing
remained but the strip itself, flat and lustreless, as it merged with the sea.
To the south this same strip re-emerged, this time with great
massive blocks of cloud above it that stood like cosmological dolmens
on the smoky crests of their understructure.

When one turned one s back on the sun and gazed eastwards there
could be seen two long thin superimposed groups of cloud that stood
out as if in their own light against a background of ramparts: battle
ments heavy-breasted and yet ethereal, pearly and soft with reflections
of pink and silver and mauve.

Meanwhile the sun was gradually coming into view behind the
celestial reefs that blocked the view to the west; as it progressed
downwards inch by inch its rays would disperse the mists or force their
way through, throwing into relief as they did so whatever had stood
in their way, and dissipating it in a mass of circular fragments, each
with a size and a luminous intensity all its own. Sometimes the light
would gather together, as one might clench one s fist, and through
the sleeve-end would appear, at most, two or three stiff and glitter
ing fingers. Or else an incandescent octopus would come forward
momentarily from the vaporous grottoes.

Every sunset has two distinct phases. At the beginning the sun plays
the role of architect. Later, when its rays no longer shine directly and
are merely reflections, it turns into a painter. As soon as it disappears
behind the horizon the light weakens and the complexity of the planes
becomes ever greater and greater. Broad daylight is the enemy of
perspective, but, between day and night, there is a moment of

70 From a Log-book

transition at which the architecture of the skies is as fantastic as it is
ephemeral. When darkness comes, everything flattens down again, like
some marvellously coloured Japanese toy.

At exactly a quarter to six the first phase began. The sun was already
low, but had not yet touched the horizon. At the moment when it
appeared beneath the cloud-structure, it seemed to break open like the
yolk of an egg and its light spilled over the forms to which it was still
attached. This burst of bright light was soon followed by a withdrawal;
the sun s surroundings lost all brilliance and in the empty space that
marked off the topmost limit of the sea from the bottom of the cloud-
structure there could be seen a cordillera of vapours, which had but
lately been so dazzling as to be indecipherable and was now darkened
and sharp-pointed. At the same time it began to belly out, where
originally it had been quite flat. These small objects, black and solid,
moved to and fro, lazy-bodied migrants, across a large patch of
reddening sky which marked the beginning of the colour-phase and
was slowly mounting upwards from the horizon.

Gradually the evening s constructions-in-depth began to dismantle
themselves. The mass which had stood all day in the sky to the west
seemed to have been beaten flat like a metal leaf, and behind it was a
fire first golden, then vermilion, then cerise. This fire was beginning
to work on the elaborate clouds melting, disintegrating, and finally
volatilizing them in a whirlwind of tiny particles.

Network after network of fine vapours rose high in the sky; they
seemed to stretch in all directions horizontal, oblique, perpendicular,
even spiral. As the sun s rays went down (like a bow that must be tilted
this way or that, according to which string we seek to use) they caught
one after another of these and sent them flying in a gamut of colour
which one would have thought to be the exclusive and arbitrary
property of each one in turn. When it appeared, each network seemed
as exact, as precise, and as rigid in its fragility as fine-spun glass, but
gradually they all dissolved, as if their substance had been over-heated
by exposure in a sky which was everywhere in flames; their colour lost
its brightness and their outline its individuality, until finally each
vanished from the scene, giving place to a new network, and one
freshly spun. In the end it was difficult to distinguish one colour from
the next just as liquids of different colour and density will at first seem
to keep their individuality when they are poured into the same glass,
only to mingle later for all their apparent independence.

After that it became difficult to follow a spectacle which seemed to

Sunset 7I

be repeating itself in distant parts of the sky, at intervals sometimes of
several minutes, sometimes of a second or two. When the sun s disc cut
down into the western horizon we suddenly saw, very high up in the
east, clouds acid-mauve in tonality which had hitherto been invisible.
After a rapid efflorescence and enrichment these apparitions vanished
slowly, from right to left, at their moment of greatest subtlety, just as
if someone were wiping them away firmly and unhurriedly with a
piece of cloth. After a few seconds nothing remained but the cleaned
slate of the sky above the nebulous cloud-rampart. And this rampart
was turning to white and grey while the rest of the sky went rose-
pink.

Over towards the sun the old strip of cloud had receded into a
shapeless block of cement, and behind it a new long strip was flaming
in its turn; when its rednesses turned pale the mottled patches at the
zenith, whose turn had not yet come, began to take on weight. Below
there was a great burst of gold; above, where the summit had glittered,
it turned first to chestnut, then to violet. At the same time we seemed to
be scrutinizing its texture through a microscope; and it turned out to be
made up of a thousand little filaments, each supporting, like a skeleton,
its plump little forms.

The sun no longer shone directly. The colour-range of the sky
was pink and yellow; shrimp-pink, salmon-pink, flax-yellow, straw-
yellow; and this unemphatic richness was, in its turn, disappearing, as
the celestial landscape re-formed in a gamut of white and blue and
green. Yet a few corners of the horizon were still enjoying a brief
independence. To the left, the atmosphere was suddenly veiled a
whim, one would have thought, on tike part of a mysterious com
bination of greens. And these greens merged progressively into a group
of reds intense to begin with, then darker, then tinged with violet,
then smudged with coal, and evolving at the very end into the tracery
of a stick of charcoal on granulated paper. The sky behind was an
Alpine yellow-green and the strip of cloud, still firmly outlined,
remained opaque. In the westerly sky little horizontal stripes of gold
glimmered for an instant, but to the north it was almost dark; the full-
breasted rampart had dwindled to a series of whitish swellings beneath
a chalky sky.

Nothing is more mysterious than the ensemble of procedures,
always identical and never predictable, by which night succeeds day.
The first portent of these procedures is always a matter for doubt and
anxiety. No one can tell what forms will be adopted, on this one

72 From a Log-book

particular occasion, by the night s insurrection. Impenetrable is the
alchemy by which each colour transforms itself into its complementary
colour, whereas, on the palette, as we all know, we should have to open
another tube of paint to achieve this same result. Where night is
concerned there is no limit to the minglings and comminglings which
may be achieved; for night comes to us as a deceiver. The sky turns
from pink to green; but it does so because I have failed to liotice that
certain clouds have turned bright red and, in doing so, make the sky
look green by contrast. The sky had, in effect, been pink; but a pink so
pale that it could no longer struggle against the very high-keyed red;
and yet I had not seen that red come into being, since a modulation
from gold to red is less startling to the eye than a modulation from pink
to green. It was by a trick, therefore, that night made its entrance into
the sky.

And so night began to deny the sky its golds and purples; warmth
of tone gave place to whites and greys. The set stage of night began to
reveal a sea landscape above the sea: an immense screen of clouds filing
by like an archipelago of long thin islands in front of an ocean-wide
sky; or like a flat sandy shore as it might look to a traveller in an
aeroplane flying low on its side with one wing almost in the sea. The
illusion was all the stronger for the fact that the last glimmers of day
fell obliquely on these cloud-forms and gave them, in high relief, the
air of solid rocks rocks too, at other times, are as if sculpted from light
and shadow and it was as if the sun, no longer able to exercise its
etching-needle on granite and porphyry, was lavishing its day-time
skills on these vaporous and insubstantial subjects.

The cloud background, therefore, was like the edge of an unnamed
coast. And as the sky cleared we could see beaches, lagoons, islets by
the hundred, and sandbanks overrun by the inactive ocean of the sky.
Fjords and inland lakes appeared where all had been flat and smooth.
And because the sky which surrounded these arrowy shapes was like
an ocean, and because the sea normally reflects the colours of the sky,
the scene was like the reconstruction of some distant landscape in which
the sun was setting all over again. We had only to look at the real sea,
far below, to escape from the mirage; that real sea had no longer either
the white-hot flatness of noonday or the curling prettiness of after-
dinner. No longer did the all-but-horizontal rays of daylight illuminate
the tops of the little waves that looked towards them, leaving the rest
in darkness. The water, too, was now seen in relief, and its precise and
heavy shadows were as if cast in steel. All transparency had gone.

Sunset 73

And so, by a process at once unvarying and imperceptible, evening
gave place to night. All was changed. The sky on the horizon was
opaque, and above it the last clouds that had been brought into being
by the day s end were scattering across a ground that was livid yellow
at its base and turned blue towards its zenith. Soon they were but lean
and weakly shadows, like scenery-frames seen without stage-lights; the
performance over, we see them for what they are poor, fragile,
ephemeral and owing the illusion of reality which they had helped
to create not so much to their own nature as to some trickery of
lighting or perspective. Only a few moments earlier they had been
alive and in continual transformation; now they seem set fast in a form
as sad as it is unalterable, in the middle of a sky which will soon merge
them within its gathering darkness.

PART III

The New World

8 The Doldrums

SAID good-bye to the Old World at Dakar
and proceeded, without any glimpse of the Cape Verde Islands, to
the fateful 7 North. Here it was that, in 1498, Columbus on his
third voyage changed course towards the north-west. But for this he
would have done as he intended and discovered Brazil; as it was, it was
by a miracle that he did not miss, fifteen days later, Trinidad and the
Venezuelan coast.

As we drew towards the doldrums, so much dreaded by navigators
in ancient times, the winds proper to both hemispheres dropped away;
we were entering the zone where sails hang idle for weeks on end. So
still is the air that one would tliink oneself in an enclosed space rather
than in the middle of the ocean. The dark clouds, with never a breeze
to disturb them, respond to gravity alone as they lumber slowly down
towards sea-level; if their inertia were not so great they would sweep
clean the polished surface of the water as they trail their fringes along it.
The ocean, lit indirectly by the rays of an invisible sun, offers an oily
and unvarying reflection that reverses the normal light-values of air and
water. (Look at it upside-down and you will see a more orthodox sea-
picture , with sky and ocean each impersonating the other.) There s a
strange intimacy about the passive, half-lit horizon; and the area
between the sea and its cloud-ceiling seems even narrower for the
little funnels of cloud which idle their way across from one side to the
other. The ship slithers anxiously between the two surfaces, as if it had
none too much time to avoid being stifled. Sometimes a cloud comes
near, loses its shape, bellies out all round us and whips across the
deck with damp finger-ends. Then it re-forms on the far side of the
ship; but it can no longer be heard.

All life had gone from the sea. No longer did dolphins cut
gracefully through the white waves ahead of us; nothing spouted on the

77

78 The New World

horizon; and we had lost the spectacle of the pink-and-mauve-veiled
nautiluses.

Should we find, on the far side of the deep, the marvels vouched for
by the navigators of old? When they moved into unknown regions
they were more anxious to verify the ancient history of the Old World
than to discover a new one. Adam and Ulysses were authenticated by
what they saw. When Columbus, on his first journey, stumbled on the
Antilles, he thought that they might be Japan; but he preferred to think
of them as the Terrestrial Paradise. Four centuries have elapsed since
then, but they can t quite obliterate the twist of circumstance by which
the New World was spared the agitations of history* for some ten or
twenty millennia. Something of this must remain, even if on another
level. I soon found out that even if South America was no longer Eden
before the Fall, it was still, thanks to that mysterious circumstance, in
a position to offer a Golden Age to anyone with a bit of money. Its
good fortune was melting like snow in the sun. How much of it is left
today? Already the rich alone had access to its remnants, and now its
very nature has been transformed and is historical, where once it was
eternal, and social, where once it was metaphysical. The earthly
paradise which Columbus glimpsed was at once perpetuated and
destroyed in the ideal of good living which only the rich could enjoy.

The charcoal skies and louring atmosphere of the doldrums
summarize the state of mind in which the Old World first came upon
the new one. This lugubrious frontier-area, this lull before the storm
in which the forces of evil alone seem to flourish, is the last barrier
between what were once quite recently two planets so different
from one another that our first explorers could not believe that they
were inhabited by members of the same race. The one, hardly touched
by mankind, lay open to men whose greed could no longer be satisfied
in the other. A second Fall was about to bring everything into question:
God, morality, and the law. Procedures at once simultaneous and
contradictory were to confirm these things, in fact, and refute them in
law. The Garden of Eden was found to be true, for instance; likewise
the ancients Golden Age, the Fountain of Youth, Atlantis, the Gardens
of the Hesperides, the pastoral poems, and the Fortunate Islands. But
the spectacle of a humanity both purer and happier than our own (in
reality, of course, it was neither of these, but a secret remorse made it
seem so) made the European sceptical of the existing notions of
revelation, salvation, morality, and law. Never had the human race
been faced with such a terrible ordeal; nor will one such ever recur,

The Doldrums 79

unless there should one day be revealed to us another earth, many
millions of miles distant, with thinking beings upon it. And we know,
even then, that those distances cata., in theory at any rate, be covered,
whereas the early navigators were afraid that an enormous nothingness
might lie before them.

Certain incidents will remind us of how absolute, complete, and
intransigent were the dilemmas which confronted our predecessors in
the sixteenth century. Take, for instance, what they called Hispaniola:
the Haiti and San Domingo of our day. In 1492 there were about a
hundred thousand people on those islands. They were to dwindle in the
next hundred years to a mere two hundred; horror and disgust at
European civilization were to kill them off quite as effectively as
disease and ill treatment. The colonists couldn t make these people
out, and commission after commission was sent to enquire into their
nature. If they were really men, were they perhaps the descendants of
the ten lost tribes of Israel? Or Mongols who had ridden over on
elephants? Or Scotsmen, brought over some centuries earlier by Prince
Modoc? Had they always been pagans, or were they lapsed Catholics
who had once been baptized by St Thomas? That they were really men,
and not animals or creatures of the devil, was not regarded as certain.
In 1512, for instance, King Ferdinand authorized the importation of
white women as slaves into the Westlndies, with the object of prevent
ing the Spaniards from marrying the native women who are far from
being rational creatures . And when Las Casas tried to put an end to
forced labour in the islands, the colonists were not so much indignant
as incredulous. What? they said. Does he want to stop us using our
beasts of burden?

The most famous of the commissions is, quite rightly, that of the
monks of the Order of St Jerome in 1517. The story is worth recalling,
both for the light it sheds on the mental attitudes of the time and for
the marks of a scrupulosity which was to be well and truly banished
from colonialism. The enquiry was held on the most up-to-date
psycho-sociological lines, an^i in the course of it the colonists were
asked whether, in their estimation, the Indians were capable of running
their own society, like the Castilian peasantry . A unanimous No was
the answer. Their grandchildren just might be up to it, but they re so
profoundly anti-social that you couldn t be sure. Take an instance:
they dodge the Spaniards when they can, and you can t get them to
work for nothing and yet sometimes you ll find them giving all their
belongings away. And when we cut the ears off one of them they all

8o The New World

stick by him, just the same/ And, with one voice: The Indian is better
off as a slave, among men, than as an animal on his own.

Ten years later Ortiz spoke up as follows before the Council of the
Indies: They eat human flesh and they ve no notion of justice; they
go about naked and eat spiders and worms and lice, all raw. . . . They ve
no beard, and if one of them happens to start one he makes haste to pull
it out, hair by hair. . . .

At this same time, so Oviedo tells us, the Indians in the neighbour
ing island of Porto Rico used to kill off any captured Europeans by
drowning. Then they would mount guard for weeks round the dead
men to see whether or not they were subject to putrefaction. We can
draw two conclusions from the differences between the two methods
of enquiry: the white men invoked the social, and the Indians the
natural, sciences; and whereas the white men took the Indians for
animals, the Indians were content to suspect the white men of being
gods. One was as ignorant as the other, but the second of the two did
more honour to the human race.

To these moral disturbances were added ordeals of a more intel
lectual order. Our predecessors were baffled at every turn: Pierre
d Ailly s Imago Mundi speaks of a newly discovered race of supremely
happy beings, gens beatissima, made up of pygmies, and headless
creatures, and people who lived for ever. Peter Martyr described
monsters of many sorts: snakes in the likeness of crocodiles; ox-bodied
creatures with tusks as big as an elephant s; ox-headed fish, each with
four legs and a long shell on its back, like a tortoise covered with warts;
and man-eating tyburons. What he meant, of course, were boa-
constrictors, tapirs, sea-cows or hippopotamuses, and sharks (tubarao, in
Portuguese). Conversely things genuinely mysterious were taken as
quite natural. When Columbus wanted to justify the abrupt change
of course which cost him Brazil, he put into his official report an
account of extravagances such as have never been reported since, above
all in that zone of perennial humidity: a blazing heat which made it
impossible to set foot in the hold, with the result that his casks of
wine and water exploded, his grain caught fire, and his lard and
dried meat roasted for a week on end; the sun was such that his crew
thought they were being burnt alive. O happy age, when all was
possible!

Surely it was here, or hereabouts, that Columbus sighted the sirens?
Actually he saw them in the Caribbean, on the first of his voyages, but
they would not have been out of place off the Amazonian delta. The

The Doldrums gj

three sirens/ he tells us, lifted their bodies above the surface of the
ocean, and although they were not as beautiful as the painters have
made them their round faces were distincdy human in form/ Sea-
cows have round heads and carry their udders on their chests; as the
females feed their young by clutching them to their breasts there is
nothing very surprising in Columbus interpretation especially in
an age when people were ready to describe the cotton plant (and even
to draw a picture of it) as a sheep-tree : a tree that bore whole sheep,
where others bore fruit; dangling by their backs, so that they could be
shorn by any passer-by.

Rabelais must have worked from narratives of this sort in the
Fourth Book of Pantagruel. In offering us our earliest caricature of
what anthropologists now call a system of relationships he embroidered
freely upon the skimpy original; the system can barely be conceived,
surely, in which an old man could address a young girl as Father .
The sixteenth century lacked, in any case, an element more essential
even than knowledge itself: a quality indispensable to scientific reflec
tion. The men of that time had no feeling for the style of the universe
just as, today, where the fine arts are in question, an uninstructed person
who had picked up some of the surface-characteristics of Italian art,
or of primitive African sculpture, would be unable to distinguish a
faked Botticelli from a real one or a Pahouin figure from a mass-
produced imitation. Sirens and sheep-trees are something different
from, and more than, failings of objectivity; on the intellectual level
they should rather be called faults of taste; they illustrate the falling
short of minds which, despite elements of genius and a rare refinement
in other domains, left much to be desired where observation was
concerned. Not that I mean this by way of censure: rather should we
revere those men the more for the results which they achieved in spite
of their shortcomings.

Anyone who, in our own day, wants to rewrite the Priere sur
YAcropole should choose, not the Acropolis, but the deck of a steamer
bound for the Americas. It s not to the anaemic goddess of old, the
headmistress of our ingrown civilization, that I for one should offer
homage. And higher even than those heroes navigators, explorers,
conquerors of the New World who risked the only total adventure
yet offered to mankind (the journey to the moon will one day replace
it), I would set the survivors of that rearguard which paid so cruelly
for the honour of holding the doors open: the Indians whose example,
as transmitted to us by Montaigne, Rousseau, Diderot, and Voltaire, so

82 The New World

enriched the substance of what I learnt at school. Hurons, Iroquois,
Caribs, Tupis it is to you that I would pay homage!

When Columbus saw a glimmer of light along the horizon by
night he took it for the coast of America; but it was merely a marine
variety of glow-worm which produces its eggs between sunset and
moonrise. These I, too, saw during a night which I spent watchfully on
deck in readiness for my first sight of the New World.

That world had been present to us since the previous day: not in
sight, though, for despite a change of course which took us more and
more to the south we were to steam parallel to the coast from Cape
Sao Agostino to Rio. For two days at least, and maybe for three, we
were to keep company with an unseen America. No longer was it the
great sea-birds which gave us warning that the voyage was nearly over:
the strident tropic birds, or the tyrannical petrels which swoop down
on gannets in flight and force them to disgorge their prey. Both of
these, as Columbus learnt to his cost, travel far from land; he had
sighted them with joy when he had still half the Atlantic to cross. The
flying-fish, too, had become, if anything, less common for the last few
days. It is by its scent that the New World first makes itself known to
the traveller; and it is difficult to describe that scent to anyone who has
not experienced it.

At first it seemed as if the sea-smells of the previous weeks were no
longer circulating freely; somewhere they had come up against an
invisible wall; immobilized, they had no longer any claim upon our
attention, which was free to sample quite other smells smells to which
experience had as yet given us no guide; it was as if forest breezes
alternated with the smells of the hot-house, quintessences of the
vegetable kingdom any one of which would have intoxicated us by its
intensity had we savoured it in isolation; but, as it was, they were
spaced out as if in an arpeggio, isolated and yet commingled, with each
strong scent following fast upon its predecessor. To understand what all
that is like, you must first have plunged your nose deep into a freshly
crushed tropical pepper; and before that you must know what it is like
to walk into a botequin in the Brazilian interior and smell the honeyed
black coils ofthefumo de rolo, which is made of fermented tobacco-
leaves rolled into lengths several yards long. In the union of those two
smells you will recapture the America which, for many a thousand
years, alone held their secret.

But when the visible image of the New World first presents itself,
at four o clock the following morning, it seems worthy of its smells.

The Doldrums 83

For two days and two nights the ship steams past an enormous
cordillera: enormous not in its height but because it goes on repeating
itself exactly, with never an identifiable beginning or end in the
disordered succession of its crests. Several hundred yards above the
sea we could see, continuously, mountain-tops of polished stone: there
was an element of wild absurdity in their outline, of the kind one sees
in sand-castles that the waves have washed half away; I should not have
believed it possible for such shapes to exist, on such a scale, anywhere on
our planet.

This impression of immensity is, of course, characteristic of
America. I have experienced it on the plateaux of central Brazil, in the
Bolivian Andes and in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, in the
outskirts of Rio and the suburbs of Chicago. . . . The initial shock is
the same in every case: the streets remain streets, the mountains moun
tains, and the rivers rivers and yet one feels at a loss before them,
simply because their scale is such that the normal adjustment of man-
to-environment becomes impossible. Later one gets used to America
and comes to make, quite naturally, the necessary adaptations; a
momentary change of gear in one s mind, as the aeroplane comes
down, and normal functioning continues. But our judgments are,
none the less, permeated and deformed by this difference of scale. Those
who call New York ugly, for instance, have simply failed to make the
necessary change of registration. Objectively, no doubt, New York is
a city, and can be judged as one; but the spectacle which it offers to a
European sensibility is of a different order of magnitude: that of Euro
pean landscape; whereas American landscape offers us, in its turn, an
altogether more monumental scheme of things, and one for which we
have no equivalent. The beauty of New York, is not, therefore, an
urban beauty. It results from the creation of a new kind of city: an
artificial landscape in which the principles of urbanism no longer
operate. And our eye will adapt itself at once, if we do not inhibit it,
to this new landscape, in which the values that count are those of the
velvety light, the sharpness of the far distances, the sublimity of the
skyscraper and the shaded valleys in which the many-coloured
motor-cars lie strewn like flowers. 4 >

This makes it all the more embarrassing for me to have to say that
I do not respond at all to the renowned beauty of the bay of Rio de
Janeiro. How shall I put it? Simply that the landscape of Rio is not
built to the scale of its own proportions. The Sugar Loaf mountain,
the Corcovado, and the other all-too-famous points of beauty seemed

84 The New World

to me, as I arrived by sea, like stumps left at random in the four corners
of a toothless mouth. Geographical accidents, lost for the greater part
of the time in the brown mists of the tropics, they are too small to
furnish adequately the colossal horizon. The bay is best seen in reverse:
if you stand on the heights, that is to say, and look down towards the
sea you will feel as if you were looking down into an enormous
builder s yard. Nature, in short, will give you the feeling that mankind
has given you in New York.

The bay s various landmarks give no real impression of its pro
portions; but as the ship creeps into -the harbour, changing course this
way and that to avoid the islands, cool scented breezes blow down upon
us from the wooded hillocks and we establish a sort of preliminary
contact with flowers and rocks which, though they have not as yet
any individual existence for us, are the prefiguration of the whole
continent. Once again Columbus comes to mind:

The trees were so high that they seemed to touch the sky; and,
if I understood aright, they never lose their leaves; for they were
as fresh and as green in November as ours are in the month of May ;

some were even in flower, and others were bearing fruit And

wherever I turned the nightingales were singing, accompanied by
thousands of other birds of one sort and another.

That s America: the continent makes itself felt at once. It is made up
of all the presences which enliven, at the end of the day, the misted
horizon of the bay; but to the newcomer these shapes, these move
ments, these patches of light do not stand for provinces, or towns, or
hamlets; he will not say to himself: There s a forest (or a stretch of
open country, or a valley, or a view ); nor will he see them in terms of
the activity of individuals, each enclosed within his own family and
his own occupation and knowing nothing of his neighbours. No: it
all strikes him as an entity, unique and all-comprehending. "What
surrounded me on every side, what overwhelmed me, was not the
inexhaustible diversity of people and things, but that one single and
redoubtable entity: the New World.

9 Guanabara

T

IH

.HE bay of Bio lias bitten Rio itself right to the
heart; and when the traveller disembarks in the centre of the city, it is
as if the other half, the Ys of our day, had foundered beneath the waves.
And, in a certain sense, it has so foundered: the first city of Rio, a
simple fort, stood on the rocky islet which our ship had just negotiated.
It still bears the name of the founder of the city: Villegaignon.

Once ashore, I ambled along the Avenida Rio Branco, where once
the Tupinamba villages stood; in my pocket was that breviary of the
anthropologist, Jean de Lery. He had arrived in Rio three hundred and
seventy-eight years previously, almost to the day. With him were ten
other Genevese, Protestants to a man, sent by Calvin to seek out
Villegaignon, his friend of student days, who had gone over to
Protestantism barely a year after his arrival in die bay of Guanabara.
Villegaignon was a strange figure, who had turned his hand to more or
less everything and taken part in all the quarrels that were going. He
had, for instance, fought the Turks, the Arabs, the Italians, the Scots
(he had abducted Mary Stuart in order to facilitate her marriage to
Francois II), and the English. He had turned up at Malta, at Algiers, at
the battle of Cerisoles. Just when he was almost at the end of his
adventurous career, and appeared to be settling down as a military
architect, he suffered a professional disappointment and decided to go
off to Brazil, with intentions cut to die pattern of his resdess and
ambitious mind. He aimed to found a colony that was more than a
colony: an empire, in feet. And his immediate objective was to
establish a place of refuge for Protestants who were being persecuted in
Europe. A Catholic himself, and possibly a free thinker, he secured the
patronage of Coligny and the Cardinal of Lorraine. After a brisk
recruiting campaign among the faithful of bodi beliefs, and a diver
sionary drive among debauchees and runaway slaves, he managed to

85

86 The New World

get six hundred people aboard his two ships, on July I2th, 1555:
pioneers drawn from every rank of Society, with an admixture of
convicts among them. The only things he forgot were women and
food.

There was trouble at the start: twice the ships put back to Dieppe,
and when they finally got away on August I4th there was trouble
again: fighting broke out when they reached the Canaries, the ship s
water became polluted, and there was an outbreak of scurvy.
On November zoth, however, Villegaignon dropped anchor in
the bay of Guanabara, where the French and the Portuguese
had been in competition, for several years past, for the natives
favours.

France s privileged position on the Brazilian coast dated back at
least to the beginning of the century, We know of many French
travellers who were in Brazil at that time notably Gonneville, who
returned to France with a Brazilian son-in-law; and it was, of course,
in 1500 that Cabral discovered Santa Cruz. There may even be
something in the tradition, so long current in Dieppe, that Jean Cousin
discovered Brazil four years before Columbus first voyage. The French
did, after all, immediately call the new country Bresil, which had been
the name given in secret, since the twelfth century at least, to the
mythical continent whence wooden dyes were obtained. And the
French language incorporated directly within itself and with no
intermediary passage by way of the Iberian languages a great many
items from the natives vocabulary: ananas, for instance, and manioc,
and tamandua, and tapir, and jaguar, and sagouin, and agouti, and ara, and
caiman, and toucan, and coati, and acajou. . . . Cousin had a man called
Pinzon among his crew, and it was the Pinzons who gave Columbus
fresh courage at Palos, when he seemed ready to turn back; and it was
a Pinzon, yet again, who commanded the Pinta on Columbus first
voyage: Columbus discussed every change of course with him. And if,
finally, Columbus had not gone off the course which was to be
followed, a year later, by yet another Pinzon, he would have pushed
on as far as Cabo Sao Agostino. Columbus, not Pinzon, would have
had the honour of the first official discovery of Brazil.

Only a miracle will ever resolve this mystery, since the archives of
Dieppe, with Cousin s narrative among them, were lost in the fire
started by an English bombardment in the seventeenth century. But
when I first set foot on Brazilian soil I could not but remember the
incidents, some tragic and some grotesque, which witnessed to the

Guanabara 87

intimacy of Franco-Indian relations four centuries earlier. The inter
preters from Normandy who Vent native 5 , married Indian women,
and took to cannibalism; and the unhappy Hans Staden who for years
expected to be eaten and was saved every day by some fresh accident.
He it was who tried to pass himself off as a Frenchman by growing a
red beard, by no means Iberian in colour, and drew from King
Quoniam Bebe the remark: I ve already captured and eaten five
Portuguese. They all pretended to be French, the liars! And what an
intimacy can we read into the fact that in 1531 the frigate La Pelerine
brought back to France, along with three thousand leopard-skins and
three hundred monkeys, six hundred parrots that already know a few
words of French !

Villegaignon founded Fort Coligny on an island in the middle of
the bay. The Indians built it and supplied the little colony with food;
but before long, weary of always giving and never getting anything in
return, they ran away and left their villages deserted. Famine and
sickness broke out in the fort. Villegaignon s tyrannical side soon
showed itself; and when the convicts rebelled against him he had them
massacred to a man. The epidemic soon reached the mainland, and the
few Indians who had remained faithful to the mission caught the
contagion: eight hundred died of it.

Villegaignon began to disdain the crises of this world; a crisis of
the spirit took all his time. Contact with Protestants led him to go over
to their beliefs, and he appealed to Calvin to send out missionaries who
would have more to teach him in the matter. And that is how, in 1556,
Lery came to arrive in Rio.

The story then takes so curious a turn that I am amazed no novelist
or scenario-writer has seized upon it. What a film it would make!
A handful of Frenchmen, isolated on an unknown continent an
unknown planet could hardly have been stranger where Nature and
mankind were alike unfamiliar to them; incapable of growing any
thing with which to keep themselves alive, racked with illness, and
dependent for all their needs on an unintelligible population which had
taken an intense dislike to them: and caught, what was more, in their
own trap. For, although they had left Europe to found a community
in which Catholic and Protestant could co-exist in amity, they soon
began to try to convert one another. Where they should have been
working to keep themselves alive, they spent week after week in
insane discussions: How should one interpret the Last Supper? Should
water be mixed with wine for the Consecration? The Eucharist and

88 The New World

the problems of baptism gave rise to veritable theological tournaments
at the end of which Villegaignon would veer now to one side, now to
the other.

They went so far as to send an emissary to Europe to ask Calvin
to adjudicate on certain knotty points. Meanwhile their disputes grew
steadily worse. Villegaignon s faculties began to give way; Lery tells
us that they could judge, from the colour of his clothes, how he was
likely to behave and in what field his excesses would lie. When finally
he turned against the Protestants, and tried to starve them out, they left
the community, crossed over to the mainland, and threw in their lot
with the Indians. The idyll which resulted is described in that master
piece of anthropological literature, the Voyage faict en la Terre de du
Bresil by Jean de Lery. The adventure ended sadly: the Genevese
embarked with great difficulty on a French boat. On the outward
voyage they had been strong enough to pillage every ship that crossed
their path; now things were very different, and famine reigned on
board. They ate the monkeys, and they ate the parrots though these
were so valuable that an Indian woman, a friend of Lery s, refused to
give hers up until she was given a cannon in exchange. The rats and
mice from the hold were eaten in their turn, and sold for as much as
four ecus each. The water gave out. In 1558 the ship s company arrived
in Brittany, half dead from hunger.

On the island, the colony disintegrated. Terror reigned, and
executions were frequent. Loathed by all, regarded by one party as a
traitor and by the other as a renegade, an object of dread to the Indians,
and himself terrified by the Portuguese, Villegaignon said farewell to
his dream. Fort Coligny, commanded at the time by his nephew,
Bois-le-Comte, fell to the Portuguese in 1560.

Now that I was free to explore Rio on foot, I began by looking
about for some lingering vestige of this adventure. I was to find one,
eventually, in the course of an archaeological excursion to the far side
of the bay. On the swampy beach where the motor-boat had deposited
our party I suddenly saw an old rusted hulk. Doubdess it did not date
back to the sixteenth century; but it introduced the element of
historical perspective into a region otherwise unequipped to illustrate
the passage of time. The clouds hung low and fine rain had fallen
continuously since daybreak. Nothing could be seen of the city. The
black mud was alive with crabs; there were mangroves is it a mark of
growth, or of decay, that they swell up to such an extraordinary size?
and, beyond where a few ageless straw huts stood out against the

Guanabara gp

forest, the lower slopes of the mountains were swathed in pale mists.
Over towards the trees was the goal of our expedition: a sand-pit
where peasants had lately brought to light some fragments of pottery.
I ran my hand over one of them: the white slip, bordered with red,
proved that they were of Tupi origin, and the lacy bkck markings
seemed to form a labyrinth destined, so people say, to deter those
evil spirits which would otherwise have sought out the bones that were
once preserved in these urns. I was told that we could have motored
the thirty-odd miles that separated us from the centre of Rio, had it not
been that the rain might well have flooded the tracks and cut us off for
a week. This isolation would at least have brought me nearer to Lery,
who may have whiled away the months of waiting by watching the
manufacture of just such a pot as I had, in fragments, before me. He
describes, at any rate, how the natives would take up a thin rod, dip it
in black varnish, and describe charming and amusing patterns by the
thousand .

Quite different was my first contact with Rio. For the first time in
my life I was on the other side of die Equator, in the tropics, and in the
New World. By what master-token should I recognize this triple
transformation? What voice would confirm it for me, what never-yet-
heard note ring out in my ear? Flippancies first: Rio seemed to me like
one huge drawing-room.

Running off the main avenue are any number of narrow, winding,
shadowy alleyways, each faced with black and white mosaic. When I
came to explore them I found that they had an atmosphere all their
own. The transition from house to street was less clearly marked than
it is in Europe. No matter how smart the shop-front, the goods have a
way of spilling over into the street, so that you hardly notice whether
you are, or are not, inside the shop. The street is a place to be lived in,
not a place to pass through. It is at once tranquil and animated more
lively, and yet more sheltered, than our streets at home. Or, more
exactly, what happens is this: the change of hemisphere, continent, and
climate has made it unnecessary for the Brazilians to erect the thin glass
roof which, in Europe, creates artificially something of the same sort.
It is as if Rio had taken the Gallerias in Milan, the Amsterdam Galerij,
or the Passage des Panoramas or the hall of the Gare St Lazare in Paris,
and reconstituted them in the open air.

People generally think of travel in terms of displacement in space,
but a long journey exists simultaneously in space, in time, and in the
social hierarchy* Our impressions must be related to each of these three

9O The New World

before we can define them properly; and as space alone has three
dimensions all to itself we should need at least five to establish an
adequate notion of travel. This I sensed as soon as I went ashore in
Brazil. That I had crossed the Atlantic and the Equator and was near
the tropics I knew from several infallible signs: among them, the easy
going damp heat which emancipated my body from its normal layer
of woollens and abolished the distinction (which I recognized, in
retrospect, as one of the marks of our civilization) between indoors
and outdoors . I soon found out that for this distinction the Brazilians
had substituted another (that between mankind and the jungle) which
does not exist in our entirely humanized landscapes. And then there
were the palm-trees, the unfamiliar flowers, and in front of each cafe
the heap of green coconuts which, when cut open, offered a cool
sweet liquid that smelt of the cellar.

Other changes struck me. I, who had been poor, was now rich. My
material condition had changed, to begin with; and then the prices of
local produce were incredibly low one franc for a pineapple, two
francs a huge bunch of bananas, four francs for the chickei} that the
Italian shopkeeper would roast for me on a spit. Quite magical, all this:
and to it was added the slight recklessness which always attaches to a
brief visit to somewhere new. The fact that one feels bound to profit by
opportunities of this kind introduces, moreover, an element of
ambiguity, which may well provoke the traveller to throw caution
aside and embark upon the traditional bout of prodigality. Travel can,
of course, have exactly the opposite effect this I was to experience
when I arrived in New York after the armistice without a penny in my
pockets but, generally speaking, it can hardly ever fail to wreak a
transformation of some sort, great or small, and for better or for worse,
in the situation of the traveller. He may go up in the world, or he may
go down; and the feeling and flavour of the places he visits will be
inseparable in his mind from the exact position in the social scale
which he will have occupied there.

There was a time when travel confronted the traveller with
civilizations radically different from his own. It was their strangeness,
above all, which impressed him. But these opportunities have been
getting rarer and rarer for a very long time. Be it in India or in
America, the traveller of our day finds things more familiar than he
will admit. The aims and itineraries which we devise for ourselves are,
above all, ways of being free to choose at what date we shall penetrate
a given society. Our mechanistic civilization is overcoming all others,

Guanabara 91

but we can at least choose the speed at which it will be effecting its
conquests. The search for the exotic will always bring us back to the
same conclusion, but we can choose between an early or a late stage of
its development. The traveller becomes a kind of dealer in antiques
one who, having given up his gallery of primitive art for lack of stock,
falls back on fusty souvenirs brought back from the flea-markets of the
inhabited world.

These differences can already be detected within any krge city. Just
as each plant flowers at a particular season, so does each quarter of a
great city bear the mark of the centuries which witnessed its growth,
its apogee, and its decline. In Paris the Marais was at its zenith in the
seventeenth century and is now far gone in decay. The pth arrondisse-
ment flowered later, under the Second Empire, but it has now gone
off considerably and its shabbified mansions have been given over to a
lower-middle-class horde. As for the lyth arrondissement, it has
remained set in its bygone luxury like a huge chrysanthemum whose
long-dead head remains proudly erect. Only yesterday the i6th
arrondissement was one long bedazzlement; today its blooms are
giving way to an undergrowth of apartment-houses that is making it
merge more and more into the suburbs.

Where the comparison is between cities remote from one another
both historically and geographically, certain rhythmic differences are
added to the varying speeds of the cycle in question. The centre of Rio
is very 1900-10 in character, but elsewhere you will find yourself
in quiet streets and among long avenues bordered with palm-trees,
mangoes, and clipped Brazilian rosewood-trees, where old-fashioned
villas stand in gardens of their own. I was reminded (as I was, later,
in the residential areas of Calcutta) of Nice or Biarritz in the time of
Napoleon DDL The tropics are not so much exotic as out of date. It s
not the vegetation which confirms that you are really there , but
certain trifling architectural details and the hint of a way of life which
would suggest that you had gone backwards in time rather than
forwards across a great part of die earth s surface.

Rio de Janeiro is not built like an ordinary city. Originally built on
the flat and swampy area which borders the bay, it later pushed up
into the gloomy escarpments which glower down on every side. Like
fingers in a glove too small for them, the city s tentacles some of them
fifteen or twenty miles long run up to the foot of granitic formations
so steep that nothing can take root in them. (Just occasionally an
isolated fragment of forest has grown up on a lonely terrace or deep

92 The New World

shaft in the rock; virgin it will remain, although sometimes from an
aeroplane we seem almost to brush against its branches, as we skim
along the cool and solemn corridor that runs between sumptuous rock
tapestries.) Rio, so rich in hills, treats them with a scorn which does
much to explain the shortage of water in its higher regions. It is, in this
respect, the opposite of Chittagong, which lies on marshy ground in
the Bay of Bengal; in Chittagong the rich set themselves apart alike
from the oppressive heat and from the horrors of lower-class life by
living in lonely bungalows set high on grassy hillocks of orange-
coloured clay. In Rio, on the other hand, such is the reverberation of
the heat on those strange granite skull-caps that the cool breezes below
never get a chance to rise. The urbanists may have resolved the problem
by now, but in 1935 the altimeter was also an unfailing index of social
position; the higher you lived, the less important you were. Poverty
perched on the hill-tops, where the black population lived in rags; only
at carnival-time would they come swarming down into the city
proper, there to sweep all before them with the tunes they had picked
out, on high, on their guitars.

Distance counts in Rio, just as height does. Follow any one of the
tracks that lead up into the foothills and you will at once find yourself
in a suburb. Botafogo, at the far end of the Avenue Rio Branco, was
still a smart section; but after Flamengo you might think yourself in
Neuilly, and towards the Copacabana tunnel you came, twenty-five
years ago, upon St Denis and Le Bourget, plus a certain element of
rustication, such as the suburbs of Paris must have had before the war
of 1914. In Copacabana, which today bristles with skyscrapers, I saw
merely a small provincial town.

When I was leaving Rio for good, I went to an hotel on the flank
of the Corcovado to call on some American colleagues. To get there,
you took a rough-and-ready funicular which had been erected on the
site of a landslide in a style half garage and half mountaineers cabin,
with command-posts manned by attentive stewards: a sort of Luna
Park. All this just to get to the top: the car was hauled up over patch
after patch of chaotic mountainside almost vertical, often enough
until in the end we got to a little residence of the Imperial era, a terrea
house: single-storeyed, that is to say, stuccoed and painted ochre. We
dined out, on a platform that had been turned into a terrace, and looked
out across an incoherent mixture of concrete houses, shanties, and
built-up areas of one sort or another. In the far distance, where one
would have expected factory chimneys to round off the heterogeneous

Guandbara 93

scene, there was a shirting, satiny, tropical sea and, above it, an
overblown full moon.

I went back on board. The ship got under way, ablaze with light,
and as it set the sea atremble with its passing the reflected lights looked
like a street of ill fame on the move. Later it blew up for a storm and
the open sea gleamed like the belly of some enormous animal. Mean
while the moon was masked by scurrying clouds that the wind formed
and reformed as zigzags, triangles, and crosses. These strange shapes
were lit up, as if from within: as if an Aurora Borealis adapted to
tropical usage were being projected on to the dark background of the
sky. From time to time these smoky apparitions would allow us a
glimpse of a reddish moon that looked, on its intermittent appearances,
like a disquieted lantern wandering somewhere aloft.

io Into the Tropics

1 HE coastline from Rio to Santos still offers us the
tropical landscape of our dreams. The mountains, at one point well over
six thousand feet, run down steeply into the sea. Creeks and islets
abound; and although there is beach after beach of fine sand, with
coconut-trees and steamy forests overgrown with orchids, each is
accessible only from the sea, so abrupt is the wall of sandstone or basalt
behind them. Every fifty or sixty miles there s a little harbour where
eighteenth-century houses, now in ruins, were built for the captains
and vice-governors of times gone by. Fishermen live in them now; but
Angra dos Reis, Ubatuba, Parati, Sao Sebastiao, and Villa Bella all
served in their time as points of embarkation for diamonds, topazes,
and chrysolites from the Minas Geraes, or general mines , of the
kingdom. It took weeks to bring them down by mule-back through
the mountains. But if today we search for mule-tracks along the tops
of those mountains it seems incredible that the traffic was once so
abundant that men could make a living by collecting the shoes lost by
mules en route.

Bougainville has described with what precautions the extraction
and transport of these precious stones was surrounded. No sooner were
they found than they had to be handed over to one of the company s
depots: Rio des Morts, Sabara, Serro Frio each had one. There the
royal percentage was exacted, and whatever remained for the indi
vidual miner was given to him in bars marked with their weight, tide,
and value, and also with the royal arms. Half-way between the mines
and the coast there was a second control-point. A lieutenant and fifty
men were charged with the collection of the ritual twenty per cent and
of the tolls payable both for animals and for men. These taxes were
shared between the King and the soldiers concerned; and so it s not

94

Into the Tropics 95

surprising that every party bound for the coast was searched Very
thoroughly indeed .

Private traders then took their bars of gold to the Mint in Rio
de Janeiro, where they were exchanged for official currency demi-
doubloons worth eight Spanish piastres, on each of which the King
had a profit of one piastre on account of the alloyage and die tax on
money. Bougainville adds that the Mint is one of the finest in existence;
and it has all the equipment which it needs to work as quickly as
possible. As the gold comes down from the mines just as the fleet arrives
from Portugal there is no time to be lost in the striking of the money.
This is, indeed, carried out with astonishing speed.

Where diamonds are concerned the system was even more rigorous,
and Bougainville tells us that individual entrepreneurs were compelled
to give up every single stone that they found. These were then con
signed to a triple-locked box which, in its turn, was locked within two
other boxes, each sealed by a high official. Not till the whole consign
ment was safely in Lisbon was it allowed to be opened, and then only
in the presence of the King himself, who took such diamonds as he
wanted himself and paid for them according to a fixed tariff.

Of all the intense activity which, in the year 1762 alone, resulted in
the transport, supervision, striking, and despatch of more than a ton and
a half of gold, nothing now remains along a coastline that has reverted
to its paradisal beginnings: nothing, that is to say, save here and there a
lonely and majestic house-front at the hi end of a creek, with the sea
still beating against the high walls where once the galleons moored.
We would gladly believe that a few barefooted natives have alone had
the run of those grandiose forests, those unblemished bights, those
steep rock-faces; but it was there, on the high plateaux above the sea,
that two centuries ago the destiny of the modern world was forged in
Portuguese workshops.

The world, gorged with gold, began to hunger after sugar; and
sugar took a lot of skves. When the mines were exhausted and, with
them, the forests which had to be torn down to provide fuel for the
crucibles and slavery had been abolished, there arose an ever-greater
demand for coffee. Sao Paulo and Santos, its port, were sensitive to this,
and their gold, which had been first yellow, and then white, became
bkck. But although Santos was to become a centre of international
commerce its site has never quite lost its secret beauty; it was there, as
the boat nosed its way slowly through the islands, that I made my first
direct contact with the tropics. Green leaves pressed all around us. We

96 The New World

could almost have reached out and touched the vegetation which, in
Rio, is kept at a distance in high-lying greenhouses. ,

The country behind Santos is made up of inundated flatlands: a
network of swamps and rivers and canals and lagoons, with a mother-
of-pearly exhalation to smudge every contour. It looks as the earth
must have looked on the day of creation. The banana-plantations are
the freshest and most tender of imaginable greens; they are sharper in
key than the greeny-gold of the jute-fields in the Brahmaputra delta,
and where the jute-fields have a tranquil sumptuosity the Santos
hinterland has a delicacy of nuance and an uneasy charm that relates us
to a primordial state of things. For half an hour the motor runs between
the banana-trees mastodon vegetables, rather than dwarf-trees with
sap-laden trunks, a great quantity of elastic leaves, and beneath many of
those leaves a hundred-fingered hand emerging from a huge and pink-
and-chestnut lotus. Then the road climbs to two thousand five hundred
feet: the summit of the serra. As everywhere along the coast, the steep
slopes have kept the forests free of our humankind, with the result that
they are not merely virgin , but of a luxuriance for which you would
have to go several thousand miles north near the basin of the Amazon,
in fact to find the equal. As we crawled up the unending spiral of the
road, layer upon layer of plants and trees was laid out for inspection,
as if in a museum.

The forest differs from our own by reason of the contrast between
trunks and foliage. The leafage is darker and its nuances of green seem
related rather to the mineral than to the vegetable world, and among
minerals nearer to jade and tourmalin than to emerald and chrysolite.
On the other hand, the trunks, white or grey in tone, stand out like
dried bones against the dark background of the leaves. Too near to
grasp the forest as a whole, I concentrated on details. Plants were more
abundant than those we know in Europe. Leaves and stalks seemed to
have beeipi cut out of sheet metal, so majestic was their bearing, so
impervious, as it seemed, the splendid development of their forms.
Seen from outside, it was as if Nature in those regions was of a different
order from the Nature we know: more absolute in its presence and its
permanence. As in thq exotic landscapes of the Douanier Rousseau,
beings attained the dignity of objects.

Once before I had experienced something of the same sort: during
a first holiday in Provence, after several years vacationing in Nor
mandy and Brittany. It was rather as if I had been whisked from a
village of no interest to a site where every stone was of archaeological

%:

V?

i Virgin forest in Parana
THE CADUVEO

4-5 Caduveo women with painted faces

f.

If 1 ,

6 A Caduveo belle in 1895 (after Boggiani)

7 Face-painting; an original drawing by a Caduveo woman

8 Another face-painting, drawn by a native

9 Another face-painting, drawn by a native

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10 A Caduveo girl dressed and painted for the rites of puberty

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THE BORORO

12 A Bororo couple

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16 Dance of the Paiwe clan

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19 The Nambikwara tribe on the move

THE NAMBIKWARA

20 Resting

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21 A leaf shelter in the dry season

22 Little girl with a monkey

23 Building a hut for the rainy season

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28 The Nambikwara the bracelet on the upper arm

oosition of the no-lit- Vcmrl

25 Sabane the sorcerer

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K

4

\I

F/ii~15

27 Preparing curare

33 A Nambikwara family

34 Siesta

THE TUPI-KAWAHIB
48 The Mundf village amidst its plantations

49 The Munde village square

50 A Munde man

with lip-plugs of

hardened resin

59 Kunhatsin, chief wife of Taperahi, with her child

60 Pwereza,
Taperahi s son

<6i Penhana, the

young wife of the

two brothers

Into the Tropics 97

importance: a witness, and not merely part of a house. I ran about the
countryside in high excitement, telling myself over and over again that
the growing things before me were called thyme, rosemary, basil,
laurel, lavender, marjoram, and arbutus, and that each had a nobility
all its own. The heavy resinous smells convinced me that I was in the
presence of a superior order of vegetable things. What the flora of
Provence proved to me by their smells, the flora of the tropics proved
by their forms. Provence was a living herbal, as rich in receipts as in
superstitions; but in the tropics the vegetable troupe took on another
guise that of a corps de ballet of great dancers, each of whom had
parsed at her moment of highest advantage, as it to make manifest a
Grand Design the more evident for having no longer anything to fear
of life; a ballet of no motion, with nothing now to disturb it but
certain mineral agitations of the springs far below.

Once at the top, all is changed again. Gone are the damp heat of
the tropics and the heroic entanglements of rock-face and liana.
Instead of the enormous self-reflecting panorama that stretches from
the serra to the sea we survey, in the opposite direction, an accidented
and disgarnished plateau where crest succeeds ravine, and ravine crest,
beneath an undependable sky. A Breton drizzle falls over all. For we
are at nearly three thousand feet, although the sea is not far distant. At
this point there begin the uplands proper a continual ascent in which
the coastal chain is the first and steepest step. To the north, these
uplands gradually fall away towards the basin of the Amazon where,
two thousand miles away, they fall abruptly to sea-level. Twice,
however, their descent is interrupted by a line of cliffs: Serra de
Botucatu, some three hundred miles from the coast, and Chapada de
Mato Grosso, a further seven hundred and fifty miles onwards. I was
to negotiate them both before coming upon a forest comparable to this
oiie. Most of Brazil, with the Atlantic, the Amazon, and Paraguay as
its boundaries, is like a sloping table-top with a high rim at the edge of
tlie sea: or a crinkled springboard of bush surrounded by a damp circle
of jungle and swamp.

Erosion had done much to ravage the country before me; but above
all Man was responsible for its chaotic appearance. Originally it had
been dug and cultivated; but after a few years continual rain and the
exhaustion of the soil made it impossible to keep the coffee-plantations
in being. They were therefore moved to an area where the soil was
fresher and more fertile. The relationship between Man and the siol
had never been marked by that reciprocity of attentions which, in the

98 The New WorU

Old World, has existed for thousands of years and been the basis of our
prosperity. Here in Brazil the soil had been first violated, then des
troyed. Agriculture had been a matter of looting for quick profits.
Within a hundred years, in fact, the pioneers had worked their way
like a slow fire across the State of Sao Paulo, eating into virgin territory
on the one side, leaving nothing but exhausted fallow land on the
other. Begun in the middle of the nineteenth century by mineiros who
had exhausted their seams, this form of agriculture had proceeded
from east to west; and before long I was to meet it on. the far side of
the Parana river, where confusion reigned, with felled trunks on the
one hand and uprooted families on the other.

The road from Santos to Sao Paulo runs through one of the first
territories to be exploited by the colonists. It has, therefore, the air of an
archaeological site in which a vanished agriculture may be studied.
Once-wooded hills offer their bone-structure for our inspection with,
at most, a thin covering of sickly grass upon it. We can make out here
and there earthworks which mark where a coffee-plantation once
stood; they jut out like atrophied breasts through the grassy embank
ments. In the valleys the region has, as it were, gone back to Nature;
but not to the noble architecture of the primeval forest. The capoeira^
or secondary forest, is a mere wretched entanglement of half-hearted
trees. Sometimes, too, we glimpsed the dwelling of some Japanese
emigrant who was trying, by some archaic method, to regenerate a
patch of land and set up a market garden there.

To the European traveller, this is a disconcerting, because an
undassifiable, landscape. We know nothing of untamed Nature,
because our own landscape is entirely subject to our needs and desires.
If it sometimes strikes us as untamed, it is either because in our
forests, for instance its changes operate to a slower rhythm; or because
as in the mountains the problems were of such complexity that
Man has tackled them in detail rather than in one systematic assault.
Such coherence as has resulted from these innumerable individual
initiatives now seems to share the original primitive character of the
mountain-world, whereas in fact it is due to an interlocking chain of
decisions and enterprises, each of which seemed at the time to be
independent of the others.

Yet even the wildest of European landscapes has something of order
and proportion about it. (Poussin was the incomparable interpreter of
this.) Walk among our mountains and you will notice the contrast
between forest and bare slope, the relation between the forest and the

Into the Tropics pp

meadows below it: and the variety of expression which comes about as

first one kind of vegetation, and then another, dominates the scene

Travel in America, and you will realize that this sublime harmony,
far from being the spontaneous expression of Nature herself, is the
result of agreements long sought for between mankind and the site in
question. What causes us to gape, in all simplicity, are the traces of our
bygone enterprise.

In inhabited America and this applies to the north as well as to
the south, with the exception of more thickly populated areas like
Mexico, central America, and the plateaux of the Andes, where some
thing approaching a European situation has come about we have only
two alternatives before us. The one is a Nature so ruthlessly put to
work in our service that the result is more like an open-air factory than
a landscape (I am thinking now of the cane-fields in the Antilles, and
the maize-fields in the corn-belt). The other is of the kind that I shall
be considering in a moment or two an area where Man has presided
for long enough to ruin the scene, but not for so long that a slow and
continuous process of accommodation has re-raised it to the level of
a landscape . In the outskirts of Sao Paulo, as later in the State of New
York, in Connecticut, and even in the Rocky Mountains, I became
familiar with a Nature which, though more savage than our own,
because less populated and less under cultivation, had yet lost all its
original freshness: Nature not so much wild as degraded.

These patches of dead ground as big as counties, maybe were
once owned, and once briefly worked, by Man. Then he went off
somewhere else and left behind him a battleground strewn with the
relics of his brief tenure. And over the area which, for a decade or two,
he had striven to convert to his uses, there has arisen a new, disorderly,
and monotonous vegetation. Its disorder is the more deceptive because,
beneath its look of innocence, it has preserved intact the memory and
the outline of the struggles of long ago.

II Sao Paulo

T

In

.HE cities of the New World have one character
istic in common: that they pass from first youth to decrepitude with
no intermediary stage. One of my Brazilian girl-students returned in
tears from her first visit to France: whiteness and cleanness were the
criteria by which she judged a city, and Paris, with its blackened
buildings, had seemed to her filthy and repugnant. But American
cities never offer that holiday-state, outside of time, to which great
monuments can transport us; nor do they transcend the primary urban
function and become objects of contemplation and reflection. What
struck me about New York, or Chicago, or their southerly counterpart
Sao Paulo, was not the absence of ancient remains ; this is, on the
contrary, a positive element in their significance. So far from joining
those European tourists who go into sulks because they cannot add
another thirteentt-century cathedral to their collection, I am delighted
to adapt myself to a system that has no backward dimension in rime;
and I enjoy having a different form of civilization to interpret. If I err,
it is in the opposite sense: as these are new cities, and cities whose
newness is their whole being and their justification, I find it difficult
to forgive them for not staying new for ever. The older a European
city is, the more highly we regard it; in America, every year brings
with it an element of disgrace. For they are not merely newly built ;
they are built for renewal, and the sooner the better. When a new
quarter is run up it doesn t look like a city, as we understand the word;
it s too brilliant, too new, too high-spirited. It reminds us more of our
fairgrounds and temporary international exhibitions. But these arc
buildings that stay up long after our exhibitions would have closed,
and they don t last well: facades begin to peel off, rain and soot leave
their marks, the style goes out of fashion, and the original lay-out is

100

Sao Paulo IOI

mined when someone loses patience and tears down the buildings
next door. It is not a case of new dries contrasted with old, but rather
of cities whose cycle of evolution is very rapid as against others whose
cycle of evolution is slow. Certain European cities are dying off slowly
and peacefully; the cities of the New World have a perpetual high
temperature, a chronic illness which prevents them, for all their
everlasting youthfulness, from ever being entirely well.

What astonished me in Sao Paulo in 1935, and in New York and
Chicago in 1941, was not their newness, but the rapidity with which
time s ravages had set in. I knew that these cities had started ten
centuries behind our own, but I had not realized, somehow, that large
areas in them were already fifty years old and were not ashamed to let
it be seen. For their only ornament was their youth, and youth is as
fugitive for a city as for the people who live in it. Old ironwork, trams
red as fire-engines, mahogany bars with balustrades of polished brass;
brickyards in deserted alleys where the wind was the only street-
cleaner; countrified parish churches next door to office buildings and
stock exchanges built in the likeness of cathedrals; apartment-houses
green with age that overhung canyons criss-crossed with fire-escapes,
swing-bridges, and the like; a city that pushed continually upwards as
new buildings were built on the ruins of their predecessors: such was
Chicago, image of the Americas, and it isn t surprising that the New
World should cherish in Chicago the memory of the i88os, for this
modest perspective, less than a century in extent, is all that antiquity
can mean in those parts. To our millenary cities it would hardly serve
even as a unit of judgment, but in Chicago, where people do not think
in terms of time, it already offers scope for nostalgia.

In 1935 the people of Sao Paulo liked to boast that their city was
expanding at the rate of a house every hour. Villas they were, at that
date; but I m told that the rate remains the same, though the figures
now apply to office or apartment buildings. Sao Paulo is growing so
fast that you can t buy a map of it; there d have to be a new edition
every week. And if you take a taxi to an address that you fixed on
several weeks ahead, you run the risk of getting there the day before
the house has gone up. That being so, my recollections of a quarter of
a century ago can be of, at most, documentary interest: I offer them to
the municipal archives.

Sao Paulo was thought ugly at that time. The big buildings in the
centre were pompous and outmoded, and their ornamentation was as
shoddy in execution as it was pretentious and vapid in design. Statues

102 The New World

and rdfcfe were in plaster* not stone, and a hasty coat of yellow paint
did little to coticeal the feet. Where real stone is in question, the
eaeteavagaaces of the 1890 style may be excused, in part, by the sheer
heaviness and density of the material; but in Sao Paulo the improv
isations had the air of an architectural leprosy, or a dream city run up
foe the cinema.

Yet I never found it an ugly city, for all the faked colours that
brightened the shadows and the too-narrow streets where the air could
not circulate. It was an untamed city as are all American cities save,
perhaps, Washington, D.CX, which is like a captive dying of boredom
in the star-shaped avenoeK^ge devised for it by L EnfanL Sao Paulo at
that time was running quite wild. Originally it was built on a spur-
shaped terrace that faced north, at the point whore two little rivers meet
Ac Anhaogabahu and the Tamanduatehy these kter joined the Rio
Tiefse, a tributary of the Parana. Its function was simply to get the
b*diaus under control : it was a missionary centre at which, from the
sixteenth century onwards, Portuguese Jesuits did their best to round
up the natives antd initiate them into the blessings of civilization. There
were still, even in 1935, a few rusticated alleyways up on the spit of
kad dial drops down towards the Tamanduateby and dominated the
quartos of Ae Braz and the Peuha. There were also a few
: gas$-g0wa squares smrocinded by low rife-roofed houses with
all grilled windows. Tbe houses wore painted with chalk and beside
them was an austoe parish church with no other decoration than, the
double accolade that cut out a baroque pediment on the upper part of
the facade. In die distance to the north the Tiete s silvery meanderings
began to widen out into marshlands, and from marshlands into centres
of population, each surrounded by an irregular circle of suburbs and
plots of land. Immediately behind these was the commercial centre of
the city which, in style and aspirations, had remained faithful to the
Expodiimi Universelk of 1889: the Pra9a da Se, Place de la Cathedrale,
midway between the builder s yard and complete ruin. Then the
famous Triangle, as dear to Sao Paulo as the Loop is to Chicago a
tmsiBess area formed by die intersection of the Rues Direita, Sao Bento,
and 15-Novembre. These were streets filled with trade-signs, where
the busy dark-suited men of affairs proclaimed not only their
allegiance to European or North American ways but their pride in the
two thousand five hundred feet above sea4etfe! which raised them high
above the torpors of the tropks.

The tropics made themselves felt, none the less. In January, for

Sao Paulo IO3

instance, the rains do not arrive ; they grow spontaneously from the
dampness that pervades the city. It s as if the omnipresent steam had
materialized itself into pearly drops of water that were yet arrested, as
they fell, by their affinity with the surrounding atmosphere. The rain
does not fall straight, as in Europe; it s more like a pale scintillation, a
multitude of tiny water-globes that mingle with the dampness in the
air. A waterfall, one might say, of dear soup with tapioca in it. Nor
does the rain stop when the clouds blow over: it stops when the
atmosphere has been disembarrassed of a certain surplus humidity by
the very passage of the rain. The sky lightens, at such times, and a very
pale blue can be glimpsed between the blond clouds, and torrents lifce
mountain streams come coursing down the street.

At the northern corner of the terrace a vast workshop came into
view: the Avenida Sao Joao, several miles in length, whkh was being
built parallel to the Tiete along the route of the old North Rood
towards Ytu, Sorocaba, and the rich Campinas plantations. To the
right, it passed the Rue Horencio-de-Abreu which led off to the
station, between the Syrian bazaars, purveyors of heterogeneous
rubbish to the entire interior, and the tranquil workshops where
weavers and leather-workers were still (but for how much longer?)
producing high saddles of tooled leather, horse-blankets of tufted
cotton, and harnesses embellished with chased silver, all for the me
of the planters and peons who lived in the nearby busk HK& the
Avenue passed Sao Paulo s only at that time skyscraper, the pink and
still-unfinished Predio Martinelli; crossed the Campos flyseos, once the
preserve of the rich, whore painted wooden villas were going to rot
in gardens of .mango- and eucalyptus-trees; and then the woiklog-dass
Santa Ifigenia, on the edge of whkh was a brothel quarter where the
girls solicited from their windows. On the far edge of the city were dbe
petit-bourgeois smallholdings of Perdizes and Agua Branca; to tie
south-west these merged into the shady and more aristocratic hillside
ofPacaembu.

Towards the south, the terrace rose steadily in height; and along its
backbone, as it were, ran the Avenida Paulista, where the millionaires
of half a century earlier had built their once-luxurious residences in a
style half casino, half spa. But the millionaires had moved on since then,
and in concert with the general expansion of the city had gone down
the hill to the south. And there, in undisturbed suburbs with winding
roads, they had built themselves houses Califbrnian in style, with
micaceous cement and wrought-iron balustrades; these could be

104 The New World

glimpsed, at most, in among the thick woods that came ready-made
with the building plots.

Certain privileged parts of the city seemed to combine all its
dements. At the point, for instance, where two roads diverge on their
way towards the sea, you found yourself on the edge of the Rio
Anhangabahu ravine, which is crossed by a bridge that is one of the
city s main arteries. Below was a park designed on English lines: lawns
embellished with statues and kiosks; and at the point where the two
slopes rose up were the city s principal buildings the municipal
theatre, the Hotel Esplanada, the Automobile Club, and the offices
of the Canadian company which provided the city with lighting and
public transport.

Here, among these massive but transitional erections, the elite of
Sao Paulo was to be found. In many ways these people were strikingly
like their favourite orchids; botanists tell us, for instance, that whereas
tropical species are much more numerous than those of more temperate
zones, each species may consist of only a small number of individuals.
The local graojina had brought this to a point of extreme development.

The available roles had been allotted among a society that was none
too mmeroiis for them, Every occupation, every taste, every form of
curiosity allowed by modem civilization could be found in Sao Paulo,
but eaA was i^ef^Eeseatsed by a single person, Our friends were not so
much people as functions, and the role assigEied to them was theirs not
because of its intonsk importance but because it happened to be free.
There were, for instance, tie Cadiolic, the liberal, the Legitimist,
and die Communist; on another level there were the Gourmet, the
BiHk>phile, the Lover of the Thoroughbred (horse, or dog), or of the
Old Masters, or Modem Art; and the local Savant, Musicologist,
Artist, and Surrealist Poet* Not that any of these people wished to carry
their studies very far: vacant possession was what counted, and if any
two peopk turned out to overlap in any way, they set about destroying
one another with a ferocity and a persistence that were quite remark
able. There were, on die other hand, any number of intellectual
exchanges* and a general desire, not merely to stand up for one s own
preoccupation, but to perfect the collective execution of what seemed
to be an inexhaustibly enjoyable sociological minuet.

Certain roles were played with tremendous dash, Inherited means,
innate charm, and an acquired mastery of polite deception made the
salons of Sao Paulo as amusing as they were, in the end, frustrating. The
necessity of presenting a complete, if small-scale, model of the great

Sao Paulo IO

world obliged the players to admit of certain paradoxes: tie Com
munist, for instance, was also the richest of the heirs to the local feudal
system, and the avant-garde poet was allowed to introduce his young
mistress into even the most prudish of local drawing-rooms.

This high degree of specialization was combined with an encyclo
paedic appetite for knowledge. Cultivated Brazilians took an immense
delight in popular manuals of all kinds. Instead of preening themselves
on the high standing (which at that time had no rival) of our country
abroad, our ministers would have done better to understand what it
was based on; it was inspired not by our declining activities in the field
of creative science, but by the skill with which our men of learning
could make accessible to everyone the solutions and discoveries to
which they had made some modest contribution. If France was loved
in South America it was because the South Americans, like ourselves,
were at heart inclined rather to consume, and to make it easy for others
to consume, than to produce. The names held in honour in Sooth
America were names from the past: Pasteur, Curie, Durkheim.
Admittedly that past was near enough for us to draw a substantial
credit from it: but our clients again like ourselves preferred to
dilapidate that credit, rather than to reinvest it. And we spared them
the trouble of making discoveries* of their own.

It is sad to have to realize that France is no longer in a position to
act as the public relations officer 5 of the mind. We seem to have stock
fast in the nineteenth-century conception of science, according to which
anyone with the traditional French qualities of general cultivation,
vivacity, and lucidity of mind, a gift for logic, and the ability to write*
could turn to any field in science, rethink it for himself in isolation, and
produce a valid synthesis. Modern science has no place for that sort of
thing. Where once a single specialist could render his country famous,
we now need an army of them; and we haven t got it. Creative science
has become a collective, almost an anonymous, activity, and one for
which we could not be worse prepared. We still have our old-style
virtuosi; but no amount of style in the playing can go on concealing
the absence of the score.

Countries younger than ours have learnt this lesson; Brazil had had
outstanding men, but they had been few in number: Eudides da Cunha,
Oswaldo Cruz, Chagas, Villa Lobos. Culture had been the preserve of
a few rich people; and it was to create an informed public and one
that would owe nothing to the traditional influence of Army and
Church that the University of Sao Paulo was founded.

io6 The New World

When I arrived in Brazil to teach in this new University I took pity
on my Brazilian colleagues. Wretchedly paid, they could exist only by
talnrtg on extra work of some humble sort. I was proud to belong to
a country where the exercise of a liberal profession had had its prestige
and its privileges for many generations. What I did not foresee was that
twenty years later my poverty-stricken students would be occupying
University Chairs more numerous and often better equipped than our
own, with libraries at their disposition such as few of us can count on
in France.

The students who crowded into our lecture-rooms were of all ages
and had come from hi and wide, not without certain misgivings, to
study with us. There were young people hungry for the jobs which
our diplomas would equip them for; people already established in life
lawyers, politicians, engineers who feared that unless they, too, got
a University degree they would be ill able to compete with their
graduate rivals. They were one and all would-be men of the world with
a passion for disparagement. This was inspired in part by that concept
of nineteenthrK^ntury Parisian life which originated with Meilhac and
Halvy and was being carried on by one or two Brazilians; but their
TQgjfi inspiration was something as evident in the Paris of a hundred
years ago as in the Sao Paulo or Rio de Janeiro of 1930: the need of the
new-fledged metropolitan to prove that he had really got dear of
country ways. The despised image of rustic simplicity was symbolized
for our students by the cmpira the country bumpkin, that is to say
just as in our tk&fere du boulevard the native of Arpajon or Charen-
tomeau was the butt of one and all One instance of this dubious
humour comes back to me as I write.

The Italian colony had erected a statue of Augustus in the middle of
those unending countrified streets that stretch for several miles from the
centre of the city. It was a reproduction in bronze, life-size, of an ancient
marble statue. No great shakes as a work of art, it was at least deserving
of some respect in a city where it aloae evoked a period earlier than the
nineteenth century. The people of S&o Paulo decided, however, that
the Emperor s uplifted arm indicated that Carlito lives here ; Carlos
Pereira de Souza, a prominent Brazilian politician, was in effect the
owner, in that very direction, of a large villa, now considerably
dilapidated, whose rosettes and volutes were meant to hark back to the
luxuries of the colonial era.

It was also agreed that Augustus was wearing shorts; humour
played only a half-share in this, for most of the population had never

S&> Paulo 107

seen a toga before and had no idea what it was. These jests went all over
Sao Paulo an hour after the unveiling and were repeated, with many a
thump in the back, at the exclusive* performance of that evening at the
Odeon cinema. Thus did the bourgeoisie of Sao Paulo avenge them
selves on the Italian immigrants who, from having arrival in the city
fifty years earlier as pedlars, had worked their way up to become the
owners of the most ostentatious villas on the Avenidas* and the
donors of the statue in question.

Our students wanted to know everything: but only the newest
theory seemed to them worth bothering with. Knowing nothing of the
intellectual achievements of the past, they kept fresh and intact their
enthusiasm for the latest thing*. Fashion dominated their interests: they
valued ideas not for themselves but for the prestige that they could
wring from them. That prestige vanished as soon as the idea passed
from their exclusive possession; there was great competition, therefore,
for the magazines and handbooks and popular* studies that would
empower them to get a lead over their fellows, and my colleagues and
I suffered much from this. Ourselves trained to respect only those
ideas which had been fully matured, we were besieged by students who
knew nothing at all of the past but were always a month or two ahead
of us in the novelties of the day. Learning was something for which
they had neither the taste nor the methods; yet they felt bound to
include in their essays, no matter what their nominal subject might be,
a survey of human evolution from the anthropoid apes to the present
day. Quotations from Plato, Aristotle, and Auguste Comte would
be followed by a peroration paraphrased from some egregious hack
the obscurer the better, for their purpose since their rivals would be
the less likely to have happened upon him.

Our students regarded the University as a tempting, but also
a poisonous, fruit. These young people had seen nothing of the world,
and most of them were too poor to have any hopes of travelling to
Europe. To many, we were suspect as representatives of the ruling class
and beneficiaries of a cosmopolitanism which cut across the life and the
national aspirations of Brazil. Yet we bore in our hands the apples of
knowledge; and therefore our students wooed and rebuffed us, by turns.
We came to judge of our influence by the size and quality of the little
groups which grew up around us, each anxious to outdo the other.
Homenajes manifestations in honour of the preferred teacher took
the form of luncheon- or tea-parties which we found the more touck-
ing because they must have meant real privation for our hosts. Our

io8 The New World

personal standing, and the standing of the methods we taught, would
go up and down like stock-market quotations according to the prestige
of the establishment concerned, the number of people involved, and
the social or official position of the personalities who had consented
to attend. As each of the major nations had its embassy in Sao-Paulo
the English tea-room, the French or Viennese confectioners , and the
German brasserie the choice of meeting-place had many a serpentine
implication.

If these lines should come to the notice of any of those who, once
delightful students, are now my respected colleagues I must ask them
not to resent what I say. When I think of you it is by your Christian
names, according to your custom: rich and strange they are, to a
European ear, and proof of how your fathers were still free to range
over the whole of human history to find just the name that would suit
your own fragrant beginnings. Anita, you were called, and Corina, and
Zenaide, and Lavinia, and Thais, and Gioconda, and Gilda, and Oneide,
and LiiciHa, and Zenith^ and Cecilia. And you others were called Egon,
and Mario-Wagner, and Nkanor, and Ruy, and livio, and James, and
Azor, and Achilles, and Deck), and Euclides, and Milton. It is not in
irony that I recall Aose first ioitant days. Quite the contrary: for they
taugbt nie !x>w precarious are the advantages conferred by time. I think
of what Europe was then, and of what it is now; I realize that you have
made inrfbctaal advances, in the last thirty years, of a kind which one
might expect to take several generations; and I see how one society dies
aadanotiiex comes into bang. I see, too, that the great upheavals which
seem, from the history-books, to result from the play of nameless
forces in the heart of darkness, may also be brought about, in an
instant of lucidity, by the virility and set purpose of a handful of
gifted young people.

PART IV

A Land and its People

12 Town and Country

T

J.HBRE was a certain amount of Soiiday-anthro-
pologizing to be done in Sao Paulo. But it was not among tie Indians
in the suburbs* whom I had been so niisleadingly promised; die suburbs
were either Syrian or Italian. The nearest ethnological curiosity was to
be found some ten miles away, in a primitive village whose tatter
demalion inhabitants bore, in their fair hair and blue eyes* the marks of
a recent Germanic ancestry. It was, in fact, around the year 1820 that
groups of German colonists had come over to settle in tie least-tropical
parts of the country. Around Sao Paulo they were to a large degpnee
dispersed among the near-destitute local peasantry; bet farther sooth,
in the State of Santa Catarina, the little towns of Joinvilk and Blumenau
had kept intact, beneath thearaucarias, a nmetemdwOTtuiy dcor. Hie
streets, lined by steep-roofsed houses, had German names; German was
tie only language spoken. On tie cafe terraces old men with mo-
taches and whiskers could be seen smoking long pipes with bowls made
of porcelain.

There were also many Japanese in die region round Sao Paolo,
These were less easily approached. TJ^iminigi^lio
they travelled free, they were guaranteed a tmpocary lodging on
arrival, and eventually they were distributed among farms, in the
interior, which wore half village half military-cainp in character.
Every aspect of life was catered for; schools, workshops, infirmary,
shops, entertairanent~-al were available on die spot. The emigrants
remained there for long periods in virtual isolation. The organizing
company naturally did all it could to encourage this, and the emigrants
meanwhile paid off the money owed to die company and salted away
their earnings in its coffers. Tlie company undertook to ship diem home
in due time, so that they could die in the country of their ancestors; and
if the malaria got the better of them while they were still in Brazil, then

in

H2 A Land and its People

their bodies, at least, were repatriated. Everything possible was done to
persuade the emigrants that during the entire course of this great
adventure they were always, as it were, in Japan. The organizers*
motives may not, however, have been exclusively financial, economic,
or humanitarian. Close study of the map seems to suggest that strategy
also may have prompted the location of certain farms. It was very
difficult to get insi.de the offices of the Raigai-Iju-Kumiai and the
Brazilr-Takahoka-Kumiai, and harder still to penetrate the almost
clandestine network of hotels, hospitals, brickyards, and saw-mills to
which the emigrants owed their self-sufficiency. In all this, and in the
choice of the areas for cultivation, certain devious designs could be
glimpsed. The segregation of the colonists in areas ingeniously chosen,
and the pursuit of such archaeological studies as could be combined
with the work of agriculture (the detection, for instance, of analogies
between Japanese neolithic artifacts and those of pre-Colombian Brazil)
these may well have been merely the visible extremities of a tortuous
and subterranean policy.

In die heart of Sao Paulo several of the markets in the poorer
quarters were run by coloured people. But perhaps the word coloured 7
has litde meaning in a country where a great diversity of racial strains
and in the past, at any rate an almost complete lack of colour-
prejudice has led to every kind of cross-breeding. Let us rather say that
the visitor could train himself to distinguish the mestizos (black crossed
witli white), the aAocks (white crossed with Indian), and the cafusos
(Hack crossed with Indian). The goods on offer displayed, by contrast,
an unmixed ancestry.

There was, for instance, thepeneiras, or sieve for manioc flour. This
was of characteristic Indian design, and composed of a rough trellis-
wodk of split bamboo-stalks held in place by a circular batten. And the
afKmk0s+ with which the Indians fanned their flames. These were also
of traditional design, and it was amusing to study them closely. Palm-
leaves are by nature tousled and pervioos, and to plait them in such a
way that they formed a single hard smooth surface and could be used
to set the ak in motion was a considerable technical feat. As there were
several sorts of palm4eaf--and many ways, too, of plaiting them the
fans took on every conceivable shape: each illustrating, as it were, the
solution of a particular technical theorem.

There are two main species ofpalm4ea In the one, the folioles are
distributed symmetrically on either side of a central stalk; in the other,
they fan out from their base. In the first case, two methods suggest

Re. i. A figa found at Pompeii
(die tip of the Anmb has
been broken)

themselves: either you fold all the folioles over on one side of the stalk
and plait them together, or you plait each group individually, folding
the folioles at right angles to one another arid inserting the bottom of
one into the top of the other, and vice versa. You then have two sorts
of fan: one wing-shaped, the other like a butterfly. The butterfly type
offers many possibilities: and these are always, in varying degree, a
combination of two others. Hie final result, whether shaped like a
spoon, a palette, or a rosette, reminds one of a sort of big flattened
chignon.

Another very attractive speciality of the Sao Paulo markets was the
jiga, or fig. This was an ancient Mediterranean talisman in the shape of
a fore-arm ending in a clenched fist; die thumb peeped out between the
first joints of tie second and third fingers. Doubtless this was probaHy
a symbol of sexual intercourse, fbefgas to be seen in S5o Pado were
either trinkets of silver or ebony, or objects as big as street-signs, naive
in design and brilliantly coloured. I used to hang them in hilarious
groups from the ceiling of my house a villa painted ochre, in the
Rome, 1900* style, and situated in the upper part of the town. The
entrance was overhung with jasmine and to the rear there was a little
oldr-fashioned garden in which I had asked my landlord to plant a
banana-tree by way of assurance that I was really in the tropics. After a
few years this symbolic banana-tree turned into a small forest and
provided me with great quantities of fruit
H 113

1 14 A Land and its People

A certain amount of work could also be done, in the outskirts of
Sao Paulo, on surviving tribal customs: May-day festivities where the
village was hung with green palm-leaves; commemorative contests
between mouros and cristaos, in which Portuguese tradition was faith
fully observed; the procession of the nau catarineta, with a cardboard
boat decked out with paper sails. And there was the pilgrimage to
certain distant leper-protecting parishes: here the foul-smelling pinga
would circulate (pinga is an alcoholic drink made from cane-sugar,
though not at all like rum: it is drunk either neat or mixed with
the juice of a lemon). Half-caste bards high-booted, dressed with
a strange gaudy fancy, drunk beyond redemption, and urged on
by the beating of the drums would strive to outdo one another in
tournaments of satirical song.

There were also beliefs and superstitions to be tabulated: that a stye
should be cured, for instance, by laying a gold ring on the eye; that all
ailments were divided into two incompatible groups comida quente and
comidajria, hot food and cold food. And other maleficent combinations:
fish and meat, mango with any alcoholic drink, bananas and milk.

But what was still more interesting was to get out into the hinter
land and examine, not the last traces of Mediterranean tradition, but
die strange devices of a society as yet hardly in being. The subject was
tbe same past and present were still in question but whereas in
classical anthropology the past serves to explain the present I was faced
with a situation in which the present harked back to certain very early
stages in the evolution of Europe. As in Merovingian times in France,
the beginnings of urban and coTntntmal organisations w^-re talcing shape
against a background of latifundia.

Hie agglomerations then coming into being were not like the towns
of today. There was none^of that ever-more-complete uniformity in
which administrative distinctions alone differentiate one city from
another and all trace of origins has been worn away. No: these towns
could be examined as a botanist examines his plants. And by the name,
die look, or the structure of each town one could trace their affiliations
with one or other branch of that urban kingdom which Man has added
to Nature.

During the last hundred and fifty years the pioneering fringe* has
moved slowly from east to west and from south to north. Around 1836
it was only in die Norte, that is to say the region between Rio and Sao
Paulo, that the colonists had any firm hold, but there was great progress
in the central area of the State. Twenty years later the colonists were

Town and Country 115

eating into the norths-east, on the Mogiana and the Paulista; in 1886
inroads were being made into the Araraquara, the Alta Sorocabana, and
the Noroeste, Even in 1935, in those two latter zones, the increase in
population ran parallel with the increase in the production of coffee,
whereas, in the older territories of the Norte, it took more thary fifty
years for the decline of the one to be reflected in the collapse of the
other. As early as 1854, that is to say, the exhausted plantations began
to fall into disuse, but it was not until 1920 that any sharp fall in
population was noted.

The use and disuse of these territories corresponded to a historical
evolution whose visible marks came and went in much the same way.
Only in the two big cities on the coast Rio and Sao Paulo was
expansion so massive as to seem irreversible. Sao Paulo had two hundred
and forty thousand inhabitants in 1900, five hundred and eighty
thousand in 1920, a million or more in 1928, and more Aap double
that number today. But in the interior towns of a sort would COIBC
into being, only to find the surrounding countryside suddenly deserted.
The population moved from one region to another, did not increase in
numbers, and changed constantly in social type, with the result that
fossil-towns could be observed side by side with towns in embryo; and
in a very short space of time the anthropologist could scrutinize
transformations as striking as those revealed to the palaeontologist who
studied the history of anatomical organization over a period of
millions of years.

Once away from the coast it was essential to remember that in the
previous hundred years Brazil had changed much more $wn it had
developed.

In Imperial times the human population, though small in numbers,
was relatively well laid out. The towns on or near the coast were tiny
by today s standards, but those in die interior had a vitality now lost to
them. We too often forget that paradox of history by which it is the
poorest who stand to profit by any general insufficiency of com
munications. When riding is the only means of transport, a journey
measured in months, rather than in weeks or days, is somehow less
distasteful and a mule-track less forbidding. The Brazilian hinterland
had an existence which, though slow, was unbroken; the river-boats
worked to a fixed schedule, even if it took months to complete one s
journey, stage by tiny stage; and tracks since completely forgotten, like
that from Cuiaba to Goyaz, were in full use in the 1830$, with caravans
of up to two hundred mules to be met with, en route.

Ii6 A Land and its People

Central Brazil was more or less completely abandoned at the begin
ning of the twentieth century not because it was undeveloped, but
because a price had had to be paid for the modernization of life in the
coastal areas and the consequent movement of the population in that
direction. In the interior, on the other hand, it was difficult to make real
headway; the wise thing would have been to accept and allow for a
dower rhythm of development, but instead of this the whole area went
steadily to pot Steam navigation, by accelerating the whole rhythm of
sea travel, has killed off many places which were once famous ports of
call; the aeroplane may well do the same. Mechanical progress pays
many dividends, and not the least of them may be the measure of
solitude and oblivion which it has given us in return for that intimacy
with the world which we may no longer enjoy.

The interior of the State of Sao Paulo and its neighbours illustrated
these transformations on a smaller scale. There was no longer any
trace, admittedly, of those fortified towns which had once guaranteed
the ownership of a province. Many towns on the coast, or on a river-
bank, owe their origins to this practice: Rio de Janeiro, Victoria,
Floriaiiopolis on its island, Balm and Fortaleza on die cape, Manaus,
Ofetdos on the banks of the Amazon, or Villa Bella de Mato Grosso,
wliase rains near the Goapoce are invaded from time to time by the
NamMkwara Indians; this was once the renowned garrison-city of a
atpti3& do mate (bust-captain) on the Bolivian frontier on the line,
that is to say, by which Pope Alexander VI had partitioned the still-
oiidiscovered New World, in 1493, between the rival kingdoms of
Spain and Portugal

To the north and east were to be found a few deserted mining-
towns, now in the last stages of decay, where flamboyant baroque
churches of the eighteenth century contrasted with the desolation
aromnl them. Once they hummed with activity: and in their fantastic
architecture they seem to have striven to preserve some particle of that
wealth which was to be their undoing. For tike mines brought devas
tation to die country around them- to tie forests, above all, whose
timber kept the foundries goiHg-nand the inining-towns died out, like
so many fires, as soon as they had consumed their own substance.

The State of Sao Paolo calls to mind other incidents in history: the
straggle, for instance, which from the sixteenth century onwards was
to rage between the planters and the Jesmts as to what form of social
organization should be followed. The Jesuits would have liked to take
the Indians in hand and get them organized in some form of coinmimal

FIG. 2. A rustic calvary in the interior of tlie State of Sio Paulo decorated
with various objects representing the instalments of the Passion

1 18 A Land and its People

life. In certain remote regions these original villages can still be recog
nized tinder the name of aUeia or missas and, more easily still, by their
ample and functional ground-plan: in the middle, overlooking a grass-
grown square of beaten earth, stands the church. Around it are roads
intersecting at right angles, bordered with the single-storeyed houses
that replaced the original native huts. The planters, fazendeiros, were
very jealous of the temporal power exerted by some of the missions:
these missions kept the planters* exactions in check and cut off their
supplies of cheap manpower. This explains that strange trait in
Brazilian demography by which village life has survived in the poorest
regions as an inheritance from die aldeia, whereas in those areas where
there was keener competition for the land the natives had no choice but
to group themselves around the house of their master. Their shacks,
uniform in design, were of straw or of mud, and their employer could
always keep an eye upon them. Even today, when the railway runs
through areas where there are no centres of population, stations have
had to be built quite arbitrarily, at fixed intervals, with names given in
alphabetical order: Buarquina, Felicidade, Limao, Marilia (in 1935 the
Paulista company had just got to the letter P). And so it is that for
hundreds of miles on end the train stops only at halts that serve a
fazendk where the whole population gathers: Chave Bananal, Chave
Concei$ao, Chave Elisa. . . .

But there were also cases in which the opposite occurred and the
planters decided, from pious motives, to make over a piece of land to
the Church. There then came into being zpatrimonio, or agglomeration
placed under the patronage of one of the saints. Other patrimonios had
a non-religious origin: a landowner may for instance have decided to
make himself a povoador, or *populator 5 , or even a plantador de cidade:
the planter, that is to say, of a town. In such cases he gave the town his
own name: Paulopolis, or Orlandia; or for political reasons he put it
under the protection of some high personage Presidente-Prudente,

Cornelio-Ptocopio, Epitacio-Pessoa Brief as was the cycle of their

life, the agglomerations found time to change their names several
times over, and much can be learnt from these names. Initially the name
served merely to identify the town and might be, indeed, a popular
nickname: Batatas , or potatoes, for a small patch of cultivated ground
in the bush; or Feijao-Cra*, raw beans, for a place where no fuel was
on hand to heat the saucepan. Or, if the place was simply a very long
way ofl and provisions normally ran short, it might be called * Arroz-
sem-SaT or rice-without-salt. And then one day a Colonel such was

Town and Country up

the generic tide given to all big landowners or political agents with a
concession of several thousand acres would aim to become a person of
influence. He d take on labour in a big way, begin to build, and create
a town where once there was only a floating population. Raw beans
would turn into Leopoldina or Ferdinandopolis. Later the city which
his ambition, or his capric^ had brought into being would peter out
and disappear; nothing would be left but the name, a hut or two, and
the remnants of a population eaten away by malaria and ankylosto-
miasis. Or else the city would flourish: its new-found civic conscious
ness will resent the fact that it was once the instrument, if not the
plaything, of a single man. A population newly arrived from Italy,
Germany, and half a dozen other sources will want to have roots of its
own; it will then hunt through the dictionary for an indigenous name,
generally of Tupi derivation, which will suggest that it has come to live
in a city of pre-Colombian origins: Tanabi, or Votuparanga, or
Tupao, or Aymore. . . .

The staging-points along the river had been killed off by the railway,
but there were still to be seen, here and there, traces illustrative of a
cycle broken in mid-course: sheds and a rude lodging at die water s
edge, to allow the boatmen to get a night s rest without being ambushed
by the Indians; then the portos de lenha, every twenty miles or so,
where the slender-funnelled paddle-steamers could put in for wood;
the water-terminus at either end of the navigable stretch; and the
transfer-points wherever rapids or a waterfall made it impossible to
proceed direct.

In 1935 there were two sorts of town which, though stricdy
traditional in appearance, were still full of life. These were the pauses,
or crossroad villages, and the boccas do sertao, or mouths of the bush ,
which stood at the head of a track lifting into the interior. Already the
lorry was taking the pkce of the mule-train and the ox-cart; taking the
same tracks, however, making much die same speed as it crawled in
first or second gear for hundreds of miles on end, stopping at the same
halts, where the drivers in their oil-stained overalls would drink side
by side with the leather-girt tropeiros.

The tracks were not all that one would have liked them to be.
Mosdy they were the old caravan routes that had served to bring
coffee, sugar, and cane-alcohol in one direction and salt, flour, and
dried foods in the other. These would be interrupted from time to time,
in the middle of the bush, by a registro: a wooden barrier surrounded by
a hut or two. Here a tatterdemalion peasant, the representative of some

FIG. 3. Ox-cart axle

problematical authority, would demand a toll. This led to the establish
ment of other, more clandestine networks: the estradas francanas, which
aimed to avoid paying those tolls; there were also the estradas
mukdas, mule-tracks, and the estradas boiadas, or ox-tracks. On these
latter could be heard, for two or three hours at a time, the coming and
going of the sound that nearly drove a new arrival demented: the
squeaking axle of an ox-cart* These were built to a model imported
from dbe Mediterranean in the sixteenth century. Unchanged in essence
since proto-lHsforic times, it brought the heavy body into direct contact
with dbe axle, with the result that it was as difficult for the oxen to get
the cart ialo motion at all as for them to haul the entire load.

Animals, carts, and lorries had forced their way along these tracks,
more or less in the same direction, according to the prevailing cdrcum-
stances of weather and vegetation. Such levelling as had taken place
was largely accidental, and the traveller had to do as best he could with
die ravines and the steep slopes stripped of all living matter that would
suddenly present themselves. Sometimes the track would widen until
it was lie a boulevard, a hundred yards across, in the very middle of
the bosh; sometimes it would divide itself into a score of ^distinguish
able paths, leading in every direction at once, with nothing to show
which was the true fil fAriane that would lead one but of the labyrinth.
At such times one could easily take the wrong one, toil for many hours
over a stretch of some twenty dangerous miles, only to find oneself
bogged down, at the end, in sand or marshlands. In the rainy season the
track would turn into a canal of greasy mud and could not be used at
all; and later, when the first lorry managed to get through, it would
leave deep ruts that dried quickly and hardened within three days to

120

Toum and Country 121

the consistency of cement. The vehicles that came later had to fit into
these as best they could, and many there were who had to travel for
hundreds of miles with a dangerous list* or found themselves repeatedly
marooned on crests that had to be cut away with a spade,

I well remember a trip on which Jean Maugiie, Ren6 Courtin, and
myself had setoff with the object of travelling as far as Q>urtin*sbran<i-
new Ford would take us. We got as far as the banks of the Araguaya,
about a thousand miles from Sao Paulo, and there visited a family of
Karaja Indians. On the way back the front suspension broke and we
went for some sixty miles with the engine resting directly on the front
axle and for another four hundred with the engine propped up on an
iron bar that had been run up for us by a village bkcksmith. I remember
especially the anxious hours we spent after nightfall in the unpopulated
hinterland of the States of Sao Paulo and Goyaz never knowing how
soon the furrows that we had chosen from among a dozen others would
betray us. Suddenly the pouso came into view beneath the halfhearted
stars; the sound of the generator that kept its electric lamps alight had
probably been audible for hours, but we had not distinguished it from
the other night-noises of the bush. The inn offered us a choice of
hammocks or iron bedsteads, and at dawn we were off along the main
street of the little town, with its houses and its all-purpose shops, and
its main square where regatSes and mascates held sway: hawkers,
itinerant doctors, dentists, and even lawyers.

On market-days the scene was one of great animation. Peasants by
the hundred had left their lonely hutments and travelled for days on
end with their entire families, for the sake of the annual transaction by
which they sold a calf, a mule, a tapir s or a puma s skin, or a few sacks
of rice, maize, or cofiee and received in exchange a length of cotton,
some salt, some petroleum for their lamp, and some ammtmition.

In the background is the plateau: brushwood, with a tree or two
here and there. It had lost most of its vegetation half a century earlier,
and the beginnings of erosion could be seen as if someone had made
a first few tentative strokes with an adze, Terrace formations were
marked off by a drop of a few yards in the level of the ground: later
these would turn into ravines. There was a broad but shallow stretch
of water not so much a river-bed as a piece of spasmodic flooding
and not far from this two or three avenues ran parallel along the
borders of a luxuriant property: a mui-walled rancho, roofed with
tiles, and dazzlingly white where the sun shone on its coating of chalk.
The shutters were framed in chestnut-brown and there were purple

122 A Land and its People

shadows on the ground. As soon as the first dwelling-houses appeared
they were like big covered markets, with unglazed window-spaces,
wide open for the most part, in the walls meadows of rough grass
sprang up beside them, and this grass was kept down to its very roots
by the cattle. The organizers of the fair had laid in special stores of
fodder: hay made from sugar-cane or pressed young palm-leaves. The
visitors camped out between the big square heaps of fodder, and the
heavy wheels of their carts were studded on the outside with huge nails.
Walls freshly made of wicker and a roof of rawhide roped into place
had protected the travellers on their journey and a screen of palm-
leaves or a tent-like strip of white cotton had hung out over the rear
of the cart. Rice, black beans, and dried meat were cooked in the open,
and naked children ran in and out between the feet of the oxen as they
chewed their sugar-canes; the soft stalks hanging down, meanwhile,
like fountains of greenery.

A day or two later, not a soul remained. The company had
vanished once again into the bush. Tie pouso drowsed in the sun,
excitements over for the rest of the year; save only the weekly opening
of the vi lias da Domingo, die Sunday rendezvous where horsemen would
find, at the crossroads, a drink-shop and a handful of huts.

13 The Pioneer Zone

OCENES of this sort can be repeated ad infinitum in
the interior of Brazil once you get away from the coast and head north
or west. The bush extends in those directions as far as die marshes of
Paraguay or the forest-bordered tributaries of the Amazon.

If you travel southwards, on the other hand, towards the State of
Parana, other landscapes and other modes of life come into view; the
ground stands higher, you draw farther and farther away from the
tropics, and the subsoil becomes volcanic. Tie visitor finds, side by
side, the remains of tribal society and the most up-to-date varieties of
colonial practice. It was therefore in die Norte-Parana that I made my
first expeditions.

It took hardly more than twenty-four hours to get to that farther
bank of the river Parana which marked the frontier of the State of Sao
Paulo. There ky the great damp forest of conifers, vast in size and
temperate in climate, which had for so long resisted the planters* efforts
to penetrate it Till 1930 or thereabouts it was more or less virgin
territory, known only to the bands of Indians who wandered freely
widiin it and to a few isolated pioneers^poor peasants, for the most
part who worked on their tiny plantations of maize.

At the time of my arrival in Brazil the region was beginning to be
opened up. A British company had secured from die government a
concession of nearly four million acres in return for an undertaking to
build roads and a railway. Hie British intended to re-sell the land, plot
by plot, to emigrants, mosdy from central and eastern Europe, and to
keep the railway for themselves. By 1935 the experiment was well
under way: the railway was biting deeper and deeper into the forest
diirty-odd miles at the beginning of 1930, eighty and more by the
end of that year, one hundred and thirty in 1932, one hundred and
seventy-five in 1936. . , . Every ten miles or so a station would be

123

124 A Land and its People

built, and a space about a kilometre square would be cleared all round
it: here a town was to come into being. These towns were built up
slowly but surely: at the head of the line stood Londrina, the senior,
with already three thousand inhabitants. Next came Nova Dantzig
with ninety, Rolandia with sixty, and so on; the newest of all was
Arapongas, which in 1935 could boast only one house and one in
habitant: a Frenchman, already in middle life, who went prospecting
in the desert in military leggings dating from the war of 1914-18 and
a yachting-cap. Fifteen years later the population of Arapongas was
ten thousand.

Riding or motoring along the new roads (like those of ancient Gaul,
these kept to the high ground) there was no way of knowing that the
country was alive. The lots ran down from the road to the river at the
bottom of the valley, and it was at the farther end, by the water, that
things had begun to move. The clearance work began below and
crept gradually up the slope, so that the road, the symbol of civilization,
was still deep in the forest which, for months or even years to come,
would still crown the top of the slopes. Down below, on the other
hand, the first harvests always on a prodigious scale in this terra roxa >
this untouched violet earth pushed their way between the great
fallen trees. Hie winter rains would soon turn these remains into a
fertile humus, which would be swept and driven along the slopes, in
company with that other humus that had for so long nourished the
iM>WKestroyed forest. It would not take long, we thought perhaps
ten, twenty, thirty years for this land of Canaan to turn into an arid
and devastated waste.

For the moment the emigrants had merely the problems of super
abundance to cope with. The Pomeranian and Ukrainian settlers had
not even had time to build themselves houses they still lodged with
their animals in wooden hutments besidg the stream so urgent
was the need to curb the ardour of this magnificent soil and break
it in like a wild stallion. Had this not been done their maize and cotton
would have run amok in over-luxuriant vegetation instead of coining
to orderly fruition. We saw German fanners weep for joy as they
showed us how a whole grove of leinonr-trees had sprung from a
cutting or two. For what astounded the men from the north was not
only the fertility: it was the strangeness of these crops that they had
known of only through fairy-tales. As tike area is on the frontier between
the tropical and the temperate zones* a difference of even a few feet in
altitude could bring about a marked difference in climate. European

The Pioneer Zone 125

and South American specialities could be grown side by side, and the
settlers delighted in exploiting this fact setting wheat next to cane-
sugar and coffee next to flax. . . .

The new cities were entirely nordic in character; like those who, a
century earlier, had grouped themselves in the south of the State,
around Curitiba, the new arrivals were Germans, Poles, Russians, and,
to a lesser extent, Italians. Houses built of planks, or from sqmredr-off
tree-trunks, called to mind central and eastern Europe. Long carts,
each with four spoked wheels and horses between the shafts, replaced
the Iberian ox-carts. There were unexpected survivals from the past, of
course, but what I found more interesting was the rapidity with which
the future was taking shape. Faceless areas would seem to acquire an
urban structure overnight; and just as an embryo forms itself into cells,
each of which becomes part of a particular group and has a function
all its own, so did each of the new towns acqirire a character peculiar
to itself. Londrina was already well organized, with a main street, a
business centre, an artisans quarter, and a residential section. But what
mysterious formative powers were at work in the patch of dead ground
which was all that Rolandia, and still more Arapongas, as yet amounted
to? What authority was parking out one set of citizens here, and
another there, and giving each sector of the new town an inescapable
function? Each town was initially a rectangular clearing in the forest,
with every street at right angles to every other street: they were
depersonalized tracings, geometrical outlines nothing more. Yet some
were in the centre, and some on the periphery; some parallel to tie road
or the railway, some at right angles to them. Some, therefore, Vent
with* the stream of traffic, while the others cut across it. Business and
commerce tended to string themselves out along tie first group;
private houses and certain public services either chose the second group
or were forced into it. The two antitheses (central/peripheral, parallel/
perpendicular) immediately established four different modes of urban
life; and over the future inhabitants of the city there already hung a
fatality success and failure, discouragement and initial advantage
derived automatically from the accidents of the grid. And more: there
would be two main types of inhabitant those who craved human
company and would gravitate naturally to the sectors which were more
heavily urbanized, and those who preferred isolation and liberty. Thus
would come into being a further contrapuntal element.

And then there was that strange element in the evolution of so many
towns: the drive to the west which so often leaves the eastern part of

126 A Land and its People

the town in poverty and dereliction. It may be merely the expression
of that cosmic rhythm which has possessed mankind from the earliest
times and springs from the unconscious realization that to move with
the sun is positive, and to move against it negative; the one stands for
order, the other for disorder. It s a long time since we ceased to worship
the sun; and with our Euclidean turn of mind we jib at the notion of
space as qualitative. But it is independently of ourselves that the great
phenomena of astronomy or meteorology have their effect an effect
as discreet as it is ineluctable in every part of the globe. We all
associate the direction east-to-west with achievement, just as every
inhabitant of the temperate zone of the southern hemisphere associates
the north with darkness and cold and the south with warmth and light.
None of all this comes out, of course, in our considered behaviour. But
urban life offers a strange contrast. It represents civilization at its most
complex and in its highest state of refinement; but by the sheer human
concentration which it represents within a limited space, it precipitates
and sets in motion a number of unconscious attitudes. Infinitesirnal as
these are in themselves, they can produce a considerable effect when a
large number of people are reacting to them at the same time and in the
same manner* Thus it is that every town is affected by the westward
drive, with wealth gravitating to one side and poverty to the other.
What is at first sight unintelligible becomes dear if we realize that every
town has the privilege (though some would see in it rather a form of
servitude) of bringing to our notice, as if under a microscope, the
incessant and insect-like activity of our ancestral and stiU-far-from-
extinct superstitions*

And can they really be called superstitions? I see these predilections
as a fonn of wisdom which primitive peoples put spontaneously into
practice; the madness lies rather in our modern wish to go against them.
These primitive peoples attained quickly and easily to a peace of mind
which we strive for at the cost of innumerable rebuffs and irritations.
We should do better to accept the true conditions of our human
experience and realize that it is not within our power to emancipate
ourselves completely from either its structure or its natural rhythms.
Space has values peculiar to itself, just as sounds and scents have their
colours and feelings their weight. The search for correspondences of
this sort is not a poets game or a department of mystification, as people
have dared to say of Rimbaud s sonnet des voyettes: that sonnet is now
indispensable to the student of language who knows the basis, not of the
colour of phenomena, for this varies with each individual, but of the

The Pioneer Zone 127

relation which unites one phenomenon to another and comprises a
limited gamut of possibilities. Tliese correspondeiices ofier the scholar
an entirely new terrain, and one which may still have rich yields to
ofier. If fish can make an aesthetic distinction between smells in terms
of light and dark, and bees classify the strength of light in ternis of
weight darkness is heavy, to them, and bright light ligjht Jest so
should the work of the painter, the poet, and the composer and the
myths and symbols of primitive Man seem to us: if not as a superior
form of knowledge, at any rate as the most fundamental form of
knowledge, and the only one that we all have in common; knowledge
in tie scientific sense is merely the sharpened edge of this other
knowledge. More penetrating it may be, because its edge has been
sharpened on the hard stone of feet, but this penetration has been
acquired at the price of a great loss of substance; and it is only efficacious
in so far as it can penetrate far enough for the whole bulk of the
instrument to follow the sharpened point.

The sociologist has his part to play in the elaboration of this world
wide, concrete humanism. For the great manifestations of Society have
this in common with the work of art: that they originate at the level
of unconscious existence because they are coEective, in the first case,
and although they are individual, in the second; but the difference is not
of real importance is, indeed, no more than apparent because the first
is produced iy, and the seconder, the public; and the public supplies
them both with their common denominator and determines the
conditions in which they shall be created.

Cities have often been likened to symphonies and poems, and the
comparison seems to me a perfectly natural one: they are, in feet,
objects of the same kind. The city may even be rated higher, since it
stands at the point where Nature and artifice meet. A city is a congre
gation of animals whose biological history is enclosed within its
boundaries; and yet every conscious and rational act on the part of
these creatures helps to shape the city s eventual character. By its form,
as by the manner of its birth, the city has elements at once of biological
procreation, organic evolution, and aesthetic creation. It is both natural
object and a thing to be cultivated; individual and group; something
lived and something dreamed; it is the human invention, par excellence.

In the synthetic towns of southern Brazil one could detect in the
lay-out of the houses, the specialized use to which each street was put,
and the beginnings of individual style in each quarter of the town, the
workings of a clandestine and enormously obstinate will. And th^

128 A Land and its People

seemed all the more significant in that it ran contrary to (though it also
prolonged) the fancies which had brought the towns into being.
Londrina, Nova Dantzig, Rolandia, and Arapongas had been born of
the decisions of a group of engineers and financiers, but already they
were reverting to the authentic diversity of urban life, just as Curitiba
had reverted a century ago and Goiania may be reverting today.

Curitiba, the capital of the State of Parana, appeared on the map on
the day the government decided that a town should be built: the
territory which had been bought from its former owner was cut up
into lots and sold at a price cheap enough to attract an immediate influx
of population. The same system was later used to endow the State of
Minas with its capital, Bello Horizonte. With Goiania a greater risk
was taken, because the original plan was to build up from nothing at all
the future federal capital of Brazil.

About a third of the way, as the crow flies, from the south coast to
the line of the Amazon there are enormous plateaux which we have
left untouched for the last two hundred years. In the days when the
caravans were in constant use and there were boats on the river they
could be crossed in a few weeks, if you were making your way north
wards from the mines; and once on the banks of the Araguaya you
could take a boat to Belem. Hie only remaining witness to all this,
when I arrived, was the little town of Goyaz, capital of the State which
had taken its name, which eked out a sleepy existence some seven
hundred miles from the coast, from which it was virtually cut off. It
stood among a mass of greenery and was dominated by an erratic
skyline of palm-topped hills. Streets of low houses ran down the
hillsides greeti with gardens. Horses passed to and fro in front of the
ornamented faades of churches that were half barn, half bell-towered
mansion. The colonnades, the use of stucco, the sumptuous porticos
freshly painted in white or pink or ochre or blue all reminded me of
Spanish country-town baroque. On either side of the river were moss-
grown quays that had caved in* here and there, under the weight of the
lianas, tie banana-trees, and palm-trees that had run wild among the
unoccupied properties; but this superabundant vegetation did not so
much underline the decrepitude of those properties as add a note of
silence and dignity to their dilapidated facades.

Whether it was a matter for outrage or for rejoicing Tm not quite
sure but the administration had decided to forget about Goyaz, and
its countryside, and its pebble-jpaved streets, and its unfashionable
graces. It was all too old and too small. Ttiey needed a dean date before

The Pioneer Zone. 129

they could get on with the enormous undertaking that they had in
mind. This was to be found sixty-odd miles to the east, on a plateau
where nothing grew hut rough grass and thorny shrubs, as if some
plague had swept across it and destroyed all living creatures and all
other vegetation. No railway led to it, and there were no roads: cart-
tracks, merely. This was the region, sixty miles square, which had been
marked out on the map as the site of the federal district in which the
capital of the future was to be built. Its architects, untempted by any
natural advantages, could proceed as if on a drawing-board. The town-
plan was marked out on the site; the outer boundaries were fixed and,
within them, each zone was clearly prescribed: residential, adminr-
istrative, commercial, industrial. Pleasure, likewise, had its allotted
space, for there was no denying its importance in a pioneer city* When
the town of Marilia was built in the 19205 in much the same way some
fifteen per cent of the six hundred houses were brothels. Most of their
inmates were Francesinhas of the sort which, in the nineteenth century,
formed with the more orthodox sisters of mercy the twin spearheads
of French civilization abroad: so much so, indeed, that even in 1939
the French Foreign Office devoted a substantial part of its clandestine
credits to their furtherance. It would be only fair to add that the
foundation of the University of Rio Grande do Sul, in Brazil s most
southerly State, and the predominance of French studies there, were due
to the passion for French literature and French liberty which a future
dictator learned, in his Paris student days, from a French lady of easy
virtue.

Suddenly every newspaper was full of the news. The city of
Goiania was to be founded: and along with the town-plan, which
could not have been more complete if Goiania had been already a
hundred years old, there was a list of the advantages to be enjoyed by
its inhabitants: modern roads, a railway, running water, up-to-date
drains, and the cinema.1 even seem to remember that at one time land
was offered at a premium to anyone who would pay the legal fees:
lawyers and speculators were the earliest citizens of Goiania.

I visited Goiania in 1937. Among endless fladands half dead
ground, half battlefield with telegraph poles and surveyors* stakes all
over the place, a hundred or so brand-new houses could be seen at the
four corners of the horizon. The biggest of these was the hotel, a square
box of cement, with the look of an air-terminus or a miniature fort;
one might have called it the bastion of civilization* in a literal,
and, therefore, a strangely ironical sense. For nothing could be more
I

130 A Land and its People

barbarous, more essentially inhuman, than this way of grabbing at the
desert. This graceless erection was the contrary of Goyaz. It had no
history. It had neither lived long enough nor acquired any of the
associations which might have concealed its emptiness or softened its
awkward outlines. One felt as one feels in a station or a hospital: always
in transit. Only the fear of some catastrophe could have justified the
erection of this square white fortress. And indeed that catastrophe had
occurred: silence and stillness served only to heighten its menaces.
Cadmus the civilizer had sown the dragon s teeth. The earth had been
torn up and burnt away by the dragon s breath: Man would be the
next crop.

PART V

The Caduveo

14 Parana

camp in Parana! Or rather doa t!
Keep your greasy papers, your empty beer-bottles, and your discarded
tins for Europe s last-remaining sites. There is the place for your tents.
But, once beyond the pioneer zone, and until the day, now all too
imminent, when they will be ruined once and for alWfeave the
torrents to foam undisturbed down terraces cut into hillsides violet
with basalt* Keep your hands off the volcanic mosses, so sharp and cool
to the touch; tread no farther when you come to the first of Ae
uninhabited prairies, and to the great steamy codifar-forest, where the
trees that rise above tie entangled bracken and liana and thrust up into
the sky are tlte exact opposite, in shape, of our European conifers: not
cone-shaped, that is to say, and tapering towards the summit, but <m
the contrary so designed that their branches stand out in hexagonal
platforms, growing always wider and wider, until at the very top they
spread out like an immense umbrella, as if to prove Jkudelake s
contention that it is by its irregularity that the vegetable contests with
the mineral kingdom.

It was a landscape intact and unchanged for uaillions of years past:
carboniferous majesty personified. Higt4ying, and fk enough from
the tropics to have escaped the confusion of the Amazonian, basin, it
had preserved a sokmn dignity and sense ofiinbl<^ifthed order which
seemed explicable only by the workings of a race wiser and more
powerful than our own. It is apparently to the disappearance of tins
race that we owe the opportunity of exploring these sublime parklands,
now given over to alienee and abandonment

My first contacts with a primitive people were made on this high
ground, some three thousand feet above sea-level, in the area which
stands above both banks of the Rio Tibagy. I was travelling with one

133

134

of the district commissioners of the Indians* Protection Service on one
of his tours of inspection.

At the time when we Europeans discovered it the whole of southern
Brazil was inhabited by tribes rekted to one another both in language
and in culture. We grouped them under the collective name of Ge.
They would seem to have been pushed back, not many centuries before,
by Tupi-speaking invaders who were already in occupation of the
entire coastal strip; the struggle against them was still going on. The
Ge of southern Brazil had fallen backinto regions difficult of access; and,
whereas the coastal Tupi had quickly been mopped up by the colonists,
the Ge had survived for several centuries. Certain small bands had even
survived into the twentieth century in the forests of the southern States
of Parana and Santa Catarina. One or two may even have kept going
until 1935, for they had learnt from the ferocious persecutions of the
previous hundred years to keep themselves entirely hidden from the
outer world. But for the most part they had been rounded up towards
the year 1914, and the Brazilian government had corralled them with
the object of integrating them into modern life . In the village, for
instance, of Sao Jeronymo, which was my own particular base, there
had been a locksmith s shop, a chemist s, a school, and a saw-mill.
Axes, knives, and tyaiU were sent up at regular intervals, and clothes
and blankets were made available to all. Twenty years later this experi
ment had been abandoned. The Protection Service left the Indians to
their own devices, and in so doing revealed to what an extent it had
itself been deserted by the authorities (it has since regained a little
ground); and the Service was compelled, quite involuntarily, to try
another method that of inciting the natives to take things into their
hands, once again, and follow their own bent.

All that remained to the natives of their brief experience of
dvilizatioEL were their Brazilian clothes and the use of the axe, the knife,
and the needle and thread. In other respects the failure was complete.
Houses had been built for them, and they preferred to live in the open.
Efforts had been made to install them in villages, and they were still
nomads. They had broken up their beds for firewood and gone back
to sleeping on the ground. lite herds of cows sent by the government
had been left to roam off as they pleased, since neither their milk nor
their meat was acceptable to the Indians. The mechanical pestle made of
wood (it was worked by leverage) stood rotting and seemed never to
have been used: the meal was still ground by hand.

It was a great disappointment to me to find that the Tibagy Indians

Parana 135

were neither true Indians* nor, for that matter, *txoe savages*. But, in
so far as they disabused me of the ingenious and poetical notion of
what is in store for us that is common to all novices in anthropology,
those Indians taught me a lesson in prudence and objectivity. Not only
were they less intact than I had hoped: they also had secrets that I
could not have guessed on first acquaintance. Tliey were a perfect
example of that sociological predicament which is becoming ever more
widespread in the second half of the twentieth century: they were
former savages , that is to say, on whom civilization had been abruptly
forced; and, as soon as they were no longer *a danger to Society*,
civilization took no further interest in them. Their culture was made up
for the most part of ancient traditions (such as the practice, still common
among them, of filing down and inlaying their teeth) which had li^M
out against the influence of the whites. But it also included certain
borrowings from the civilization of our own day, and the combination,
though not rich in the accepted dements of the picturesque, was
nevertheless an original field of study, and one quite as instructive as
that offered by the uncontaminated natives with whom I was to have
to do later.

Now that these Indians were thrown back upon their own resources,
there could be noted a strange reversal of the apparent equilibrium
between modern* and primitive* cultures. Old ways of life and
traditional techniques reappeared; the past* to which they belonged
was, after all, neither dead nor distant. How else could one account for
the admirably polished stone pestles which stood side by side, in the
Tristans* houses, with the enamelled metal plates, the cheap mass-
produced spoons, and in more than one instance die skeletal
remains of a sewing-machine? Perhaps the pestles had been acquired by
barter, in the depths of the forests, with those unsubdued and ferocious
populations against whom, in certain parts of the Parana, the small-
holders had never made any headway? To know for certain one would
have to retrace, stage by stage, the odyssey of the elderly Indian faravo
who was spending his years of retirement on government territory.

These mysterious and haunting relics related to the times when the
Indian had neither house, nor clothes, nor metal utensils of any sort.
And the ancient techniques survived, likewise, in the half-conscious
memories of these people. They knew of matches, for instance; but as
these ware expensive and hard to come by the Indians preferred to make
fire by the rotation or rubbing together of two soft pieces of palmito
wood. The government had distributed rifles and pistols, at one time,

The Caduveo

but these were mostly to be found hanging in the long-abandoned
homes; the Indians went hunting with bows and arrows fashioned with
the traditional ^1k of a people that had never seen firearms. And so
the old ways of life would reassert themselves after the brief period of
official obsolescence, just as slowly and as surely as the Indians would
file along the tiny forest paths, while in the deserted villages roof after
roof would crumble in dust.

For a fortnight on end we rode forward on horseback through the
forest. Often the distances were so vast, and the tracks so sketchy, that
it was far into the night before we arrived at our staging-point. It
astonished me that our horses should never put a foot wrong in the
impenetrable darkness: this was made the more impenetrable by the
ceiling of foliage that closed down, a hundred feet above our heads.
But they kept up the same jerky motion, hour after hour; sometimes
the track would lurch abruptly downhill and we would have to reach
quickly for the tall pommel of our peasant saddles; sometimes a sudden
coolness from below us and the squelch of water would show that we
were crossing a stream. And then our mounts would scramble up the
farther bank with movements so frantic as to suggest that their one
wish was to be rid of both saddle and rider. Once on flat ground again,
we had only to remain alert and profit by that strange awareness which
allows one, as often as not, to duck in time to avoid the low branch
which one has sensed but not seen.

And then suddenly an identifiable sound comes to us from some
where ahead: not die jaguar s roar which we heard for a moment at
nightfall, but the barking of a dog. Our night s lodging is not far
distant. A few minutes later our guide swings off the main track and
we follow him into a litde enclosure where rough tree-trunk barriers
mark out a catde^pen and the solitary hut is roofed with straw. Our
white-dad hosts are in hospitable commotion: the husband is often of
Portuguese origin, his wife Indian. With the aid of a wick soaked in
keroseaae, we make a rapid inventory: floor of beaten earth, a table, a
plank bed, a few packing-cases to serve as chairs, and on the baked-day
hearth a collection of old cam and tins: our hosts batterie de cuisine. We
hastily sling our hammocks through the interstices of the openwork
wall of juxtaposed palm-trunks; sometimes we go and sleep outside,
under the canopy that protects tie garnered maize from the rain.
Surprising as it may seem, it s ddiciausly comfortable to lie on a heap
of maize; the long ears, with the leaves still wrapped around them,
form themselves into a compact mass that adapts itself perfectly to one s

Parana

body and there is something marvellously soothing about their sweet
grassy smell But at dawn the cold and the damp put an end to sleep;
a milk-white mist rises from the clearing; we make haste to go mskfe
the hut, where the gjow from the hearth relieves the perpetual semi-
darkness. (There are no windows, of course, but the light pmetrates
the insterstices in the walls,) Our host brews Ae blswie^: of black cofee
with plenty of sugar at the bottom of it and pipaca (popcorn), mixed
with pieces of larding bacon. Our horses are broug|it tip and saddled,
and we are off; a few moments, and the watery forest closes down again
and the hut is lost and forgotten.

The Sao Jeronymo reserve covers about a quarter of a million acres
and is inhabited by about four hundred and fifty Indians, grouped m
some five or six villages. I was able before leaving to examine the
statistics and get an idea of the harm done by malaria, tuberculosis, and
alcoholism. In the previous ten years there had not been more than one
hundred and seventy births, and infantile mortality alone had accounted
for one hundred and forty of them.

We visited the wooden houses which the federal government had
built. They were grouped in villages of from five to six fires, with
water nearby; we also saw the more isolated houses which the Indians
occasionally built for themselves; these consisted of a square palisade of
palmito-trunks, bound together with liana, and a roof made of leaves
and hung on to the walls by its four corners. And we also examined
those branch-hung awnings beneath which whole femilies would often
live, leaving the adjacent house unoccupied.

The inhabitants, in such cases, would be assembled round a fire
that was kept burning night and day. Hie men generally wore lie
ragged remains of a shirt and an old pair of trousers, and the womm
either a cotton dress, worn need: the skin, or a blanket rolled
armpits. The children went naked. AH wore, as did we ourselves while
travelling, large hats of straw; the making of these was, indeed, their
only activity and their only way of making money. Both n^m aond
women bore, at every age, the marks of the Mongolian type: lightly
built, with broad fiat faces, prominent cheekbones, yellow skin, narrow
eyes, black straight hair worn either long or short, in the case of the
women and the body almost or entirely hairless* They live in one
room. They eat, at no matter what time of the day, the sweet potatoes
that lie roasting in the ashes* picking them out with long pincers of
bamboo. They sleep on either a thin layer of bracken or a pallet of
maiz<>-stra w* Each lies with his feet nearest the fire. The few remaining

138 The Caduveo

embers and the screen of tree-trunks roughly thrown together make a
poor protection, in the middle of the night, against the intense cold
that comes down at an altitude of over three thousand feet.

The houses built by the Indians themselves amount to this one same
room, just as in the houses built by the government only one room is
ever put to use. All the Indian s worldly goods are to be found there,
laid out on the ground in a degree of disorder that scandalized our
guides. It was difficult to distinguish the objects that were Brazilian in
origin from those made near at hand. Brazilian, in general, were axes,
knives, enamelled plates and metal receptacles, rags, needle and thread,
bottles and, on rare occasions, an umbrella. The furniture was of the
rudest: a few low wooden stools ofguarani origin; baskets of all sizes
and for every purpose, in which was to be found the technique of

FlG. 4. "Kaingafrg pottery

twilled plaiting which is so common in South America; a sieve for
floor, a wooden mortar, a pestle of wood or stone, a pot or two; and,
finally, an immense number of receptacles of every sort and size,
constructed from the abobra, a gourd emptied of its contents and dried.
It was very difficult indeed for us to get hold of one of these pathetic
objects: often a preliminary and wholesale distribution of rings,
necklaces, and glass brooches would have foiled to establish the friendly
contact without which nothing could be done. Even the offer of
milreis, in a quantity vastly in excess of the intrinsic value of the coveted
object, would leave its owner indifferent. He just can t. If he d made
it himself he d give it gladly. But he got it a long time ago from an
old woman who alone knew the secret of its manufacture, and if he
gave it away he could never get another.* The old woman is, of course,
never at hand. She is: 1 don t know where . . . somewhere in the forest.

Parana 139

Besides, what good are our milrcis to an elderly Indian, trembling with
fever, who lives sixty miles from the nearest white man s shop? One
would be ashamed to wrest from these people, who already have so
few possessions, something that, for them, would represent an
irreparable loss.

But often it s a very different story. The Indian woman in question
would be delighted to sell the pot. But unfortunately it s not hers to
dispose of. Whose is it, then? Silence. Her husband s? No. Her
brother s? No. Her son s? No. It s her little daughter s, The litde
daughter invariably turns out to own all the things that we would like
to buy. Aged perhaps three or four, she s squatting beside the fire,
entirely absorbed in the litde ring that I dipped on her finger a while
ago. And there follow endless negotiations with the young lady:
negotiations in which the parents take no part. A ring and five hundred
reis do not tempt her, but she is won over by a brooch and four
hundred reis.

The Kaingang are not great cultivators. Fishing, hunting, and
collecting are their main activities. Their fishing equipment is soch a
wretched imitation of our own that one can hardly believe they ever
catch anything: a supple branch, a Brazilian hook attached with a litde
resin to the end of the line, sometimes a piece of ordinary rag in die
guise of a net. Hunting and collecting dominate their nomadic life in
the forest, where for weeks on end "whole families disappear from view
and nobody can find them out in their secret lairs or follow their
complicated itineraries. Sometimes we come on die litde troop at die
moment when they happen to cross our padi; instantly they deck back
into the forest. The men lead the party, with bodotpte in hand a form
of pellet-bow used in the hunt for birds and over their shcndders the
quiver, made of basketwork, in which is kept their ammunition: pellets
of dried day. Next come the women, witih all their worldly goods
either wrapped in a woven scarf or supported in a basket by a strap of
bark wound round their foreheads. Children and household objects
were both carried by this means. A few words might be exchanged, as
we reined in our horses and they slackened their pace for a moment:
and then the forest would fall silent again. We knew only that the
next house, like so many others, would be empty. For how long?

This nomadic life can go on for weeks or months. Hie hunting
season, like the season for faxLtjabotteatw, orange, lima sees the entire
population on die move. Where do they find shelter in the depths of
the forest? From what secret hiding-places do diey retrieve their bows

140 The Caduveo

and arrows? (We ourselves found, at most, a specimen or two that had
been forgotten in some corner of a deserted house.) And what are the
traditions, the rites, the beliefs that prompt them to go back to the
forest?

Gardening comes last in the Indians economy. Sometimes a patch
of cultivated ground can be glimpsed in the forest: between high
ramparts of trees, a few poor square yards of greenstuff bananas,
sweet potatoes, manioc, maize. The grain is first dried by the fire, and
then pounded with the mortar by women working singly or in
couples. Flour is eaten as it is or made up with fat into afirmcake. To
this diet black beans are added; and as far as meat is concerned there
may be either game or the semi-domestic pig. These are invariably
impaled on a stick and roasted above a fire.

Nor should I forget the koro, a whitish worm that pullulates in the
trunks of certain trees when they begin to rot. The Indians now refuse
to admit that they enjoy eating these creatures: such is the effect of the
white man s continual teasing. But if you go into the forest you are
sure to come upon the phantom of a great tree, zpinheiro sixty or eighty
feet high that has been blown do wn in a storm and torn to pieces by the
Jwo-xod&. And if you enter an Indian house unannounced you can
often see^-just for a second, before they have time to whip it away a
cap in wMch the favourite worms are wriggling by the score.

AM this makes it difficult actually to watch the feoro-extractors at
tbeir work. We spent a considerable time plotting and planning how
best to achieve it One old fever-stricken Indian whom we found, all by
himself in an abandoned village, seemed just the man to help us; we
put an axe in his hand and tried to push or prod him into action. But
to no avail: he feigned not to know what we were after. As a last
mdtjcemmt we told him that we were ourselves longing to taste koro.
Eventually we got him to a suitable trunk, and with one blow of the
axse Ee cot down to where, deep in the hollow of the tree, a network of
canals lay waiting. In each was a fat white creature, not unlike a silk
worm* Now it was up to us; and the Indian looked on impassively
while I cut off the head of the worm. The body oozed a whitish
substance which I tasted, not without some hesitation. It had the
smoothness and the consistency of butter and the flavour of coconut-
milk.

15 Pantanal

T

JLH

LHUS baptized, I was ready for real adventures. AB
opportunity for these was to present itseJf during the period of
University vacation. This runs, in Brazil, from November to March,
and has the disadvantage of also being the rainy season. I planned, in
spite of this, to make contact with two groups of natives. Tlse one,
never as yet the object of serious study, had perhaps already very
largely disappeared: the Caduveo on the Paraguayan frontier. Hie
other group was better known, but still promised much: the Bororo in
the central Mato Grosso, In addition thie National Museum in Rio de
Janeiro suggested that I should go and identify an archaeological site
which lay on my route. No one, as yet, had had a chance to investigate
this, although it had long figured in the archives.

I ve often travelled, since then, between Sao Paulo and the Mato
Grosso, sometimes by aeroplane, sometimes by lorry, and sometimes
by train and boat. It was this last means that I used in 1935-6; the site
in question lay, in fact, near the railway andnol; far from the md of the
line at Porto Esperan^a, on the left bank of tie Rio Paraguay.

It was a tedious joomey, with not much to be said about it; die
Noroeste railway company took you first to Bauru, in the w^M^ of
the pioneering zone; from there you took the Mato Grosso nigbt-
train* which ran across the soQ&em part of fie State. A diree days*
journey, in all, in a train that proceeded slowly , used wood for &!, and
stopped long and often for fresh loads of logs. The carriages were also
of wood, and none too well put together; the traveller awoke to find
his face covered with a film of stiffened day so thoroughly had the
red fine dust of the sertS made its way into every fold and every pore.
The restaurant-car had already adopted the gastronomic manners of
the interior: meat, fresh or dried, as opportunity offered, and rice or
black beans with famha (poached com) to absorb the juice. (Farinha

141

142 The Caduveo

consists of the pulp of maize or fresh manioc, dehydrated by great heat
and pounded down into a coarse powder.) Next came the eternal
Brazilian dessert a slice of quince or guava jelly, with cheese to go
with it. At every station boys would offer us, for a penny or two, juicy
yellow-fleshed pineapples; these were delightfully refreshing.

The State of Mato Grosso begins just before the station of Tres
Lagoas, where the train crosses the Rio Parana, a river so wide that even
when the rainy season has already begun you can still see the dry bed in
many places. Then began the landscape which was to become at once
familiar, insupportable and indispensable during the years that I
travelled in die interior. It is typical of central Brazil, from the Parana
to the Amazonian basin: featureless, or at most gently rolling plateaux,
distant horizons, a tangle of brushwood, and occasionally a troop of
zebus that scattered as the train went by. Many travellers make the
mistake of translating Mato Grosso as big forest : the word forest is
rendered rather by the feminine *mata , whereas the masculine rnato*
stands for the complementary element in South American landscape.
Mato Grosso means, in feet, big bush*: and one could devise no better
name for this part of the world. Wild and forlorn as it is, its very
monotony is somehow grandiose and stirring.

Admittedly I also translate sertao as bush . But the word has a
slightly different connotation. Mato relates objectively to the bush as an
element in the landscape which contrasts with the forest. Sertao, on the
other hand, has a subjective significance: landscape, in this case, is
considered in relation to human beings, and sertao means the bush , as
opposed to land that is inhabited and cultivated a region, that is to
say, where man has not yet contrived to set up his home. French
Colonial sbflg has an equivalent in the word bled*.

Sometimes the plateau is interrupted and there comes into view
instead a wooded, overgrown valley: a happy valley , almost, beneath
dhe unmeaiacing sky. Between Campo Grande and Aquidauana a
deeper ravine allows us to glimpse the blazing cliffs of the Maracaju
serra; over there in the gorges, at Corrientes, there is already to be
found a gmmpo % centre, that is to say, of diamond-hunters. And
suddenly the whole landscape changes: once past Aquidauana, the
traveller enters the pantonal: the world s greatest marshland, which
occupies the middle basin of the Rio Paraguay.

Seen from the air, this region, with river after river snaking across
the flat ground, seems to be made up of arcs and meanders where the
water lies stagnant. Even the line of the river-bed seems marked with

innumerable pentimenti, as if Nature had hesitate! before giving it its
present and temporary course. At groand-lervel, the ptmtmd becomes
a dream landscape. lie zebu-troops take rdfiige these, as if on an ark
poised on the top of a submerged hill; and in the marshlands proper the
big birds flamingoes, egrets, herons-iand together to foon compact
islands, pink and white in colour, though not so feathery as the fentail
foliage of the caranda-palrns which secrete a valuable wax in their
leaves; these are the palm-trees whose severed grores alotie d
misleadingly pleasant perspectives of this watery desert.

Lugubrious and ill-named Porto Esperan^a remains in my memory
as the oddest site to be found anywhere on the globe* Its only possible
rival in this respect is Fire Island in the State of New York; and it
amuses me to put the two side by side, for they have at least one tiring
in common: that each, in its different key, offers within itself the
wildest contradictions. Geographically and humanly speaking an
identical absurdity finds outlet in them: comic in the one case, sinister
in the other.

Perhaps it was Swift who invented Hre Island? It s a long stop of
sand on which nothing grows, and it runs to seaward of Long Hand. It
has length, but not breadth: fifty-odd miles in one direction, two or
three hundred yards in the other. On the ocean side the sea runs freely ,
and with such violence that people dare not bathe there. To landward
a flat calm prevails, and the water is so shallow that it s as much as
you can do to get wet. People amuse themselves by catdbing the inr-
edible fish of the region; and in order that these should not decay
notices are posted at regular intervals along the beach, ordering die
fishermen to bury their catch as soon as they have it out of the water.
The dunes of Kbre Island are so unstable, and so precarious is their
ascendancy, that another series of notices has been put up: *Keep Off
The Dunes, this says, for they may suddenly subside into the waters
below. It s Venice back-to-front, with earth that turns to water and
canals that hold firm: the inhabitants of Cherry Grove, the hamlet
which stands at the half-way point of the island, can move about only
on a network of wooden gangplanks that has been put up O@Q stilts.

The picture is completed by the fact that Cherry Grove is mainly
inhabited by homosexual couples doubtless drawn to the area by its
wholesale invasion of the normal conditions of life. As nothing grows
in the sand, save large clumps of poison ivy, there s daily revictualling
at the island s only shop. This stands at the landing-stage; and as each
sterile couple clambers back up towards the cabins that line the slender

144 The Caiuveo

alleys above the dunes, it pushes before it a pram: no other form of
vehicle can negotiate the narrow streets . Empty they are, none the less,
but for the week-end bottles of milk that no nurslings are waiting to
drink*

Fire Island has an element of high-spirited farce; its equivalent at
Porto Esperan^a is adapted, one would say, to a population more
thoroughly damned. Nothing justifies the existence of this town; it s
simply that the railway-track pulls up at this point against the river, and
a line a thousand miles long, which runs through uninhabited territory
for three-quarters of its length, comes to a halt. Thenceforward it s by
boat alone that the traveller can penetrate the interior; the line peters
out on the muddy river-marge, where a ramshackle construction of
planks serves as a landing-stage for die little river-steamers.

The railway employees form the entire population; their homes, the
entire town. Wooden huts, they are, built directly on the marshes, and
accessible only by the decrepit gangways which mark out the inhabited
area. The company had put at our disposition a chalet : a cubiform
box, that is to say, that stood on tall stilts and was reached by a ladder.
Tie door opened into space above a railway-siding, and we were
aroused at dawn by the whisdc of the tall-framed locomotive that was
to serve us as our private limousine. The nights were very disagreeable;
evearytMng combined to make sleep impossible the damp heat, the
big marshncttosquitoes that moved in to the attack, and even our
mosquito-nets whose design, all too carefully studied before departure,
temed out to be far from satisfactory. At five o clock in the morning,
when the steam from our locomotive came hissing up through the
flimsy floor, the day had already developed its full heat. There was no
mist, in spite of the damp, but the sky was like lead and the atmosphere
seemed weighted down, as if by some supplementary element that had
made it impossible to breathe. Luckily die locomotive got up a good
speed and as we sat in the breeze with our legs dangling over the
gtiard-irons we gradually shook off the night s languor.

Tbe single track (it s used by two trains a week) had been laid across
the marshes in roughr-and-ready style. It was no more than a flimsy
gangplank that the locomotive seemed constantly disposed to jump
aside from* On either side of the line there was water: dirty, disgusting,
stale, and foul in smell. Yet this was to be, for weeks, our drinking*
water.

To left and right were clumps of shrubs, spaced out as if in an
orchard; at a distance diey formed into dark masses, while the sky,

Pantanal %**

reflated in the water, projected here and there its own likeness beneath
the branches. Everything seemed to be simrryr^g at a low heat: it was
a stew that would take a long time to mature. If it were possible to
linger for many thousands of years in this prehistoric landscape, and to
follow its evolution closely, we should no doubt witness the trans
formation of organic matter into peat, or coal, or petroL I even drought
that I saw some petrol rising to die surface, staining the water with
its delicate iridiscence; this intrigued our engine-crew, who had refused
to believe that we should give ourselves, and them, so much trouble
for the sake of a few shards; and they were encouraged by our pith
helmets, symbol of the engineer*, to believe that archaeology was
merely a pretext for prospecting of a more lucrative sort.

Sometimes the silence was broken by creatures who were not
frightened by us: a veado y or astonished and white-tailed roebuck; or a
troop of emu (small ostriches); or the white flash of the egret as k
skimmed along the surface.

As we went along, workmen would often hail the locomotive and
clamber up beside us. Then came a halt: Kilometre 12; the branch-line
gave out at that point and we had to do the rest of the journey on foot.
We could already see opr destination in the distance, with its typical
look of the capm.

The waters of the pantanal are not stagnant, as they would seem to
be; they drag along with them a quantity of shells and alluvium, which
piles up at points where vegetation has taken root. This is how the
pantanal comes to be strewn with spiky tufts of verdure oipSes, they
are called where once the Indians set up jfeftjr camps. Traces of dbek
passage may still be found.

And so we would go off every day to our particular cspfo, which
we reached by a wooded track that we had bcrik up with sleepers taken
from the ride of the line. Tliese were vary disagreeable days* for it was
difficult to breathe, and our drinking-water*, taken direct from the
marshes, was hot from the sue. At the aid of the day the locomotive
came to fetch us; or sometimes it was one of the devils , as they were
called open trucks pushed along by workmen who stood, oee in each
corner, and shoved away with long sticks, like gondoliers. Wearied
and thirsty, we had before us a sleepless night in the desert of Porto
Esperan^a.

Some sixty or seventy miles distant there was a laig^sh cultivated
area which we had chosen as our departure-base for the Caduveo. The
Fazenda jrmcesa, as it was called on the line, occupied a strip of some

146 The Caduveo

one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres alongside of which the
train ran for about eighty miles. In all some seven thousand animql^
wandered here and there among this great expanse of brushwood and
dry grasses (an animal needs, in the tropics, not less than fifteen or
twenty-five acres to itself). Periodically, and thanks to the feet that the
train stopped two or three times along the edge of the domain, these
animals were exported to Sao Paulo. The halt which served the in
habited part of the area was called Goaycurus a name that called to
mind the great warrior-tribes that once ruled over the region; of these
tribes the Caduveo are the last survivors.

Two Frenchmen managed the property, with the help of a few
families of cowherds. Tve forgotten the name of die younger French
man, but the other, who was rising forty, was called Felix R. Don
Felix, he was commonly named. He was later murdered by an Indian.

Our hosts had either grown up or served in the forces during the
First World War. By temperament and by aptitude alike they were cut
out to become settlers in Morocco, and I don t know what it was that
led them to leave Nantes and head for a more precarious adventure in
a derelict region of Brazil. The Fazendajrancesa was, in any case, in a
bad way* Ten years had passed since its foundation, all its capital had
been absorbed by the initial purchase of the land, and the owners had
nothing left with which to buy better beasts or newer equipment. Our
hosts lived in a huge English-style bungalow. Half grocers, half cattle-
raisers, they led an austere existence. Tihtfazenda s sales-counter was,
in efiect, the only provision-store for sixty or seventy miles in any
direction. The empregados^ or employees workers or peons came and
spent there with one hand what they had earned with the other; an
entry in die books sufficed to turn them from creditors into debtors,
and it was rare, in point of feet, for money actually to change hands.
As most things were sold at two or three times their normal price
such was the accepted practice it would have been quite a going
concern if the shop had not occupied a merely subsidiary place in tie
whole venture. It was heart-rending to watch the workpeople on a
Saturday. They would arrive with their litde crop of sugar-cane, press
it immediately in the fazerutas engenho (a machine made of trunks
roughly squared off, in which the cane-stalks were crushed by tie
rotation of three wooden cylinders), evaporate the juice in a hot iron
pan, and pour what remained into moulds, where it turned into tawny
blocks, granular in consistency. Rapadura, these were called: and they
would hand them in to the adjacent store. When evening came they

Pantanal 147

would re-present themselves, this time as customers, and pay a high
price for the right to ofier their children their own product refijr-
bished, by then, as the sertaos only sweetmeat.

Our hosts took a philosophical view of their role as exploiters of
the natives. They had no contact with their employees outside of
working hours, and no neighbours of their own class (the Indian
reserve stood between them and the nearest plantations on the Parsn
guayan border). The very severity of the life which they imposed on
themselves was, no doubt, their best protection against discouragement.
In dress and drink alone did they make some concession to their adopted
continent. Living in a frontier-area where traditions were a mixture of
Brazilian, Paraguayan, Bolivian, and Argentinian, they dressed pampa-
style: a Bolivian hat of finely woven unbleached straw, with wide
upturned brim and tall crown; and the chiripa, a grown-up s variant of
swaddling clothes. Made of cotton and delicate in colour, with stripes
of pink or blue or mauve, it left the legs and lower thighs bare. Cloth-
topped white boots came well up the wearer s calves. When the weather
turned cool, the chiripa gave place to the bombacha: billowing trousers
such as zouaves wear, with rich embroidery down the sides.

Almost all their working hours were spent in the corral, where
they worked over their animals looking them over, that is to say,
and picking out those which were ready for sale. A storm of dust arose
as the beasts, urged on by the capataz guttural cries, filed past before
their masters and were separated, some into one park, some into
another. Long-horned zebus, fat cattle, and terrified calves weat
stumbling through the barriers. Sometimes a bull jibbed; and when
this happened the lassoeiro would send his forty yards of finely plaited
thong whirling through the air, and in a flash, as it seemed, the bull
would be captured and horse and horseman pranced in triumph.

But twice a day at eleven-thirty in the morning and seven in the
evening there was a general assembly underneath die pergola which
ran round their house. The ritual in question was that of the chimarrao:
mate drunk through a tube. The mate is a tree of the same family as
our ilex; and its foliage, lightly roasted over the smoke of an under
ground fire, is pounded into a coarse powder, the colour of reseda,
which keeps for a long time in kegs. I m talking of the real mate, of
course: the product sold in Europe under that name has usually under
gone such sinister transformations as to bear no resemblance to the
original.

There are several ways of drinking mate. When on an expedition

148 The Caduveo

we were too impatient for its immediate stimulus to do more than
throw a large handful of the powder into cold water and bring it
quickly to the boil. (It s vital, even then, to whip it off the fire at the
very moment it boils: otherwise it loses all savour.) That is what is
called cha de matt, an infusion in reverse, dark green in colour and almost
oily, like a cup of strong coffee. When time was short, we made do
with the terere: this simply involved pouring cold water on a handful
of the powder and sucking it up through a tube. Those who dislike a
bitter taste often prefer the mate doce* favourite of the beauties of
Paraguay: the powder, in this case, is mixed with sugar, turned to
caramel over a quick fixe, plunged into boiling water, and passed
through a sieve. But I know of no amateur of mate who does not give
pride of place to the chitmrrao, which is at once a social rite and, as was
the case at tkzfazenda, a secret vice.

All present sit in a circle around a little girl, the china, who has with
her a kettle, a charcoal-stove, and a cuia, which may be either a calabash
with a silver-mounted mouth, or, as at Guaycurus, a zebu horn sculpted
by a peon. The cuia is two-thirds full of powder, and the little girl
gradually saturates this with boiling water; as soon as the mixture has *
a paste she takes up a silver tube whose bulbous extremity is
with holes, and with this she carefully scoops out a hollow in
&crf*astse, so designed that the pipe rests at die very bottom of the cuia,
in the little grotto where the liquid collects. The tube, meanwhile,
most have just enough pky not to spoil the equilibrium of the paste,
bet not too much: otherwise the water will not mbr in properly. The
chim&rrao is then ready, and it only remains to let the liquid saturate
frilly before it is offered to the master of the house. He takes two or
three draughts and gives the vessel back to the little girl; whereat the
operation is repeated for everyone present men first, and women
later, if women are present at alL And so it continues until the kettle is
empty.

lie first draught or two will yield a delicious sensation to the
habitue, that is to say: the novice will often burn himself. This sensation
is made up of die slightly greasy texture of the hot silver, the effer
vescent water, and the rich, foamy substance that is borne up with it: at
once bitter and aromatic, as if a whole forest had been concentrated
into half a dozen drops. Mate contains an alkaloid analogous to that
found in coffee, tea, and chocolate, but on account of its dosage and
also perhaps because of the tartness of the liquid itself it is as soothing
as it is invigorating. After the vessel has been round a few times the

Pantanal 349

mate begins to lose its quality, but if you explore carefully you can
still plunge the pipe into anfractuosities as yet unexplored; these
prolong the pleasure with, fresh bursts of bitterness.

Mate is vastly superior, one must say, to the Amazonian gmrana*
of which I shall speak later; and, even more so, to the wretched wca of
the Bolivian plateau: this is a most paltry compilation of dried leaves
that soon degenerates into a fibrous ball, flavoured like a tisane, that
acts as an anaesthetic on the mucous membrane and reduces one s
tongue to the status of a foreign body. Hie only drink that can compare
with mate is the richly orchestrated chique of betel-nut beaten up with
spices; simply terrifying, to the unprepared palate, is the salvo of scents
and savours which this can let off.

The Caduveo Indians lived in the low ground on the left bank of
the Rio Paraguay, which was separated from the Fazen^a frmtesa by
the bills of the Serra Bodoquena. Our hosts regarded the Caduveo
Indians as idlers and degenerates, thieves and drunkards, who were
summarily turned out of the pasturelands when they attempted to
penetrate them. Our expedition seemed to them doomed from the
start; and although they gave us generous assistance, without which we
should never have achieved our ends, they regarded the whole venture
with disapproval. Great was their stupefaction when we returned some
weeks later with oxen as heavily laden as those of a caravan: huge
ceramic jars, painted and engraved, roebuek-iides decorated in
arabesque, wooden sculptures representing a vanished Pantheon. . . .
It was a revelation, and one which left them strangely changed: when
Don Felix came to call on me in Sao Paulo, two or three years later, I
understood from him that he and his companion, who had treated the
local population so vary much de hmt en fws, had *gone native*, as the
English say. The little bourgeois parlour oftfazfazewla was hung with
painted skins, and native potteries were to be found in every corner.
Our friends were playing at the bazaars of Morocco or tbe Sudan, like
the exemplary colonial administrators whom they should really have
been. And the Indians, now their official suppliers, were made warmly
welcome at thefazenda; whole famffffs were lodged there, in exchange
for the objects they brought. Just how far did their intimacy go? It was
difficult to imagine two bachelors able to resist the Indian girls when
once they came to know them so attractive were they, half naked on
festivaWays, with their bodies so patiently decorated with elegant blue
and black scrolls and whorls that seemed to have been laid on the skin
like a coating of elaborate lace. Be that as it may, Don Felix was

150 The Caduveo

murdered in 1944 or 1945: a victim not so much of the Indians, one
might think, as of the disturbed state into which he had been thrown,
a decade earlier, by the visit of us novice-anthropologists.

Thefazendds store provided what we needed to eat: dried meat,
rice, bkck beans, manioc flour, mate, coffee, and rapadura. We were
also lent mounts; horses for the men, and oxen for our luggage, for we
were taking with us a good deal of stuff to exchange for what we hoped
to bring back: children s toys, glass necklaces, rings, scent; and also
pieces of doth, blankets, clothes, and took. Some of the fazenda
workers were to act as our guides very unwillingly, as it happened,
for we were taking them away from their families at Christmas-time.

The villagers were expecting us; no sooner had we arrived at the
fazenda than Indian vaqueiros went off to announce that strangers
bearing presents were on their way. This news was, if anything,
disquieting to the Indians, who feared one thing above all: that we
were cx>ming tomar owto to usurp their land.

1 6 N alike

ALIKE, capital of the Cacbveo country, is akmt
a hundred miles, or three days* ride, from Guaycurus. (The oxen were
sent on ahead, because of their slower speed.) For our first day s inarch
we planned to climb the slopes of the Serra Bodoquena and spend the
night on the plateau in the last of tke fazendds huts. We very soon
got into narrow valleys where the grass stood so high that the horses
could hardly make their way through it Swampy ground underfoot
made the going still more laborious: my horse would slip, struggle back
to firm ground as and when it could, and find itself entirely surrounded
by vegetation. We then had to take great care: for an innocent4ooking
leaf might secrete beneath it a wriggling egg-shaped mass of diminutive
ticks, and these little orange-coloured brutes would get in under our
dothes, spread all over our bodies like a tableKioth on the march, and
bed down under our skin. The only remedy was for the victim to
counter-attack immediately, jumping down offhis horse, stripping off
his dothes, and beating them out as hard as he could, while one of his
companions searched his body. Less catastrophic were the bigger singk
parasites, grey in colour, which dung to the skin and inffictel no pain;
hours or days later, when we happened to find them by touch, they had
sunk into our flesh and had to be cut out with a knife.

Eventually the ground deared and we got on to a stony track which
led up to a dry forest, half trees and half cacti, A storm had been
brewing since morning, and it broke just as we were rounding the
top of some cactus-infested high ground We dismounted and looked
for shelter in a hole in the rock: this turned out to be a grotto which,
though damp in itself would protect us from the storm. As soon as we
got into it, there arose an immense whirring and stirring of bats: we
had disturbed their lumbers.

The rain over, we rode on through the darkened and overgrown

152 The Caduveo

forest. It was full of cool smellsand wild fruit: the heavy-fleshed, bitter-
tasting ^empopo, and in the clearings theguavira which was supposed to
refresh every traveller with the perpetual coolness of its pulp, and the
caju which proved that once the Indians had had a plantation there.

The plateau had the characteristic look of the Mato Grosso: high
grass and scattered trees. We came up to our staging-point across a
zone of marshland, where tiny waders cantered across the mud; by the
corral, and then the hut, we recognized the Largon post, where the
family was absorbed in the mise a mort of a bezerro, or young bull. They
were getting to work on the body, while two or three naked children
clambered over the bleeding carcass with cries of delight. Above the
open fire which shone out in the twilight the churrasco, shiny with
grease, was roasting, while the urubus carrion vultures came down
by the hundred to the scene of the slaughter and fought with the dogs
for the bloody remains.

From Largon onwards we followed the so-called Indians route .
The serra ran steeply downhill so much so that our horses took fright
and we had to dismount and guide them. The track ran above a
torrent and we could hear, even if we could not see, the water
cascading down off the rocks; we ourselves slipped and slithered,
mfanwirile, on the damp stones or in the muddy pools left by the last
fall of rain. Eventually, at the foot of the serra, we came to a circular
clearing, the campo dos inctios, where we and our mounts rested for a
while before plunging again into the marshes.

Already at four in the afternoon we had to begin planning for our
*night*s rest*. We sought out a group of trees from which to hang
hammocks and mosquito-nets; our guides lit a fire and began preparing
orar meal of rice and dried meat. We were so thirsty that we drank
deeply of the repellent mixture of earth, water, and permanganate
whkii was all we had to drink. Night fell, and for a moment we
watched the sky go scarlet behind the dirtier muslin of our mosquito-
nets. Hardly had we gone to deep before we had to be off again: at
midnight, when the guides woke us, they had already saddled the
horses. It was die hot season and we had to make the most of the cool
of the night. We set off in the moonlight, still half asleep, shivering
with cold, and generally fit for nothing. We watched for the dawn,
hour after hour, as our horses stumbled forward. About four o clock in
the morning we got to Pitoko, where the Indians* Protection Service
had once had an important outpost. AH that remained of this was three
ruined houses: just enough for us to swing our hammocks from. The

Nalike 153

Rio Pitoko ran silently on towards the point, a mile or two farther
on, where It vanished again into the pantanaL A marshland river, with
neither source nor mouth, it harboured a mass of piranhas: dangerous
to the unwary bather, these did not deter the wily and experienced
Indians either from bathing or from drawing such water as they needed.
A few families of Indians are still to be found here and there in the
marshes.

Thenceforward we were in the pantanal proper: either shallow
basins of floodland between wooden crests, or immense tree4ess
expanses of mud. A saddled ox would have served better thati a horse;
for, slow as he is, the massive ox, with the guiding rein passed through
his nostril, is better able to stand the strain of plunging forward through
mud that often comes up to his breast-bone.

We were in a plain that stretched as far, perhaps, as the Rio Para
guay, a plain so flat that the water could never drain off it, when there
caine down upon us the worst storm that I have ever had to face. There
was no possibility of shelter not a tree in sight in any direction
nothing to do but to go slowly forward, while to right and to left of
us the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed like an artillery barrage,
and the water ran down off horses and men alike. After a two hours*
ordeal the rain stopped, and we could see the squall moving slowly
across the horizon, as happens sometimes on the high seas. But already
at the far edge of the horizon there was outlined a terrace of day,
perhaps a few dozen feet high, on which a group of huts stood out
against the sky. We were approaching, not Nalike, but the nearby
village of Engenho. We had decided to stay there in preference to
Nalike, which in 1935 could muster only five huts in alL

To an inattentive eye these hamlets differed hardly at all from those
of die nearest Brazilian peasants. Sock, too, was die proportion of half-
castes that the inhabitants were indistinguishable both in thribr way of
dressing and in their physical type. But the language was a very
different matter: the gtmcunt manner of speech was delightful to the
ear. They were headlong talkers, with a profusion of long words made
up of the alternation of open vowels with dental and guttural sounds
and an abundance of soft or liquid phonemes which sounded like a
stream dancing over pebbles. The word caduveo* (pronounced
*cadiueu*) is a corruption of the natives* own name for themselves:
"Cadiguegodi*. Our stay was too short for us to attempt to learn their
language, especially as our new hosts* grasp of Portuguese was
rudimentary in the extreme*

The Cabiveo

The houses were supported by trunks, stripped of their bark,
which stood firmly at the four corners; horizontal beams were lodged
in die fork of the first branch, which the woodsman had been careful not
to cut rigjit through. A blanket of yellowed palm-leaves formed a roof
that sloped down on both sides, but the huts differed from the
Brazilian lodges in that they had no walls; they were, in feet, a com
promise between the white men s huts (from which the roof had been
copied) and the ancient native shelters, whose roofing had been flat
and made of matting.

There was much to be learnt from the dimensions of these rudi
mentary homes. Rarely did they shelter a single family only; some were

FIG. 5. Water-jar, decorated in bright red
and varnished with black resin

like long narrow hangars, and housed as many as six families, each of
whom had its clearly defined Irving-space. This was furnished with
platform-beds made of planks, on which the tenants would spend their
time: lying, sitting, or squatting, among the buckskins, lengths of
cotton, calabashes, nets, and straw baskets which were laid, or heaped,
or hung all over the place. In the corner could be seen the big decorated
water-jars which stood on forked wooden supports: sometimes these
supports were sculpted.

These constructions had once been long houses , not unlike those
of the Iroquois, and some of them still looked to deserve the name. But
it was now merely for reasons of convenience that several families
would live in the same house, whereas formerly the residence had

Nalike 155

been matrilocal: the sons-inr-law woaH congregate with their wives in
die house of their pareots-in-kw.

"The past* was, in any case, far distant in this pitiaHe hamlet, where
there remained not so much as a memory of the prosperity which the
painter-explorer Girido Boggiani witnessed in 1892 and again in 1897.
Boggiani s two journeys yielded both a delightful travel-diary and an
important collection, now in Rome, of anthropological documents.
The total population of the three centres was not above two hundred.
They lived by hunting, collecting wild fruit, rearing a few cows and
some farmyard animals, and cultivating a few strips of manioc on the
far side of the little stream their only erne which ran below the foot
of the terrace. The water was opalescent and slightly sweet to the
taste: we used it both for washingmosquitoes notwithstanding and
for drinking.

Apart from straw-plaiting, the weaving of the cotton belts worn
by the men, and the hammering-out of coins (nickel more often than
silver) into discs or tubes that could be strung on necklaces, pottery was
the main activity of the inhabitants. The women would mix the clay
of the Rio Htoko with pounded potsherds, roll the mixture in&>
sausage-like pieces and press them together till the desired shape was
formed; and when the day was still damp they would embellish it
with string impressions, painted over with a ferrous oxide found in the
serra. Then it was baked in the open air, after which it only remained
to go on with the decorations while the pot was still hot, with the help
of two varnishes of juicy resin: the black of die pau sanfo, and the trans
lucent yellow of the angico. And when the pot had cooled they would
go on to apply a white powder rhalt- or ash in order to touch up
the impressions.

The women also made little figures for the children with whatever
came nearest to hand: day, or wax, or tie dried pods of a large fruit
which needed only minor additions or re-modellings.

The children also had litde wooden statuettes, often dothed in
rags, which they used as dolk Some litde statuettes, seemingly very
like the others, would be preserved with love and care by some of the
older women and put away at the bottom of their baskets. Were these
toys? Or likenesses of the gods? Or ancestor-figures? It was impossible
to say, so contradictory were the uses to which they were put: and all
the more so as one and the same statue would sometimes serve now one
purpose, now the other. In some cases those now in the Muse de
fHomme, for instance there can be no doubt that the meaning of the

156 The Ccubivee

statue was religious: we can recognize the Mother of the Twins, for
instance, or the Little Old Man the god who had come down to earth
and been ill-treated by mankind: now he was taking his revenge, and
only that one family which had protected him was to be exempt from
punishment. That the holy figures had been given over to the children
as toys might, of course, be a symptom of the collapse of the faith in
question; but this would be altogether too easy an interpretation. An
identical instability, as it seems to us, was described by Boggiani in the
18905, by Fritch a decade later, and by investigators who were there
ten years later than myselE A situation which remains stationary for
fifiy years can only be called, in one sense, normal; and to interpret it
we must realize not only that religious values are crumbling as they
undoubtedly are but that the natives have a particular way, and a way
that is more widespread than we sometimes suppose, of handling the
relations between the sacred and the profane. The opposition of the
two is neither so absolute, nor so constant, as some philosophers have
liked to suppose.

In the hut next to mine there was a witchr-doctor whose equipment
included a round stool, a head-dress of straw, a gourd-rattle covered
with a cotton net, and an ostrich-feather which he used to capture the
tefos, or evil spirits, which were the cause of all illness. Such was the
power of the witdt-doctor T s own bkho that the patient, once cured,
would be relieved also of the evil spirit. Hie beneficent bicho was also
a natural conservative: he forbade his protege to let me have any of his
equipment: I m used to it/ was the message he sent.

While we were there, great celebrations were held to celebrate the
puberty of a gid who lived in one of the other huts. They began by
dressing her in the style of former days: in place of her cotton dress, a
square piece of doth swathed round her from her armpits downwards.
Elaborate designs were painted on her shoulders, arms, and face, and
all the necklaces that they could lay hands on were heaped round her
neck. AM this may, of course, have been not so much a matter of
ancient tradition as an attempt to give us *our money s worth . Young
anthropologists are always taugjbt that primitive peoples are frightened
of the camera and that it is best to allay their fears with a preliminary
gift, either in cash or in kind. The Caduveo had brought this to
perfection: not only did they insist on being paid before they would
pose for pictures, but they actually forced me to photograph them in
order that they should be paid for podbg. Rare was the day on which a
woman would not present herself in some freakish get-up or other and

FIG. 6. Three examples of
Cadirveo pottery

RG. 7. Two wooden static

ettes: the Litde Old

Man (kft) and the

Mother of the Twins

(right)

FIG. 8. Caduveo jewellery made
of hammered coins and
thimbles

insist that, whether I wanted to or not, I should photograph her and
make her a present of a few milreis. As I had no films to waste I would
often merely go through the motions* with the camera and hand over
the money.

Yet it would have been very bad anthropology to rebuff these
people, or even to regard them as a symptom of decadence or money-
For their manoeuvres were merely a transposed form of

certain characteristics of their tribal traditions: the independence and
authority of high-torn women, ostentatiousness when faced with
strangers, and an insistence that the ordinary person should render
them due homage. My job was to re-transpose these traits into the
context of their former institutions.

Similarly with the festivities which followed the ceremonial
imposition of tribal dress upon our young lady-neighbour. From
afternoon onwards the pinga (cane-sugar alcohol) began to go round,
while the men, seated in a circle, laid loud claim to one rank or another
in the lower hierarchy of the army (the only one of which they knew
anything) corpora^ sergeant, lieutenant, captain. This was the
counterpart of the solemn drinking-parties* described by eighteentfc-
centory travellers, in which the chiefs, seated according to their rank,
would be served by equerries, and heralds would call out the titles of
each one, as he drank, and recite the list of his doughty deeds.

Drink affected the Caduveo in a curious way: after a period of high
excitement they fell into a doleful silence, which in its turn was suc
ceeded by convulsive weeping. Two others, less far gone, would at
this stage take their despairing comrade by the arm and march trim
up and down, murmuring words of consolation and affection until he

158

Nalike 159

made up his mind to be sick. All three then returned to their places and
fell to rtrmlring again.

Meanwhile the women would repeat over and over again a brief
three-note snatch of song. One or two of the older womm would
gather to one side and get under way with a drinking-bout of their
own, gesticulating and speechifying with what appeared an almost
complete incoherence. Laughter and mischievous comment broke out

RG. 9. Statuettes of mythological personnages in stone

and wood

all around them. Yet, here also, it would have been wrong to regard
all this merely as self-indulgence on the part of a set of drunken old
women. The ancient authors bear witness that these festivities and
more especially those which marked some important stage in the
growing-up of a child of noble birth were marked by transvestite
demonstrations on the part of the women of the tribe: military parades,
dances, and tournaments. In the 19305 these ragged peasants were a
pitiable sight in tK^ir forlorn and marshy habitat; but thg*r wretched
ness made it all the more striking that they should have clung so
tenaciously to some vestige of tfaeir ancestral customs.

17 A Native Society and its Style

IHE ensemble of a people s customs has always its
particular style; they form into systems. I am convinced that the
number of these systems is not unlimited and that human societies, like
individual human beings (at play, in their dreams, or in moments of
delirium}, never create absolutely: all they can do is to choose certain
combinations from a repertory of ideas which it should be possible to
reconstitute. For this one must make an inventory of all the customs
which have been observed by oneself or others, the customs pictured
in mythology, and the customs evoked by both children and grown-
of in their games. The dreams of individuals, whether healthy or sick,
and jpsydk>fathological behaviour should also be taken into account
WA aB this one could eventually establish a sort of periodical chart of
chemical dements, analogous to mat devised by Mendeleier. In this, all
customs, whether real or merely possible, would be grouped by
fcmSies, and all that would remain for us to do would be to recognize
those which societies had, in point of feet, adopted.

These reflections are espedally apt in the case of the Mbaya-
Goaicaru: the Caduveo in Brazil are, with the Paraguayan Toba and
Rlaga, the last representatives of this people. Their civilization
immediately calls to mind something which our own society has
pictured in one of its traditional distractions something, too, whose
essence was well captured by Lewis Carroll in Alice in Wonderlandfa
these Indian knights remind us of the court-cards in the pack. Thek
dress, to begin with: they wore tunics and leather surcoats which
broadened their shoulders and hung stiffly down in folds, with painted
patterns in red and Hack that reminded earlier travellers of Turkey
carpets. To us, these patterns are notable for the moths of the spade,
the diamond, the club, and the heart: these recur over and over again.
They had their kings and their queens; and like those in Lewis

160

A Native Society and its Style i<Si

Carroll, the Caduveo queens loved to play with the severed heads that
their warriors brought back from battle. Nobles of both sexes delighted
in tournaments and were absolved from all menial tasks by an enslaved
people that had been installed there long before the Caduveo and
differed from them both in language and in culture: the Guana, All that
now remains of these is the Tereno, who live in a governmental
reserve not far from the little town of Miranda, I went to see dhein
there. In former times the Guana tilled the soil and paid the Mbaya
lords a tribute of agricultural produce in exchange for their protection*:
as an insurance, that is to say, against pillage and sacking by bands of
armed horsemen. A sixteenth-century German who ventured into the
region described the relationship as similar to that then existing in
central Europe between the feudal lords and their serfs.

The Mbaya were organized by castes; at the top of the social ladder
the nobles were divided into two orders: the great hereditary nobles,
on the one hand, and individuals who had been raised to the nobility
generally in order to sanction the coincidence that they had been
born at the same rime as a child of high rank. The great nobles were
also divided into senior and junior branches. Next came the warriors:
and the best of these were admitted, afro: initiation, into a brotierhood
which entitled them to bear special names and use an artificial language
made up (as in certain forms of slang) by the addition of a suffix to
every word. The slaves, whether of Chamacoco or other extraction, and
the Guana serfs constituted a plebs: the Guam serfs had, however,
divided themselves for their own purposes into three castes similar to
those of their masters.

The nobles bore, quite literally, the *marfc of their rank* in the form
of pictorial designs painted or tattooed on their bodies* These were
the equivalent of an escutcheon. Tbey plucked out all their facial hair
eyebrows and lashes included and recoiled in disgust from the
bushy-browed European: the ostriches* brother* was their narrre for
fern- Men and women alike were accompanied in public by a suite of
slaves and hangers-on: these vied with one another to spare them all
effort. As late as 1935 their best draughtsmen, or draughtswomen, were
hideous old monsters, heavily made up and weighed down with
trinkets, who excused themselves for having had to give up their
former accomplishments, now that they were deprived of the slaves
who had once been at thek service. There were always, at Nalike, a
few former Chamacoco slaves: now part of the group, they were still
treated with condescension.

. , TheCaJuveo

162

Such was the cold arrogance of die great nobles that even the
Spanish and Portuguese conquerors acknowledged it by according
lion the style of Don and Dona. A white woman who was captured
in those days by the Mbaya was said to have nothing to fear: no
Mbaya warrior would contaminate himself by union with her. Certain
Mbaya ladies refosed to meet the wife of the Viceroy: only the Queen
of Portugal, they said, was worthy to associate with diem. Another,
while still a young girl, and known as Dona Catarina, returned a polite
refusal when the Governor of the Mato Grosso invited her to Guiaba;
as she was of marriageable age she assumed that the Governor
would ask for her hand in marriage, and it was out of the
question for her ei ther to accept such an offer or to humiliate him by

a refusal.

Our Indians were monogamous; but the girls sometimes chose, in

adolescence, to fellow the warriors in their adventures, serving them as

equerries, pages, and mistresses. The noble ladies, for their part, had

mm to dance attendance upon them; often these were also their lovers,

bet no husimnd, in such a case, would deign to make any show of

jealousy: by so doing he would have lost fece. What we call natural

senfimcmts were held in great disfavour in their society: for instance, the

idea of procreation filled them with disgust. Abortion and in&nticide

uroe so common as to be almost normal to the extent, in feet, that

it was by adoption, rather than by procreation, that the group ensured

its ocmtmuance. One of the main objects of the warriors expeditions

was to king back children. At the banning of the nineteenth century

it was estimated that not more than one in ten of Guaicuru group were

Gtiaicuru by birth.

Such children as managed, in spite of this, to get born were not
brought up by their parents, but fostered by another family. Their
parents visited them only at rare intervals ; and until they reached thdr
fourteenth year they were daubed from head to foot with black paint
and caBed by the name that the Indians applied also to negroes, whea
they came to know of them. Tliey were then initiated, washed, and
relieved of one of the two concentric crowns of hair which they had
worn until then.

And yet die birth of a child of high rank was marked by festivities
which were repeated at each stage in his growing-up: when he was
weaned, when he learned to walk, when he first took part in games,
and so cm. Heralds would call out the femily tides and predict a glorious
foture for him; another baby, born at the same moment, would be

164 The Cawdeo

designated as his brother-in-arms; drinking-parties would be organized,
daring which hydromel was served in goblets made from horns or
skulls; and women would borrow the warriors armour and take one
another on in mimic combat. The nobles, seated in order of precedence,
were served by slaves who were forbidden to drink. Their task was to
help their masters to vomit, in due course, and to watch over them
until they finally fell asleep in search of the delicious visions which
drink would procure for them.

They saw themselves, these people, as the court-cards of the human
pack. And the pride was founded upon the conviction that they were
predestined to rule over the entire human race. This they were assured
by a myth, now known to us only in fragmentary form; even the
erosion of the years cannot quite conceal its radiant and admirable
simplicity. It tells us that when the supreme being, Gonoenhodi,
decided to create humanity, the Guana were the first of the tribes to
come forth from the earth; the others came later. Agriculture was
allotted to the Guana, hunting to the others. But then the trickster, who
is the other deity in the Indian pantheon, noticed that the Mbaya had
been forgotten at the bottom of the hole. He brought them forth;
and the Mbaya were given the only function that remained: that of
oppressing and exploiting all the other tribes. Has there even been a
pcofoimdesr Social Contract?

Characters, they were, from some old romance of chivalry:
wrapped up in their cruel make-believe of domination and prestige.
Yet they create! a style of graphic art which is like almost nothing else
dbai; has come down to us from pre-Colombian America.

la our tabe tie men were sculptors and the women painters. The
men fashioned the santons which I have already mentioned from a hard
Htriskfigpmm vitae. They also carved reliefs on the zebra-horns which
they use as asps: men, ostriches, and horses. Tlieir occasional drawings
were of leaves, or human beings, or animals. The women decora ted
ceramics and hides; they also wod&ed on tie human body, and in this
field some of them were pastntnasieo.

Hie face, and sometimes tlie entire body, was covered with a
network of asymmetrical arabesques that alternated with subde
geometrical motifs. The fitst person to describe these was a Jesuit
missionary, Sanche2rl^bi^dor, who lived among them from 1760 to
1770. But for an exact: account we must wait another hundred years:
for Boggianfs visits, in fact. In 1935 I myself made a collection of
several hundred motifs. This is how I went about it: first I thought I

166 The Caduveo

would photograph them, but the ladies in question proved so demand
ing financially speaking that I had to abandon the idea. Next I tried
to draw human faces on sheets of paper and suggested to the native
women that they should ornament those faces, just as if they were
painting their own. This notion proved so successful that I was soon
able to give up my own clumsy sketches. The designers were not in the
least put off their stroke by the unfamiliarity of white paper, which
shows how little their art is concerned with the natural architecture of
the human face.

Only a few very old women seemed to have kept the virtuosity of
former times, and for a long time I believed that my collection had
been made at the last possible moment. It was, in fact, a surprise to me
when I received, some fifteen years kter, an illustrated account of a
similar collection which had just been made by one of my Brazilian
colleagues. Not only did the specimens seem to have been carried out
with exactly the same assurance, but very often the motifs were
identicaL Style, technique, and inspiration were unchanged, just as they
had been over the forty years between Boggiani s visit and my own.
This conservatism is the more remarkable in that it is not found at all
in Caduveo pottery, which would appear from such examples as have
lately been published to be in a state of complete degeneration. This
may point to the exceptional importance of body-painting, and above
all of face-painting, in Indian culture.

The motifs were, at one time, either tattooed or painted; but
tattooing has now quite dropped out. The painter, a woman, works on
the face or body of one of her fellow-women, or sometimes on those
of a .small boy. (It s becoming rarer and rarer for a grown man to be
painted.) The artist uses a fine bamboo spatula dipped in the juice of
the genipapo initially colourless, this kter turns blue-black by
oxydkation and she improvises her design on the living model, with
neither sketch, nor prototype, nor focal point to guide her. She
ornaments die upper lip with a bow-shaped motif finished off with a
spiral at either end. Then she divides the face with a vertical line; this
she occasionally cuts across horizontally. From this stage onwards the
decorations proceed freely in arabesque, irrespective of the position of
eyes, nose, cheeks, forehead, and chii> as i in fact, the artist were
working on a single unbroken surface. Her compositions, perfectly
balanced for all their asymmetry, can begin from any corner of the face
and proceed without slip or hesitation to their final conclusion. The
basic shapes are relatively simple spirals, S-forms, crosses, saw-edges,

FIG. 14

Ite. 15

More motifs used m

168 The Caduveo

nets, and helices but they are combined in such a way that each design
has a character of its own. In all the four hundred designs that I
collected in 1935, no two were alike. But when I compared my
collection with that made some years later by my Brazilian colleague,
I found widespread similarities between the two. It therefore seems that
die artists* repertory, though enormous, is none the less regulated by
tradition. Unfortunately, neither I nor my successors have been able to
establish the theory behind these designs; native informants have words
for the baric patterns, but when it comes to combining them, they
claim either to have forgotten, or not to know them. Either, in short,
they operate on the basis of an empirical *know-how* transmitted from
generation to generation; or they are determined to keep intact the
secrets of their art.

Today the Caduveo paint one another entirely for their own
oyoyment; but the practice had once a much deeper meaning.
tells us that the nobles had only their foreheads

painted; to have it done all over the face was a mark of the plebs.
Painting was also confined, at that period, to the younger women. Old
women lardy waste their time in this way: the lines that age has
engraved are quite enough for them/ The missionary was disquieted
by dris ootttoopt for the Creator s activity: why should the natives
insist on changing die look of the human fece? He searched for an
Was it to forget their hunger that they spent so many

hours OTOT these arabesques? Or to make themselves unrecognizable
to dieir enemies? Deception does, beyond question, have much to do
with. it. Why? Hie missionary realizes, however reluctantly, that these
paintings have a primordial importance for die Indians and are, in a
sense, *aa ead in tfaoBsetves*.

And so he reproached them for spending day after day on these
paintings, Bseglectfiil meanwhile of hunting and fishing and families
alike. Bat Ac natives would answer the missionaries and say: You
are the stupid oiies, since you don t paint yourselves lie the
Eyiguayegeis/ Painting was a part of manhood: net to be painted was
to be one with the brates,

It is pretty well certain that if the custom still persists among
Caduveo women it is mosdy for erotic reasons. The reputation of these
women is solidly established on bodi banks of the Rio Paraguay; many
half-castes and Indians fiom odier tribes have settled and married in
Nalike. 1%e painting of face and body may explain this attraction;
certainly they reinforce and symbolize it. The delicate and subtle

PIG. 18. Drawings made by a young
Caduvean boy

f

contours are no less sensitive than those of the face itself; sometimes the
one accentuates the other, sometimes it runs counter to it; in both cases
the effect is deliriously provocative. As a result of this, as it were,
pictorial surgery, art secures a sort of ckw-hold upon the human body.
When Sanchez-Labrador complains that the Indians prize an artificial
ugliness above the graces of Nature* he very soon contradicts himself
saying a line or two later that even the most beautiful tapestries cannot
compare with these paintings. Never, it seems, have the erotic effects
of make-up been so consciously and so systematically exploited.

BG. 19. Another drawing by die same artist

The Mbaya manifested in their fare-paintings that abhorrence of
Nature which made them resort so freely to abortion and infanticide.
Their art revealed, in fact, a sovereign contempt for the clay of which
we are made; art, for them, comes dangerously dose to sin. As a Jesuit
and a missionary, Sanchez-Labrador showed an exceptional pers
picacity when he divined the presence of the demon in these paintings.
He himself underlined, the Promethean aspect of this savage art when
he described how the natives would cover the body with star-shaped
motifs: *Each Eyiguayegui sees himself/ he wrote, *as an Adas who
bears, not only upon his hands and shoulders but upon his whole body,
the weight of a clumsily charted universe/ And this may, indeed,

21* Design painted on leather

explain die exceptional character of Caduveo art: that it makes it
possible for Man to refuse to be made in God s image.

Hie recurrence in these paintings of lines, spirals, and curlicues must
inevitably remind us of the iron- and stucco-work of Spanish baroque.
Perhaps we are, in effect, faced with a style that has been borrowed
from the Caduveo s conquerors? They did undoubtedly appropriate
certain themes: we know of more than, one example of this. In 1857,
when a warship, tlie Mwrnanha, made its first appearance on the
Paraguay a party of Indians paid her a visit; and on the following day
they were seen to have drawn anchors all over their bodies. One Indian
had gone so far as to cover all the upper half ofhis body with a com plete
representation of a white officer, complete with buttons, stripes* belt,
and coat-tails. This only proves that die Mbaya were already habitual
and accomplished painters. Tlieir curvilinear style has few counterparts
in pre-Colombian America, but it offers analogies with archaeological
documents which have been discovered in more than one part of the
continent: and some of these pro-date the discovery by several
centuries. Hopewell, in the valley of Ohio, and the more recent caddo

172

A Native Society and its Style 173

pottery in the Mississippi valley; Santarem and Marajo, at the mouth
of the Amazon; Chavin, in Peru. This dispersion is in itself a sign of
antiquity.

The real problem lies elsewhere. Any student of the Gaduveo
designs will soon realize that their originality does not Be in the
elementary patterns, which are simple enongh to have been invented
rather than borrowed (probably they were both invented and bor
rowed) ; it lies in the combination of these initial patterns in the result,
that is to say the finished work. But the compositional procedures are
so systematic and so fastidious that they go far beyond any suggestions,
in tie same field, that the Indians might have picked up by way of
European Renaissance art. Whatever the point of departure may have
been, the development was so extraordinary that it can only be
explained by features native to the Indians themselves,

In an earlier essay I tried to define some of these by comparing the
art of the Caduveo with the analogous art of societies elsewhere:
archaic China, the north-west coast of Canada and Alaska, New
Zealand. My hypothesis here is a different one; but one that com
pletes, rather than contradicts, my earlier suggestions.

As I noted then, Caduveo art is marked by a dualism: the men
sculpt, the women paint; and whereas the sculpture is, for aH its
stylizations, representative and naturalistic, the paintings are non-
representative. Painting alone concerns me here, but I should like to
emphasise that this dualism may be found elsewhere and on more than
one level.

Two styles are current among the women painters: abstraction and
the decorative purpose are at the root of both. Tlbe one is angular and
geometrical, the other free and curvilinear. Most compc^iticms aie based
upon an orderly mingling of the two. One may be used, for example,
for the border, or the frame, and tie other for the central paneL
Where pottery is concerned the combination is still more stoking: the
decoration of the nock being curvilinear, and that of the bdly
geometrical, or vice versa, The curvilinear styfe is m<>re usually adopted
for face-painting, geometry being reserved for the body; though at
times each region may be adorned with a combination of the two.

In every case other principles may be seen to have been integrated;
these always go in pairs. An initially linear contour may later, for
instance, be blocked in* here and there. In most designs, two themes
are to be found in alternation. And as a rde the subject and background
are interchangeable, so that the design may be read in cither of two

174 The Cabtveo

ways: a positive and a negative. Often, too, principles of symmetry and
asymmetry are put into practice simultaneously: die design being not
so much cut up or divided off as gyronny or quartered, tranche or
parted per bend sinister. (The heraldic terms are, in feet, very apt, since
these principles have much in common with those of the escutcheon.)

Take an example: the simple-seeming body-painting which I
reproduce opposite. It consists of undulating and accosted pales which
mark out spindle-shaped fields whose centre is occupied (one to each
field) by a small charge. This description is deceptive: let us look more
closely. It may give some idea of the general appearance of the drawing,
once it is completed. But the draughtswoman did not begin by tracing
her wavy ribbons, and then go on to ornament each interstice with a
charge. Her method was different, and more complicated. She worked
like a paver, building up row after successive row with the help of
identical elements. Each element is made up in the following way: a
section of ribbon, made up of the concave part of one band and the
convex part of the one next to it; a spindle-shaped field; a charge in the
centre of that field. These elements overlap, disconnectedly, and it is
only at the end that the whole design achieves a stability which at once
confirms and denies the dynamic principle which has governed its
execution*

The Caduveo style presents, us, therefore, with a whole series of
<xmpEcations* The dualism, to begin with, which recurs over and over
again, on one level or another, like a hall of mirrors: men and women,
painting and sculpture, abstraction and representation, angle and curve,
geometry smtd arabesque, neck and belly, symmetry and asymmetry,
border and centrepiece, figure and ground. But these antitheses are
glimpsed after die creative process, and they have a static character. Hie
dynamic of art die way, Le. in which die motifs are imagined and
carried out cuts across dbis fundamental duality at every level. The
primary themes, initially disarticulated, are later blended into secondary
diemes which establish a sort of provisional unity among fragments
borrowed from their predecessors, and these in their turn are juxtaposed
in such a way that the original imity reappears* as if as the result of a
conjuring-tack. And then the complicated decorations which have
been arrived at by this means are themselves once again cut out and
brought face to face widi one another by means of escutcheon-4ike
qaarterings.

We may now understand why the Caduveo style strikes us as a
subtler variant of that which we employ in. our playing-cards. Each of

176 The Caduvto

our cant-designs corresponds to a twofold necessity and must assume
a double function. It must be an independent object, and it must
serve for the dialogue or the dud in which two partners meet face
to face. It must also play the role which is assigned to each card, in its
capacity as a member of the pack, in. the game as a whole. Its voca
tion is a complicated one, therefore: and it must satisfy demands of
more than one sort symmetrical, where its functions are concerned,
asymmetrical where its role is in question. The problem is solved by
tie use of a design which is symmetrical but yet lies across an oblique
axis. (An entirely asymmetrical design would have sufficed for the
role but not for the function; and vice versa in the case of a design that
was wholly symmetrical.) Once again we have a complicated situation
based upon two contradictory forms of duality, and resulting in a
compromise brought about by a secondary opposition between the
ideal axis of the object itself and the ideal axis of the figure which it
represents* But in order to reach this conclusion we have had to go
beyond the plane of stylistic analysis: we have had, in short, to ask:
*What is this object for?* And we have to ask the same question of
Caduveoart.

We have replied in part to that question: or, rather, the Indians have
replied for us. Hie fiu^-paintings confer upon the individual his
digjoky as a human being: they help him to cross the frontier from
Nature to culture, and from the mindless* animal to the civilized Man.
fttrtheoBcne, they differ in style and composition according to social
status, and thus have a social function*

Important as it is to grasp these facts, they will not in themselves
account for tfae originality of Caduveo art; at most, they explain to us
why it exists. Let us proceed with our analysis of Caduveo society: Ae
Mbaya were divided into diree castes, each dominated by preoccupa
tions of social usage. For the nobles, and to a certain extent for Ae
warriors also, prestige was the fundamental problem* Early traveEeo
have described how Aey weie paralysed by the necessity of not losing
face, and above ai of not marrying bo^adidion. Such a society wouM
be in g^ave danger of segregation* Willingly or of necessity each casle
tended to turn in upon itselC so that tie cohesion of Society as a whole
was threatened* In particular the endogamy of the castes and die
multiplication of hierarchical nuances would make it very difficult
to arrange unions of a kind which conformed to die concrete necessities
of collective life. Only thus can we explain the paradox of a society
which has a horror of procreation, and is so afraid of the risks of

M

FIG. 26. A face-pamting

internal misalliance that it practises a sort of racialism in reverse, and
mates a regular practice of incorporating enemies and foreigners within
its ranks.

In these conditions it is significant that, on the northr-east and south
west extremes of the enormous territory controlled by the Mbaya, we
come upon two almost identical forms of social organization, great as
is the distance which separates them from one another. The Para
guayan Guana and the Bororo of tie Mato Grosso had (and in the
latter case still have) a hierardbical structure very similar to that of die
Mbaya; they were, or are, divided into three classes which seem to have
stood, in the past at any rate, for different social statuses. These classes
were hereditary and endogamous. Yet the dangers which I have men
tioned above were avoided in both cases by a vertical division which, in
the case of the Bororo, also cut across the classes. Members of one class
could not marry members of another, but in each class the members of
one moiety were, on the contrary, compelled to marry members of

178

A Native Society and its Style 179

the other moiety. It would therefore be fair to say that asymmetry of
class was balanced, in a sense, by symmetry of moieties .

Should we envisage this complicated structure as a systematized
whole? Possibly: though it is also tempting to separate the classes from
the moieties and regard one as more ancient than die other; arguments
for this can be adduced from both sides.

But what interests us here is a question of quite a different kind.
Brief as has been my description of the Guana and Bororo societies, it
clearly suggests that on the sociological level these two societies have a
structure comparable to that which we have detected, on the level of
style, in Caduveo art. There is, in each case, a double antithesis. In die
first instance a ternary and asymmetrical organization is opposed to
one that is binary and symmetrical. In the second, social mechanisms
based on reciprocity are opposed to social mechanisms based on
hierarchy. In the effort to remain faithful to these contradictory
principles the social group divides and subdivides itself into allied and
opposed sub-groups. Just as an escutcheon is a symbolical assembly of
prerogatives derived from many separate lines of descent, so is Society
cut open, cut across, divided, and partitioned. As we shall see later, the
organization of the groundr-plan of a Bororo village is comparable to
that of a Caduveo drawing.

It is as if the Caduveo and Bororo had been confronted with a
contradiction in their social structure and managed to resolve or dis
guise it by stricdy sociological methods. Perhaps they had had the
moiety-system before they came under JMbaya influence: in that case
the solution lay ready at hand. Or perhaps they invented or borrowed
it later, when as a provincial people they lacked the standoffishness of
the true aristocrat. Other hypotheses could be advanced. Anyway die
Mbaya never adopted this solution: eidier because they did not know
of it (though I find this hard to believe) or because it was incompatible
with their fanaticism. So they were never lucky enough to resolve
their contradictions, or to disguise them with the help of institutions
artfully devised for that purpose. On the social level the remedy was
lacking unless they deliberately set their faces against it but it never
went completely out of their grasp. It was within them, never
objectively formulated, but present as a source of confusion and
disquiet. In fact, they dreamed of it: had they done so direcdy, it
would have gone counter to their prejudices; but transposed, and
present only in their art, it seemed harmless. Ike mysterious charm and
(as it seems at first) the gratuitous complication of Caduveo art may

The Caduveo

well be a phantasm created by a society whose object was to give
symbolical form to the institutions which it might have had in reality,
tad interest and superstition not stood in the way. Great indeed is the
fascination of this culture, whose dream-life was pictured on the faces
and bodies of its queens, as if, in making themselves up, they figured
a Golden Age that they would never know in reality. And yet, as
they stand naked before us, it is as much the mysteries of that Golden
Age as their own bodies that are unveiled.

PART VI

The Bororo

1 8 Gold and Diamonds

the gateway to Bolivia, lies facing
Porto Esperan^a, on the right bank of the Rio Paraguay. Jules Verne
might have imagined it: perched as it is on die top of a limestone cliff
that overhangs the river. One or two litde paddle-steamos (two
storeys of cabins, a hull low in the water, a flimsy smoke-stack) woe
tied up, canoes all around them, to the quay whence mounted the path
to Corumba. One or two building?, at the outset, seemed dispro
portionately large; the Customs house, for instance, and the arsenal,
which harked back to the time when the Rio Paraguay was die pre
carious frontier between States that had recendy acquired dbeir inde
pendence and were in a ferment of youthful ambition. And, also in
those distant times, a mass of traffic had once passed up and down the
river between Rio de k Plata and the interior.

When the path got to die top of the cliff it ran along its crest for a
couple of hundred yards and then turned sharply to the rigJiL Coromba
was revealed: a long street of low, flat-roofed houses, roughly painted
in white or beige. At the fer end was a square where grass grew among
casatpmiae that had acid green leaves and orange flowers; beyond, die
stony countryside stretched as far as the hills that dosed off the horizon.

There was only one hotel, and it was always full A few rooms were
to be had in private houses; but these were on the ground floor, damp
with the dampness of the marshes, and haunted by bugs that turned
the traveller into a modern variant of an early Christian martyr* Tht
food, too, was execrable: the countryside being too poor, or too litde
cultivated, to meet the needs of the two or diree thousand people
sedentary workers or travellers who made up die population of
Corumba. Prices were absurdly high, and the town had a look of
frenzied animation which contrasted with the flat, deserted, spongy
hinterland on the far side of the river. The atmosphere of Corumba

183

1 84 TheBororo

was such as must have reigned, a century earlier, in the pioneer towns
of California or the Far West. In the evenings the entire population
would assemble on the cliff-road. The young men would sit, legs
dangling, on the balustrade, while the girls filed past, whispering, in
groups of three or four. It had an air of ritual, this solemn pro-
nuptial parade, in the light of the flickering electric lamps, with three
hundred miles of marshland all around and ostrich and boa to be found
even at the gates of the town.

Corumba is, as the crow flies, a bare two hundred and fifty miles
from Cuiaba. I witnessed the development of air travel between the
two towns from the little four-seaters that bumped their way across
in a matter of two or three hours to the twelve-seater Junkers of 193 8-9.
But in 1935 the river was still the only means of travel, and the two
hundred and fifty miles were doubled by the river s meanderings.
During the rainy season it took eight days to reach the capital of the
State; in the dry season it could be three weeks, so often did the
steamers run aground, for all their shallow draught. Whole days were
lost in the attempt to refloat the vessel, with the motor pulling its
hardest on a cable tied to a stout tree on the bank. La the office of the
stripping company a beguiling poster was to be found: on the opposite
page is a rough transcription of its lay-out and style. The reality,
needless to say, was very different.

And yet what a marvellous journey that was ! Passengers were few:
catde-feimers and their families on their way back to their animals; a
ew Lebanese commercial travellers; some soldiers, garrison-bound;
and a sprinkling of provincial officials. No sooner were these people
on board than they changed, one and all, into the clothes which, for
Aem, corresponded to a beach-suit: striped pyjamas (silk ones, where
dandies were in question), through which much of their hairy persons
could be glimpsed, and slippers. Twice a day we all sat down to a
never-changing menu: a dish of rice, another of black beans, and a
third of parched manioc flour; with these there went invariably a
helping of bee fresh or dried* This was called^eyaaiz, after thefdjao,
or bean. To this daily pabulum my companions brought a critical
sense as keen and this was saying much as their appetites. The
feijoada would be pronounced muito boa (first-class) one day and muito
ruim (disgusting) the next. When it came to the dessert (cream cheese
and fruit jelly, eaten together from the sharp end of the knife) their
vocabulary was even more restricted: it either was, or was not,
doce (sweet enough).

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If so, be sure to take the incomparable

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By joining the SJS. CIDADE BE CORUMBA here in
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moving the dining-room to the upper deck aad so endowing the
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Choose, therefore* without hesita&m fhefaxi steamers CIDADE
BE CORUMBA and GUAPORE.

1 86 The Bororo

Every twenty miles or so the ship stopped to take on wood; and
if need be the halt was extended to two or three hours while the cook
went off into the fields, lassoed a cow, cut its throat, and (with the help
of the crew) skinned it* It was then hoisted on board and we set off
again with several days guaranteed provision of firesh meat.

For the rest of the time the ship steamed quietly along the narrow,
winding river; it was said to be negotiating* the estiroes counting ofl
that is to say, the sections of the river which were bounded by corners
sharp enough to cut off the view ahead. Sometimes the river wound
round itself so completely that nightfall would find the ship only a
few dozen yards from where it had started in the morning. Often, too,
the boat would brush against the branches of the half-submerged forest
that hung over the bank, while the sound of the engine made birds
beyond number take wing: araras in a flash of blue, red, and gold;
cormorants whose long necks were like winged snakes; parrots and
parakeets whose loud cries were sufficiently like those of human beings
for us to call them inhuman*. Prolonged study of a spectacle so
monotonous and so near at hand induced in the traveller a sort of
torpor, and only rarely was our interest quickened by something more
unusual: a pair of deer or tapirs, swimming across the river; a cascavel
(rattle-snake) or zgiboya (python) as it came wriggling to the surface,
light as a straw; or a group of J4<^es inoffensive crocodiles that we
soon wearied of despatching with a carbine bullet straight in the eye.
Fishing for piranhas was more eventful: somewhere along the river was
a large saladeiro where meat hung drying from a sort of gibbet. Bones
were strewn on the ground beneath wooden racks; on these lay the
purplish remains above which vultures hovered. The river was stained
red for several hundred yards below the slaughter-house. We had only
to throw a line overboard and, before even the unbaited hook had
reached the surface of the water, piranha after piranha, drunk with
blood, would leap forward and hang its golden lozenge on the hook.
But the fisherman had to be careful how he handled his catch; the
piranha can sever a finger at a single snap.

After tie junction of the Sao Louren^o on the upper reaches of
which we shall shortly travel to encounter the Bororo the pantanal
disappeared. The landscape to either side became one of grassy
savannah. More houses began to appear, and herds could be seen
grazing.

There was not much to draw Ctaaba to die traveller s attention: a
paved ramp that ran down into the water, and above it the silhouette

Gold and Diamonds 187

of the former arsenal. Thence a road bordered widi countrified houses
ran for more than a mile to the square where the cathedral stood, pink
and white, between two rows of palmrtrees. To die left, the Bishop s
palace; to the right, the Governor s. At the cornea: of the main street
was the inn the only one, at that time kept by a fat Lebanese,

I ve described Goyaz; and if I were to go on aboi& driaba I could
only repeat myself. The rite is not so beautiful, but the town has the
same sort of charm, with its austere houses, half cottage, half palace in
siyle. As the site is sharply aoidented the upper windows usually have
an extended view: white houses roofed with orangp tides, die fronds
and foliage of the gardens, or quintets. Around the central L-shaped
square a network of alleyways reminds one of die colonial cities of die
eighteenth century. Follow any one of diem and you will come upon
a patch of dead ground that serves for the caravan-trains, or an
adumbrated avenue of mangoes and banana-trees with one oc two mud
huts among diem; and then, in no time at all, the open cotantry, with
pasturing herds of oxen on their way to or from the sertaQ.

Cuiaba was founded in the middle of the eighteenth century.
Towards 1720 Paulist explorers bmdeirmtes was their name pene
trated the region for the first time and set up a litde outpost, with a
handful of colonists, only a few miles from whore Cuiaba stands today.
The territory was inhabited by Cuxipo Indians, some of whom agreed
to help till die soiL One day a colonist, die apdy named Miguel Sutil,
sent a small party of Indians to look for wild honey. They came back
that same evening with their hands full of nuggets of gold that they had
picked up off the ground. Sutil didn t waste a moment, but set off at
once, with a companion named Barbudo the bearded one 1 to the
area in question. And within a month they got together five tons of
goB-nuggets.

And so it s not surprising that parts of die country round Cuiaba
look like a batdefiekL Mound after mound, covered widi brushwood
and rough grass, bears witness to ancient frenzies. Even today a
Cuiabano has been known to turn op a nugget of gold in his vegetable-
patch. Gold is, in feet, always present in pailktte foam. Hie beggars of
Cuiaba are gold-diggers* in the Eteral sense, and you can see them at
work in the bed of the river that runs through die lower town. A day s
exertions will bring them just enoogih to buy a meal, and in many
shops in Cuiaba you can still find the litde pair of scales which measures
off a spoonful of powdered gold against a cut of meat or a pound of
rice. Any heavy rainfall wffl send the water tumbling down the

i88 The

ravines, and at such times you will see the children rush out, ball of
wax in hand, and plunge it into the current in the hope that tiny
sparkling particles of gold will stick to it. The Cuiabanas claim that a
rich seam of gold passes beneath their city at a depth of several yards;
just below the modest premises of the Bank of Brazil there is more
gold, they say, than is ever to be found in its olA-fashioned safes.

Coiaba has retained from its days of glory a style of life that is slow
and ceremonious. The traveller s first day is taken up entirely with
comings and goings across the square which separates the hotel from
the palace of government, Hrst, he leaves a card in token of his arrival;
an hour later the compliment will be returned by the AJD.C., a
moustached constable; after the siesta which paralyses the entire city
from noon till four in die afternoon the traveller pays his respects to
the Governor. The anthropologist receives a polite but unenthusiastic
welcome. Hie Indians are, for the Governor, an irritating reminder
that he himself has fallen out of favour, politically speaking, and been
banished to a remote and backward area. The Bishop feels much die
same; but I mustn t suppose, he tells me, that the Indians are as stupid
and aggressive as ooe might think; why, one Bororo woman had
actually been converted! And die Diamantino brodiers had managed,
after an unending straggle, to torn three Paressis into quite presentable
carpenters! And as far as scholarship was concerned the missionaries
had already tafco* note of all diat was worth preserving. Did I realize
that the unlettered officials of the Protection Service wrote Bororo
with an accent on the last vowel, whereas Father So-anct-So had
&tablj&faed a good twenty years earlier that it should fefl on the middle
one? And dfee fact diat the Bororo knew of die Deluge was a sure sign
diat die Lord did not mpan diem to remain damned rill die end of time.
I was feee to go among them, of course; but he did hope that I would
do nothing to jeopardize die Fad^rs in their work. No trivial presents!
No necklaces or hmd-gArors! Nothing but an axe or two, to remind
diose lazy creatures diat wock was sacred.

These formalities once discharged, one could get on to serious
matters. Day afeer day would go by in die fetcfc-roomsof dieLebai^se
traders towcos, they were called who were half wholesalers and half
usurers. Their stock of hardware, textiles, and medical goods was
destined to dozen upcm dozen of rdarioos, clients, and proteg&, who
would buy cm credit, take a canoe or a few oxen, and extort what they
could from customers marooned deep in die bush or in some distant
bend of die river. Life was as hard for the travelling trader as it was for

Gold and Diamonds

his victim; but at least the trader could afford to retire after twenty or
thirty years.

Or I would spend hour upon hour at the baker s, while he was
preparing bolachas by the sackful. (Bolachas are loaves made with un
leavened flour that has been thickened with fat; they are hard as stone,
but the oven gives them a marrowy quality, and when they have been
shaken into small pieces on the road and impregnated with the sweat
of the oxen they finish up as a form of food for which it is difficult
to find a name: and as rancid, certainly, as the dried meat from the
butcher.) Our butcher at Cuiaba was a natural dreamer, by the way, and
all his thoughts were fixed upon an ambition unlikely ever to be
realized: that a circus should visit Cuiaba in his lifetime. He would
have loved to see an elephant: So much meat! . . /

And then there were two Frenchmen, the brothers B. Though
Corsican by origin, they had lived in Cuiaba for a good many years:
why, they didn t say. They spoke their mother-tongue with a distant,
sing-song hesitation. They had been egret-hunters before turning to the
garage trade; and they described their technique, which was to lay on
the ground a series of cornets made of white paper. The egret, fascinated
by a whiteness as dazzling as his own, would come down and thrust his
beak into one of the cornets; thus blinded, he offered an easy prey, and
during the mating season his beautiful feathers could be plucked out of
the living flesh. Many a wardrobe in Cuiaba was full of soch feathers,
for which there was no longer any demand. The two brothers then
turned to diamond-hunting. Eventually they set up a garage and
specialized in fitting out heavy lorries with merchandise, These they
launched as once men launched galleons across uncharted seas; both
lorry and cargo might end up at tie bottom of a ravine or a river, but
there was also the possibility that they might get safely to their desti
nation, in which case a profit of four hundred per cent would make
up for earlier losses.

I often travelled by lorry across the CuiaJ>a territory. On the day
before departure we took on a special provision of petrol, bearing in
mind that we needed enough for the entire journey from base back to
base and that most of it would be covered in first or second gear. Next
we packed our food, and our camping materials, in such a way that the
passengers could take shelter in case of a rainstorm. On the inner walls
of the lorry we hung all our jacks of tools, together with planks and
rope to improvise a bridge where necessary. At dawn on the next day
we climbed the cargo, as we might have climbed a camel, and took

190 The Eororo

our seats. The lorry began its quavering progress. By midday our
difficulties had begun: the road was flooded or swampy and had to be
paved with logs. I ve spent three whole days in that way: laying and re
laying a floor of logs just twice the lorry s length until at last we were
out of the wet. Or else we ran into sand and had to stuff leaves and
branches under the wheels. Even where the bridges were intact we had
to unload everything, before the lorry could be coaxed across the
rickety structure, and then to reload on the far side. Where a bush-
fire had destroyed the bridge we set up our camp and built another.
But as we couldn t leave it there the planks were too precious we
had to dismantle the whole structure before going on our way. Finally,
we had to reckon with die major rivers: these could be crossed only on
rude ferry-boats made up of three canoes laid side by side. The lorry,
even unloaded, weighted these right down to the gunwale; and often
we got to the other side only to find that the bank was too steep, or
too muddy, for us to climb it. In such cases we had to improvise a
road , sometimes for hundreds of yards, until we came to a better
landing-point, or a ford.

The men whose profession it was to drive these lorries were on the
road for weeks and even for months on end. They worked in pairs;
the driver and his assistant, the one at the wheel, the other on the
running-board, looking out for trouble. They had always a carbine to
hand, for often a tapir or a deer would pull up, intrigued rather than
frightened, in their path. They would shoot on sight and, if the shot
went well, they pulled up for the rest of the day. The prize had to be
skinned, gutted, and cut up into thin strips of meat, much as one peels
a potato in a spiral right through to the centre. These strips of meat
were then rubbed with a mixture, kept always ready for this purpose,
of pepper, salt, and crashed garlic. They were then laid in the sun for
several hours, and on the following day, and for several days after, the
process was repeated. The resulting came de sol was not so delicious as
the carne de vento, which was dried on a tall stick in the wind, when sun
was lacking; also it did not keep so long.

These superb drivers led a strange existence: ready at any moment
to carry out the most delicate repairs, and ready too to improvise the
very road on which they were to drive, they sometimes had to stick
it out for weeks on end in the bush at the point where their lorry came
to grief. Eventually one of their rivals would pass that way and take
the news to Cukba; and at Ctriaba they would order the missing part
from Rio or Sao Paulo. Meanwhile the driver and his mate would

Gold and Diamonds 191

camp out, and hunt, and do their washing, and sleep it all ol and have
patience. The best of my own drivers was a fegitive from justice; he
never mentioned what he had done, but people in Qriaha knew of it.
No one ever gave him away, however; when it rarg^ to a dangerous
run he was irreplaceable, and by the daily venturing of his own he life
was thought to have paid, and paid liberally, for the life he had takm.

It was still dark when we left Cuiaba at four in the morning. The
eye guessed at the churches, stucco-deo>rated over every inch of their
height; the lorry bumped its way along the last streets, paved with
pebbles and bordered with clipped mango-trees. The natural spacing
of the trees gave the savannah an orchardy look, even when we were
already well out in the bush, but before long the track became so rough
as to leave us in no doubt that we had left civilization* behind. Up it
climbed, above the river, winding along stony slopes with often a
ravine or a muddy river-bed, overgrown with atpotira, to call for our
attention. When we had climbed to a certain height we noticed a long
thin pinkish shape on the horizon. It couldn t be the dawn, because it
never varied in shape or texture, and yet for a long time we couldn t
believe it was quite reaL But after some four hours on the road we
cleared a rocky hillside and were confronted with a vaster, more
explicit perspective; from north to south a red wall ran six to nine
hundred feet above the green hills. To the north it gradually subsided
into the flatlands; but towards the south, where we were approaching,
certain details were discernible. What had previously seemed unbroken
was seen to have subsidiary features; narrow platforms, jutting prows
of rock, balconies. Redoubts and defiles diversified the long barrier of
stone. It would take the lorry several hours to climb the ramp
uncorrected, almost, by Man which ends at the upper edge of the
chapada of the Mato Grosso and allows us to penetrate the six or seven
hundred miles of plateau, the chapadSo, which runs very gently down
towards the north and ends in the basin of the Amazon.

A new world was revealed to us. Rough grass, milky-green in
colour, never quite concealed the underlying sand, itself white, pinkish,
or ochre, which had resulted from the superficial decomposition of the
underlying sandstone. The vegetation consisted merely of a few
scattered shrubs, knotted and gnarled, which were protected from the
dry season, which lasts for seven months of tie year, by a thick bark,
varnished leaves, and prickles. Yet a few days* rain could transform this
desert of a savannah into a garden; the grass turned bright green and
trees were soon covered with white and mauve flowers. But the

The BWOTQ

dominant impression remained, one of immensity. So uniform is the
texture of the country and so gradual its inclination that the horizon
is pushed back for ten or twenty miles. You can motor for hours in
a landscape that never changes; today s prospect and yesterday s are
so alike, in fact, that memory and perception are blended in an
obsession with immobility. Such is the uniformity of the scene, such
the absence of landmarks, that one ends by mistaking the horizonr-line
for doud as it hangs high up in the sky. Yet the scene is too fantastic to
be called monotonous. From time to time the lorry traverses a water
course whkh does not so much cross the plateau since it has no banks
as inundate it at certain seasons of the year. It is as if this area
one of the most ancient in the world: a still-intact fragment of the
continent of Gondwana which, once united Brazil to Africa were still
too young for its rivers to have had time to hollow out their beds.

In European landscape it is die form which is exact and the light
which is diffused. Here the traditional* roles of earth and sky are
reversed; doods build up into forms of extreme extravagance, whereas
the earth below remains milk-white and undefined. Shape and volume
are die sky s prerogatives; the earth is formless and insubstantial.

One evening we called a hak not fax from zgorimpo, or colony of
diamofcidrimters. Before long shadowy figures appeared round our
file; gmimpekos in rags who drew forth, little tubes of bamboo and
emptied their contents into our hands: rough diamonds, these, which
they hoped to sell to IB. But the B. brothers had told me a good deal
about die ways of the gmmpo and I knew that there could be no
question, in all tMs, of a bargain. For the^onrnpo has its unwritten laws
and they are faithfully observed.

These men divide up into two categories: adventurers and men en
the run, The seooad group is the more numerous, and this is doubtless
why defections from tfaegarimpo are few. Those who got there first*
have control of the river-beds in which the work is done. As they have
not resources enough to wait for the killing* & rarity, in any event
they organize themselves in bands. Each of these is led by a sd-
styled Captain* or Engineer*; this leader has to have enough capital
to arm his men, equip them with the essentials of their trade iron
sieve, wash-trough, diver s helmet, air-pump and, above all, feed
diem regularly. In exchange his men undertake not to sell his finik
except to authorized dealers (themselves working in association with
the big Dutch or British diam<md-fions) and to share the proceeds with
their leader.

Gold and Diamonds jpj

If they have to be armed, it is not only to ward off the menace of
rival bands. Until quite lately, and sometimes even now, it was to keep
the police at bay. The diamondr^zone formed, in fact, a state within the
State, and the one was often at war with the other. In 1935 we constantly
heard of the war waged by the Engineer Morbeck and his bravoes, the
valentoes, against the State Police of the Mato Grosso. This had ended in
a compromise. It must be said in defence of the rebels that tfazgarim-
peiro who was taken prisoner by the police rarely reached Cuiaba alive.
One famous leader, Captain Arnaldo, was captured with his second-in-
command. They were tied by the neck at tie top of a tall tree, with
their feet resting on a little board; and when they overbalanced from
exhaustion they were left to hang.

So stricdy are the laws* observed that at Lageado or Poxoreu, the
centres of the garimpo, you can often see, in the inns, a table covered
with diamonds that have been momentarily left behind by their
owners. No sooner is a stone found than it is identified by its shape and
colour and size. Such is the exactitude of these details, and such their
emotional charge, that even years afterwards the lucky finder can
distinguish each diamond from its fellows. "When I looked at it/ one
of my visitors said to me, it was as if the Holy Virgin had dropped
a tear into my hand . . . But the stones are not always so pure:
often they are found in their atde and it s impossible to judge of
their eventual value. The authorized buyer makes known his price
(he is said to weigh* the diamond) and that price is final. Only
when the grinder gets to work will the upshot of the speculation be
known.

I asked if people didn t try "to evade the regulations. *Of course.
But it never works. A diamond offered to another buyer, or offered
behind the leader s back, will be immediately burnt iquemado. That is
to say that the buyer will offer a derisory price; and that price will
get lower and lower with each subsequent attempt. So it is that the
garimpeiro who tries to break the law can end by dying of hunger with
a diamond in his hand.

Once the diamonds are sold it s a very different matter. Fossa the
Syrian is said to have grown rich by buying impure diamonds on the
cheap, heating them on a Primus stove, and plunging them into a
colour-bath; this gives the yellow diamond a more tempting surface
and earns it the name of pintado, or painted diamond.

Another form of fraud is practised at a higher level. At Cuiaba and
at Campo Grande I knew of men who made a living by evading die

N

JBororo

duty on diamonds destined for export. These professional smugglers
were full of stories: of the imitation packets of cigarettes, for instance,
that they would toss casually into the bushes if the police caught up
with them, and the anxiety with which they would go back to look
for them as soon as they were free to do so.

But that particular evening the talk around the camp-fire turned on
the everyday hazards to which our visitors were exposed. I learnt, too,
something of the picturesque language of the sertao. To render the
English pronoun one, for instance, they have an immensely varied
assortment of terms: o homem, the man; o camarada, the comrade;
o colkga, the colleague; o negro, the negro; o tal, so-and-so; ofulano, the
fellow; and so on. As bad luck would have it, someone had just found
gold in his wash-trough. This augurs ill for the dkmond-hunter, whose
only reaction is to throw it back into the river at once. (Weeks of ill
fortune must otherwise follow.) Another hunter had been wounded by
the tail of a poisonous skate. This was a hurt not easily cured, for he
had to find a woman who would consent to undress and pass water on
the wound. As the few women in the garimpo are nearly all peasant
prostitutes this ingenuous remedy often brings in its train a particularly
virulent form of syphilis.

It s the legendary stroke of luck* that draws these women to the
area. Hie prospector may become rich overnight; and, if he does, his
police record will force htm to spend the money then and there. That s
why the lorries lumber to and fro with their load of superfluous goods.
Tlie moment the cargo arrives at thegmmpo it will be mapped up at no
matter what price; not necessity, but the wish to show off, will be the
motive, At first light, before we moved off, I called on a camarada in
his Jitde hut on the edge of the insect-infested river, only to find that
he was already at work in his old-fashioned diver s helmet, scraping
away at the bed of the stream. The inside of the hut was as wretched and
as depressing as its site; but the man s mistress showed me with prick
his twelve suits of dothes and her own silk dresses: die termites were
feeding well upon them.

The night had been spent in ringing and make-believe. Each of
those present was invited to do a turn: something remembered, in
most cases, from a distant evening at die music-halls. I found the same
practice on the Indian frontier when, minor officials met to dine
together. In both cases monologues were welcome or caricatures ,
as they were called in Indian-imitations, that is to say, of the noise
made by a typewriter, or a motor-cycle misfiring, or, by strange

Gold and Diamonds 195

contrast, a fairy-ballet and, in quick succession, a galloping horse. And,
finally, a session of funny faces .

I noted down, from this evening with the garimpeiros, some snatches
of a traditional lament. It was the song of a private soldier who com
plained to his corporal of the food served to him; the corporal passes
on the complaint to the sergeant, the sergeant to the subaltern, and so
on from subaltern to captain, major, colonel, general, emperor. . . .
The emperor passes it on to Jesus Christ; and Jesus, instead of passing
it to God the Father, takes up his pen and consigns the whole lot of
them to hell. Here is a little sample of this song of the sertao:

O Soldado . . .
O Offerece . . .

O Sargento que era um homem pertinente
Pego na penna, escreveu pro seu tenente

O Tenente que era homem muito bao
Pego na penna, escreveu pro Capitao

O Capitao que era homem dos melhor*
Pego na penna, escriveu pro Major

O Major que era homem como e
Pega na penna, escreveu pro Corone*

O Corone que era homem sem igual
Pego na penna, escreveu pro General

O General que era homem superior
Pego na penna, escreveu pro Imperador

O Imperador . . .

Pego na penna,, escreveu pra Jesu* Christo

Jesu* Christo que e filho de Padre Eterno
Pego na penna et mando todos pros inferno

Yet they hadn t really much heart for the fun. The sands had been
yielding fewer and fewer diamonds for quite some time, and the area

196 The Borne

was infested with malaria, leshmaniosis, and ankylostomiasis. Yellow
fever had begun to appear a year or two before. And where once four
lorries had made the journey every week, there were now, at most,
two or three a month.

The road we were about to embark on had been abandoned when
budt&es had destroyed all the bridges. It was three years since a
lorry had ventured Jong it. No one knew at all in what state it
could be; but if we got to Sao Louren^o we d be safe. There was a big
garimpo on the river-bank, and we d find there everything we could
wish for: provisions, men, and canoes to take us as far as the Bororo
villages of the Rio Vermelho, which is a tributary of the Sao Louren9o.

I really don t know how we got through. The journey remains in
my mind like a confused nightmare; endless camping-out while we cut
our way through a few troublesome yards, loading and unloading, and
points at which we were so exhausted by having to lay the road, plank
by plank and length by length, that we fell asleep on the bare ground,
only to be woken in the middle of the night by a strange persistent
muttering beneath us: that of the termites as they set about the siege of
our clothes. Already they formed a compact, wriggling mass on the
outside of the rubberized capes which served us both as raincoats and
as Improvised rugp. But at last the morning came when we trundled
downhill towards the Sao Louren^o, still thick with valley-mist.
Convinced that we d accomplished a really extraordinary feat, we
announced our arrival with repeated blasts on our horn. But not so
much as a child came to meet us and all we could find on the river s
edge were four or five deserted huts. Not a soul to be seen: and a rapid
inspection satisfied us that the hamlet had been abandoned.

Our nerves were in shreds after the efforts of the previous few days;
we felt near to despair. Should we give the whole thing up? "We decided
to make a last effort before turning back; each of us would start off in
a different direction and explore the outskirts of the village. Towards
evceing we returned empty-handed all save the driver, who had
found a family of fisberfolk and brought back the head of the family
with him. Bearded, and with the unhealthily white skin of someone
who had been too long in the water, he told us that the yellow fever
had come to the village some six months earlier. Those few who
survived it had scattered; but if we made upstream we should find one
or two people and an extra canoe. Would he come wilt us? Certainly:
for months he and his family had lived entirely on fish from the river.
The Indians would provide him with manioc and tobacco plants, and

Gold and Diamonds 197

we would give him a little money. On this understanding he would
guarantee us a supplementary boatman; we could pick him op en route.

I shall have occasion to describe other boat-trips that I remember
better than the one in question. I shall therefore say only that it took us
eight days to work our way upstream, the river being swollen by the
rains. Once when we were lunching on a little sandbank we heard the
rustling movement of a boa, seven yards long, that we had awakened
with our talk. It took a lot of lead to kill it; for the boa cares nothing
for body-wounds: the head alone is vulnerable. When we came to
skin it it took us half a day we found a dozen little boas, already
alive and on the point of being born. The sun killed them off. And
then one day, just after we d shot an irara a sort of badger we saw
two naked forms waving to us from the bank. These were our first
Bororo. We tied up and tried to talk to them; all they knew, it seemed,
was one word of Portuguese: j#mo tobacco which they pronounced
5WW0 (didn t the old missionaries say that the Indians were sms/ai,
sms hi, sans roi, because they could pronounce neither nor 1, nor r?).
They were farmers themselves, in a small way, but their product had
none of the concentration of the tobacco, fermented and rolled rope-
wise, with which we kept them liberally supplied. We explained to
them by gesture that we were making for thek village; they indicated
that we should be there by nightfall, and that they would go on ahead
to give warning of our arrival. They then disappeared in die forest

Some hours later we pulled up at a bank of day at the top of which
we had seen a few huts. We were welcomed with fits of laughter by a
group of naked men, painted red with urucu from thek toenoails to
the roots of thek hak. They helped us to disembark, grabbed hoM of
our luggage, and conducted us to a large hut in which several femfe
were living. There the chief of the village made over to us his own
corner; and for the duration of our visit he went to live on Ae opposite
bank of the riven

19 The Good Savage

Oo PROFOUND, and yet also so confused, are one s
first impressions of a native village whose civilization has remained re
latively intact that it is difficult to know in what order to set them down.
Among the Kaingang and the same is true of the Caduveo extremes
of poverty inspire in the traveller an initial weariness and discourage
ment But Acre are societies so vividly alive, so faithful to their
traditions, that their impact is disconcertingly strong, and one cannot
tell which of the myriad threads which make up the skein is the one to
follow. It was among the Bororo that I first encountered a problem
of Ais sort; and when I think, bad: towards it I am reminded of my
B&ost; recent experience of the kind. This was on the Burmese frontier;
I had got to the top of a Ml in a Kuki village a climb that involved
k>nr afia: hour of scrambling and hauling myself uphill, on slopes
doomed into slippery mud by the unceasing monsoon-rains. I was ex-
itaesfced, hungry, thirsty, and disturbed in mind, as well; and yet despite
tibe giddiness that overcame my whole being I had a heightened sense
of boda form and colour. I was vividly aware, for instance, of houses
which, though flimsy, had a majesty of sheer scale about them. Their
materials, and the uses to which they were put, were such as we
encounter only in dwarfish state. For these houses were not so much
built as knotted together, plaited, woven, embroidered, and given a
patina by long use. Those who lived in them were not overwhelmed
by great blocks of unyielding stone; these were houses that reacted
immediately and with great flexibility to their presence, their every
movement. The house was, in feet, subject to the householder, whereas
with us the opposite is the case. Hie village served the villagers as a coat
of light elastic armour; they wore it as a European woman wears her
hats. It was an object of personal adornment on a mammoth scab,
and those who built it had been clever enough to preserve something

The Good Savage 199

of the spontaneity of natural growth. Leafage and the sponging branch
were combined, in short, with the exactions of a care&Uy planned
lay-out.

The inhabitants seemed protected in their nakedness by die fioiKled
velvet of the partitLoit-walls and the curtain-fall of the palms. And
when they went forth from their houses it was as if they had jost
slipped out of an enormous dressing-gown of ostridb-feathers* l^eir
houses were caskets lined with down, it migjit have seemed, and their
bodies the jewels within them. They were delicately built, those bodies,
and their basic tonalities were heightened with fards. Hbese embeHist-
ments were as if designed to set off ornaments yet more splendid:
feathers and flowers that served as a background for the broad shining
teeth or tusks of jungle animals. It was as if an entire civilization were
reaching out in a passion of tenderness towards die "forms and tbe
substances and the colours of life; as if it were striving to bedeck the
human body with the richest essences of that life and had dbosen, from
among all its manifestations, those which, whether lasting or fugacious,
had that particular quality in the highest degree and were, in one or
the other respect, its privileged depositories.

As we proceeded to settle in* in the comer of the huge htitamt I
did not so much take in these things as allow myself to be impregnated
by them. Certain details fell into place. The ky-out and the dimensions
of the huts were as they had always been, but their aniifjectme had
already yielded to neo-Brazilian influences. They were no longer oval*
but rectangular in shape; and although roof and walk were still mack
of palm4eaves laid on a substructure of branches, the two dements
were not distinct from one another and tiie rooC instead of being
rounded, was in the shape of an inverted V and came down almost: tx>
the ground. Yet the village of Kejara, where we had jest arrived
(together with the two odbers which comprised tiie Rio Vermeiho
group: Pobori and Jaradori), was OIK of the few in wtAdi die influence
of the Salesian Fathers was not yet preponderant. Tliese weie die
missionaries who, in collaboration with the Protaectiofn Service, had
managed to put a stop to the conflicts betwieen settlers and Indians.
They had also carnal out some admirable pieces of ethnographical
field-work. (On the Bororo their work is, indeed, the best source
available to us, after the earlier studies of Karl von der Steinen.)
Unfortunately this went hand in hand with a systematic attempt to
eadErminate the Indians* culture.

Two things showed to what an extent Kejara was one of the last

2OO The Bororo

bastions of independence. It was, to begin with, the residence of the
chief of all the Rio Vermelho villages. This haughty and enigmatic
figure knew, or pretended to know, no Portuguese. Though attentive
to our wants and curious as to the motives of our visit he never
communicated with me directly. Considerations of prestige, as much as
of language, enjoined him to negotiate through the members of the
Council in whose company all his decisions were made.

Secondly, there was at Kejara a native destined to act as my inter
preter, and also as my principal informant. He was about thirty-five
years old and spoke tolerable Portuguese. He claimed, in fact, that as
a result of the missionaries* exertions he had once been able both to
write and to read in Portuguese. The Fathers took such a pride in this
that they had sent him to Rome, where he had been received by the
Holy Father in person. Apparently they had wanted him, on his return,
to get married according to the Christian rites and in disregard of the
traditional practices of his tribe, This had led to a spiritual crisis from
which he emerged reconverted to the ancient Bororo ideal; and he
went to Kejara and had lived there, for the last ten or fifteen years,
die life of a savage in every particular. Stark naked, painted scarlet,
with his nose and lower Ep transpierced by nasal and lip-plugs, die
Holy Father s be&athered Indian turned out to be a most remarkable
exponent of Bororo sociology.

Foe die moment we were surrounded by scores of Indians; laughter
and horseplay broke out all around us as they discussed the news of our
ajrrival. The Bororo are the tallest and die most finely built of all the
Brazilian Indians* Tbey are roundheads, with elongated faces, regular,
V%O^OIB features, and the bearing of athletes; they reminded me of
certain Pafagoetan types and it may be that they have affinities with
them from die racial point of view. The women as a rule are small and
sickly, with irregular features; it is rare to find among them that bodily
haoBcmy which distinguishes their men. The high spirits of the men
contrasted from dhe very beginning with die more rebarbative attitude
of die odier sex. The population seemed, on die whole, to be strikingly
healthy in spite of tbe epidemics which had ravaged the region. There
was, however, erne leper in tbe village.

Tbe men were entirely naked, save for a litde straw sheath that
covered die extremity of the penis. This was kept in position by die
foreskin, which was stretched through an opening on the top of the
sheath and bulged out over it. Most of them had painted themselves
red from head to foot with unicu seeds mashed up with fat. Tliis was

FIG. 27. Penis-sheath

FIG. 28. Lip-ping and ear-rings
of mother-of-pearl and
feather

applied even to their hair, which they wore either at shoulder-length
or cut round at the level of their ears. All looked, therefore, as if they
were wearing helmets. Other paintings were added to this scariet
ground: a horseshoe pattern in shining black resin often covered the
forehead and came down on either cheek to the level of the mouth.
Sometimes strips of white down were stuck on to shoulders or arms;
or micaceous powder together with pounded mother-of-pearl was
rubbed into shoulders and chest. The women wore a belt of stiff bark
round their waists, and this held in place a white strip of softer bark
which passed between their legs. On top of these was a loincloth of
cotton steeped in urucu, and across the dbest and over their shoulders
they wore a double skein of finely plaited cotton. H^eir costume was
completed by little bands of cotton, drawn ti^ht around ankles, wrists,
and biceps.

Gradually they all went away and we were left to share die hut,
which measured forty feet by fifteen, with a sorcerer and his wife
(silent and hostile, these two), and an old widow who lived on the
charity of relations in huts nearby. Often they neglected her, and she
would sing of her five husbands who had died, one after the other, and
of the happy days when she lacked neither manioc, nor maize, nor fish,
nor game.

Outside men were beginning to sing. Their songs, heavily accented,

201

2O2

The Boraro

low, sonorous, and guttural in character, were sung in unison; the
simple tunes, their continual repetition, the alternation of solo and
ensemble, and the virile and tragic style of the whole proceedings put
me in mind of the warrior-songs of some Germanic Mannerbund. Why
were they singing these songs? Because of the irara, I was told. We had
brought game with us and before it could be eaten an elaborate ritual
had to be gone through. The spirit of the irara had to be placated, for
one thing, and the chase itself consecrated. Too exhausted to behave as
a good anthropologist should, I dropped off at nightfall into an uneasy
sleep and did not wake again till dawn. Much the same happened every
evening while we were there; the nights were given over to the life
of religion and the natives slept from dawn till noonday.

The ritual demanded the intervention, at certain moments, of wind
instruments; but as a rule die voices were accompanied only by the
rattling of calabashes filled with pebbles. It was marvellous to hear what
could be done with them: sometimes they would abruptly arrest, or as
abruptly unleash, the singers in their singing; sometimes they would
fill in a silence with a long-held crescendo or decrescendo; and some
times, again, they gave the lead to their dancers by alternations of sound
and sikace so varied in their duration, quality, and intensity that not
evea oar star conductors could have asked for a more flexible or a
more responsive instrument. It s not surprising that in former times the
natives of other tribes and even the missionaries were convinced that
the devil himself was speaking to the Indians through this music. Hie
traditional beliefs in the sound-language of the drum have turned out
to be unfounded, but it seems probable that among certain peoples at
any rate there did really exist a codified sound-language of an extremely
simplified and symbolical sort.

I got up at daybreak to make a tour of the village; and as I went out
of the door I stumbled over a pathetic huddle of disfeathered birds.
These were the domesticated araras which the Indians make pets, the
better to pluck out the feathers from the living bird, thus equipping
themselves with the raw material of their coiffures. The naked and
grounded birds were like chickens ready for the spit, with beaks all
die more enormous for the loss of half the body behind them. On the
roofs other araras were solemnly perching; but these had new-grown
feathers and looked like heraldic emblems enamelled with gules and
azure.

I was in the middle of a clearing bordered on one side by the river
and tapering off, on the otters, into the forest; gardens lay hidden on

The Good Savage 203

the very edge of the forest and in the distance, between the trees, I
could glimpse a backdoth of hills patched with red sandstone. The
circumference of the clearing was marked out by huts twenty-six in
all identical with my own. They were arranged in a circle, and in die
centre was a hut at least sixty feet long and twenty-five feet wide:
much larger, that is to say, than the others. This was the \Mfaemrnnago
or men s house. The unmarried men all slept there and in the daytime,
when they were not out hunting or fishing, or engaged in some public
ceremony on the dancing-ground, all the men of the tribe codkl be
found there. (The dancing-ground was a large oval space immediately
to the west of the bachelors house.) Women were strictly forbidden to
enter the baitemannageo; the perimeter huts were their domain and the
men would go back and forth several times a day along the path
through the brushwood which led from their club to their conjugal
hearth. Seen from the top of a tree, or from a roof, the Bororo village
looked like a cart-wheel, with the bachelors* house as the hub, the
established paths as the spokes, and the family huts to make up the rim.

The dividing line between

the moieties,
The dividing Itnebetween the

upstream ami downstream

groups.

FIG. 29. Plan of Kejara village

204 The

All the villages were laid out in this way at one time, except that
their populations were much higher than they usually are today. (At
Kejara there were a mere one hundred and fifty, for instance.) Conse
quently the family houses were laid not in one but in several concentric
circles. These circular villages can be found, with certain local varia
tions, among all the tribes of the Ge linguistic group, which occupy the
plateau of central Brazil between die Araguaya and the Sao Francisco
rivers. The Bororo are probably the southernmost representatives of
this group. But we know that their nearest neighbours to the north,
the Cayapo, who live on the right bank of the Rio dos Mortes, build
their villages in the same way, as do also the Apinaye, the Sherente, and
theCanelk.

So vital to the social and religious life of the tribe is this circular
lay-out that the Salesian missionaries soon realized that the surest way
of converting the Bororo was to make them abandon their village and
move to one in which the huts were laid out in parallel rows. Tliey
would then be, in every sense,, dis-oriented. All feeling for thek
traditions would desert them, as if their social and religious systems
(these were inseparable, t as we shall see) were so complex that they
could not exist without the schema made visible in their grouni-plans
. and reaffirmed to them in the daily rhythm of their lives.

To this extent we can absolve the Salesian Fathers: they took
infinite trouble to understand this difficult cultural structure and to
preserve the recollection of it. Anyone who works among the Bororo
must first master what the Fathers have to say about them. But at the
same time it was urgently necessary that someone should measure their
findings against conclusions drawn in regions where missionaries had
not yet penetrated, and where the system was still in force. Guided,
therefore, by what had already been published, I tried to get my
iaibrmants o analyse the structure of their village. We spent our days
going from house* to house, counting heads, noting the status of each
inhabitant, and mytnng out on the sand of the clearing the ideal
boundaries of the elaborate networks^ which corresponded respectively
to privilege, tradition, hierarchical status, rights, and duties. I shall
simplify my account of all this by adapting the compass, as it were, to
my immediate purposes; for the natives do not set the points of the
compass as precisely as do our geographers.

The circular village of Kejara lies at a tangent to the left bank of the
Rio Vermdho. The river flows rougbly from east to west. The popula
tion is divided into two groups by a line that cuts straight across the

The Good Savage 205

vilkge and in theory runs parallel to the river. Those to the north are
the Cera; those to the south, the Tugare. It seems, though it s not
absolutely certain, that the first name means weak* and the second one
strong*. Be that as it may, the division is fundamental for two reasons:
one, that each individual belongs indissolubly to the same group as his
mother; and the other, that he is compelled to marry a member of the
other group. If my mother is Cera, I too am Cera, and my wife must
be Tugare.

The women live in, and inherit, the house in which they are born.
When he marries, therefore, a male Bororo crosses the clearing, steps
over the ideal frontier which separates one moiety from the other, and
goes to live on the other side. The men s house lies partly in one
moiety, partly in the other, and to this extent breaks the 611*, as it were.
But the rules of residence ky down that the door which gives on to
Cera territory shall be called the Tugare door , and vice versa. Men only
may use them, of course, and all those who live in the one sector were
born in the other.

The married man never feels c at home in his wife s house. His*
house, the one where he was born, and the one he remembers from
childhood, lies on the other side of the village. His mother and his
sisters, and now his brothers-inJaw, live there. But he can go back
there whenever he likes and be assured of a warm welcome. And when
the atmosphere of his wife s house becomes oppressive when his
brothers-in-law come visiting, for instance he can always go and
sleep in the men s house. There he will find much to remind him of his
adolescence. The atmosphere is one of masculine camaraderie, and die
religious environment not so strong as to prevent an occasional flirtation
with unmarried girls.

Hie function of the moieties goes far beyond marriage. Rights and
duties relate directly to the other moiety, since some must be enjoyed
with its help, and others carnal out to its benefit. The funeral rites of
a Cera, for instance, are performed by a Tugare, and vice versa. The
two moieties are partners, in short, and all social or religious under
takings involve the participation of an opposite number , whose role
is complementary to one s own. The element of rivalry is not excluded,
however: each moiety takes a pride in itself and on occasion is jealous
of the other. It s rather as if. two football teams, instead of trying to
defeat one another; were to vie with each other in demonstrations
of generosity.

A second diameter ran from north to south, at right angles to the

206 The Bororo

first. AH those bom east of this line were upstreamers ; all those born
west of it, yownstreamers . We therefore have four sections, as well as
two moieties, and both Cera and Tugare are subdivided. Unfortunately
no observer has as yet fathomed the role of this second diameter.

Tfac population is also divided into clans. These are groups of
families which consider themselves to be related through the female line
by descent from a common ancestor. This ancestor is mythological in
character and sometimes nobody knows who he is. Let us therefore say
that the members of the clan recognize one another by the fact that
they bear the same name. It is probable that at one time there were
right dans in all four for the Cera and four for the Tugare. But since
then, some dans have died out and others have subdivided. The
empirical situation is therefore considerably confused. It remains true,
in any case, that the members of a clan, with the exception of its
married men, all live either in the same hut or in huts adjacent to one
another. Bach clan has therefore its own place in the cirde of huts and
will be either Cera or Tugar, upstream or downstream, or yet further
subdivided, should the second diameter happen to pass through the
hutments of the rlan in question.

Yet anodber complication: each dan indudes hereditary sub-groups
wlridb also descend through the female line. Each dan has, in fact, its
Ved* families and its black* families* Formerly, too, each dan was
divided into three dasses: higher, middle, and lower. This may be a
reflection, or a transposition, of the hierarchized castes of the Mbaya-
Caduveo; I shall come back to that point. What makes this hypothesis
plausible is the fact that these dasses seem to have been endogamous:
a higher person could only marry another higher person (from the
other moiety), and so on. We can only surmise in these matters: such
is the total collapse, demographically speaking, of the Bororo villages.
Now that they have only a hundred or at most two hundred
inhabitants, as against a thousand or more in former times, many
categories are perforce unrepresented. Only the rule of die moieties
is strictly respected, and even there certain upper-class clans may be
exempted; for the rest, the Indians improvise as best they can when
faced with unforeseen situations.

The dan system constitutes, beyond a doubt, the most impor
tant of the divisions in which Bororo society seems to take pleasure.
In the general system of marriages between one moiety and tie other
the dans were formerly united by special affinities: one of the Cera
dans allying itsd by preference, with a particular Tugare clan, and

. 30.

Wooden dub
used in fishing

Hg. 31. Bows decorated with
rings of bark in the
fashion characteristic
of the owner s dart

vice versa. The rlam also varied in their social standing. The chief of
the village was always chosen from a particular Cera dan, and the title
went in the female line from the maternal uncle to his aster s son. There
were rich dans and poor* dans. In what, though, did these differences
of wealth consist?

Our conception of wealth is primarily economic; modest as is the
Bororo s standard of life, there are some who live better than their
fellows. Some are better at hunting or fishing: others, more lucky or
harder working. One or two people at Kejara had the beginnings of
professional status. One man, for instance, was an expert at the mating

207

208 The Bar or o

of stcme-|K>!ishers; these he exchanged for food, and he seemed to make
a comfortable living. Yet these differences remained individual:
ephemeral, that is to say. The only exception to this was the chief, who
received tokens of homage from all the dans, in the form of food and
manufactures. But as each gift entailed a subsequent obligation, he was
in the situation of a banker: wealth passed through his hands, but he
could never call it his own. My collections of religious objects were
built up in return for presents which the chief would at once redistribute
among the dans, thus conserving his balance of payments intact.

Wealth of status, as between one clan and another, is quite another
matter. Each dan has a capital of myths, traditions, dances, and
functions, either social or religious. The myths are, in their turn, at the
bottom of the technical privileges which are one of the most curious
features of Bororo culture. Almost all Bororo objects are emblazoned
in such a way that the owner s dan and sub-dan may be identified. The
privilege lies in the use of certain feathers, or colours of feathers; in the
way in which an object is carved or cut; in the disposition of feathers
differing in colour, or species; in the execution of certain decorative
work: fibre-jplaMng, for instance, or feather-mosaics; in the use of
particular patterns, and so on.

Ceremonial bows, for instance, are embellished with feathers, or
with rings of bark, according to the canons prescribed for each dan.
The arrow bears at its base, between the feathering, which keeps it
straight, a specific ornamentation. The pieces of mother-of-pearl out
of which the lip-plugs are made are worked in designs: oval, rec
tangular, or pistifonn, according to the dan, Fringes vary in colour.
And the feathered diadems worn during the dance bear a mark of the
same sort: generally a strip of wood covered with a feather-mosaic.
On festive occasions even the penis-sheath goes into regalia and is
equipped with a ribbon of stiff straw decorated or cut out with the
colour and the emblem of the dan.

These privileges (they may be bought and sold, by the way) are
the object of watdiful, not to say quiet-tempered supervision. It s
inconceivable, people say, that one clan should usurp the prerogatives
of another; civil war would result. But from this point of view the
differences between the dam are enormous; some live in luxury, some
in squalor; a glance at the interior of the huts will prove this, The
distinction is not so much between rich* and poor* as between
bumpkins and sophisticates.

The material equipment of the Bororo is marked by simplicity on

FIG. 32. Arrow shafts bearing clan ornamentation between the feathering

M

FIG. 33* Emblazoned penis-sheaths

o

210 The Bororo

the one hand and a rare perfection of execution on the other. The
tools remain archaic in style, despite the axes and knives which were
given out at one time by the Protection Service. For heavy work the
Indians use metal tools; but they still carve and polish the clubs with
which they kill off their fish, their wooden bows, and their delicately
barbed arrows. For work such as this they have a traditional tool, half
adze and half burin, which they use on all occasions, as we would use a
pocket-tnife. It consists of one of the curved incisors of the capivara, a
rodent which lives near the river-banks, tied sideways-on to a stick of
wood. Apart from the plaited mats and baskets, the weapons and tools
made from bone or wood of the men, and the digging-stick of the
women who work in the fields, there s not much to be seen in the huts.
A few calabashes; some black pots, bowls and shallow basins, with
sometimes a long handle, ladle-wise. These objects have a great purity
of form, and this purity is underlined by the austerity of their com
ponent materials. One strange thing: it seems that Bororo pottery used
to be decorated, and that in relatively recent times this was forbidden
on religious grounds. Perhaps it is for the same reason that the Indians
no longer carry out rupestral paintings such as may still be found
in rock-protected shelters of the chapada: yet these paintings contain
many elements taken from Bororo culture. To make quite sure of
this I once asked them to decorate for me a large sheet of white paper.
A native set to work with a paste made of urucu and some resin; and
although the Bororo have forgotten when they used to paint those
rocky walls, and indeed no longer frequent the escarpments where they
are to be seen, the picture which he made for me was an almost exact
version, on a smaller scale, of one of them.

Austere they may be, where their household objects are concerned;
but when it comes to dress or rather to the accessories of dress which
are their entire wardrobe the Bororo give free rein to fancy. To
luxury, too: for the women own caskets of jewels and pass them
on from mother to daughter: necklaces of monkeys teeth or jaguars
fangs mounted on wood and delicately held in place with strings.
These are relics of the chase; but they also allow their husbands to pluck
the hair from their temples, and with these hairs the husbands
weave long ropes of hair that they wear wound round their heads like
a turban. The men also wear, on fete-days, crescent-shaped pendants
made up of a pair of daws taken from the big armadillo that monster
burrower, at times more than a yard in length, which has changed
hardly at all since the tertiary era and embellished with incrustations

FIG. 34. Black pottery bowl

FIG. 36. Crescmt-shaped pendant
decorated with jaguar
teeth

RG. 35. Two examples,
one single and
one double, of a
Bororo pocket-
knife

RG. 37. Impro"yised ornaments:
painted crowns of
dried straw

212 The Bororo

of mother-of-pearl, or a fringe of feathers or cotton. Or there may be
seen a toucan s beak fastened to a feathered stalk; egrets by the
handful; the long tail-feathers of the arara, stuck into bamboo-stalks
covered with white down: all these ornament the chignon, natural
or made-up, like hairpins devised to balance, at the rear, a diadem of
feathers on the brow. Sometimes these two features are combined in a
composite head-dress which takes hours to set in place. I got one for
the Musee de 1 Homme in Paris in exchange for a rifle, after negotiations
that went on for eight days. It was indispensable to their rituals, and
only after they had assembled a duplicate collection of the feathers
involved would they consent to sell. It consists of a fen-shaped diadem;
a feathered visor that covers the upper part of the face; a taU cylindrical
crown that encircles the head, and is made up of harpy-eagle feathers
on sticks; and a basketwork plaque into which is stuck a whole bushfol
of tall stalks topped with feathers and down. The ensemble is six feet
in height.

Such is the Bororo s love of display ornament that the men are
always improvising ornaments for themselves even when they are not
in ceremonial dress. Many wear crowns: bandeaux of fur embellished
with feathers; circlets of basketworfc, again with feathers inserted;
coronets of jaguars daws mounted on a circle of wood. But they are
pleased with the simplest things: a ribbon of dried straw, picked up off
the ground, hastily painted and pulled into shape, will give delight
enough, as a head-dress, until some other fantasy takes its place. Some
times trees are stripped of their flowers to this end. A piece of bark and
a feather or two will be quite enough to give these tireless man-
milliners the elements of a pair of sensational ear-rings. Enter the men s
house and you will see how hard these virile giants work to make
themselves beautiful: in every corner someone is at work with knife or
chisel or burin; shells from the river are taken to pieces and polished
on millstones to make necklaces; fantastic constructions of feathers and
bamboo are in process of creation. These are men built like stevedores;
but no dressmaker could better the application with which they stick
down on to one another s skins and finish up looking like day-old
chicks.

But the men s house is not only a workshop. Adolescents sleep in it;
and when there is no work to be done the married men go there for
siestas, or to talk things over and smoke the big cigarettes that they roll
in a dried leaf of maize. They also take some of their meals there; for a
minutely organized system of obligations compels all the clans in turn

The Good Savage 213

to serve in the baitemannageo. Every two hours or so one of the men
goes over to his family hut and fetches a bowl of the dish, made from
boiled maize, which is called mingau* Great shouts of joy greet his
arrival: Au, au! resounds through the silence of the day. Ceremony
requires him to invite a group of six or eight of his fellows to partake
of the dish; this they proceed to do, with ladles made of pottery or
shells. Women are forbidden, as I said earlier, to enter the men s house,
Married women, that is to say: for unmarried girls take good care not
to go too near it; they know too well that if they stray too near, either
from inadvertence or from the wish to provoke, the men may dart out
and rape them. And, once in each woman s life, she must enter the
men s house of her own free will: in order to propose* to her future
husband.

20 The Living and the Dead

T

In:

LHE baitemannageo is many things in one: workshop,
dub, dormitory, maison de passe, and, finally, temple. There it is that
the religious dancers make themselves ready and that certain ceremonies
are held, out of sight of the women of the village: the construction and
whirling of the bull-roarers, likewise. These bull-roarers are musical
instruments, made of wood and richly painted. They have the outline
of a long flat fish and their length varies between one and five feet.
"When they are made to wheel round on the end of a length of rope
they make a sort of low roaring noise hence their name; this noise is
attributed to the visiting spirits of whom the women are supposed to
be terrified. Any woman who sees a bull-roarer is ill-fated; even today,
as like as not, she will be clubbed to death. When I first watched them
in process of construction I was assured that they were cooking
utensils. The natives* extreme reluctance to let me have a few of them
to keep was explained not so much by the work that would have to be
done over again as by fear that I might betray their secret. I had to take
one of my kit-cases to the men s house under cover of darkness; the
bull-roarers, already wrapped and parcelled, were laid inside and the
case shut and locked; I had to promise not to open it till I got to
Cuiaba.

There is something almost scandalous, to a European observer, in
the ease with which the (as it seems to us) almost incompatible activities
of the men s house are harmonized. Few peoples are as deeply religious
as the Bororo; few have so elaborate a system of metaphysics. But their
spiritual beliefs and their habits of every day are so intimately mingled
that they seem not to have any sensation of passing from one to the
other. I met with the same artless religiosity in the Buddhist temples
of the Bunnan frontier, where the bonzes live and sleep in the room in
which their services are held, with their pots of pomade and the

214

The Living and the Dead

contents of their medicine-chest kid out at
the foot of the altar; nor did they disdain to
caress their pupils in the interval between
two lessons in the alphabet.

This nonchalance with regard to the
supernatural was the more surprising to me
in that my only contact with religion goes
back to a stage in my childhood at which
I was already an unbeliever. During the
First "World War I lived with my grand
father, who was the rabbi of Versailles,
His house stood next to the synagogue and
was linked to it by a long inner corridor.
Even to set foot in that corridor was
an awesome experience; it formed an im
passable frontier between the profane world
and that other world from which was
lacking precisely that human warmth
which was the indispensable condition to
my recognizing it as sacred. Except at the
hours of service the synagogue was empty;
desolation seemed natural to it, and its
brief spells of occupation were neither
sustained enough nor fervent enough to
overcome this. They seemed merely an
incongruous disturbance. Our private re
ligious observances suffered from the same
offhand quality. Only my grandfather s
silent prayer before each meal reminded
us children that our lives were governed
by a higher order of things. (That, and a
printed message which hung on a long
strip of paper in the dining-room: *Chew
Your Food Properly: Your Digestion De
pends On it. )

It was not that religion had more
prestige among theBororo: on the contrary,
it was taken for granted. In the men s house
people went through the motions of re
ligious observance in a consummately casual

215

FIG. 38. A bnE-roarer

216 The Bororo

manner, as if tkey were actions performed for a specific purpose; there
was none of that attitude of respect which comes over even the
unbeliever when he enters a sanctuary. That afternoon they were sing
ing in the men s house, in preparation for the evening s rites, which
were to be held in public. In one corner boys were snoring or chatting;
two or three men were intoning to the accompaniment of rattles. But
if one of those men wanted to light a native cigarette, or if it was his
turn to dig into the maize gruel, he would either pass his instrument
to a neighbour, who would take over where he had left off, or go on
with one hand, while scratching himself with the other. If one dancer
paraded round to show off his latest creation, everyone would stop
whatever he was doing and give his opinion. The service seemed to
have been forgotten until suddenly in another corner the incantation
would begin again where it had been left off.

And yet the men s house has a significance over and above that of
its being, as I have described, the centre of the social and religious life
of the village. The lay-out of the village does not only allow full and
delicate play to the institutional system; it summarizes and provides a
basis for the relationship between Man and the Universe, between
Society and the Supernatural, and between the living and the dead.

Before going into this new aspect of Bororo culture, I must say
something in parenthesis about relations between the dead and the
living. Without this, it would be difficult to grasp the particular
character of die solution which Bororo thought has applied to this
universal problem a solution remarkably similar to that which may
be found at die other extreme of the western hemisphere, among the
inhabitants of the forests and prairies of north-eastern North America:
the Opbwa, for instance, and the Menomini, and the Winnebago,

There is probably no such thing as a society which does not treat
its dead with consideration. At a time when mankind as we know it
had hardly come into being, Neanderthal Man already buried his dead
in tombs made up of a few rough stones. No doubt funerary practices
vary from one group to another. Can we say that these variations are
negligible, in relation to die unvarying sentiment which underlies
them? Even when we simplify, as far as we possibly can, the respective
attitudes maintained in this matter by one society or another, we still
have to acknowledge one great distinction: two poles, that is to say,
linked by a whole series of intermediary positions.

Certain societies leave their dead in peace. In return for periodical
acts of homage the dead, in such cases, give the living no trouble. If

The Living and the Dead 217

they come back to take a look at them, it is at foreseeable intervals and
on the foreseeable occasions, And their visits bring only good: the
punctual movement of the seasons, fertility in gardens and in women
all are guaranteed by the dead. It is as if tie dead and the living had
made a pact together: in return for certain sober marts of attachment
the dead will remain where they are, and in such momentary encounters
as may take place the interest of the living will always be pet first.
One of the universal themes of folklore puts this formula very well: the
so-called motif of the grateful dead . A rich hero buys back a dead
body from creditors who had refused to allow it to be buried, and gives
it formal burial. The dead man then appears to his benefactor in a
dream and promises him success, on condition that the benefits resulting
from this are shared equally between the two of them. And, sure
enough, the hero soon wins the love of a princess, whom he manages,
with the help of his supernatural protector, to rescue from one danger
after another. Is he to share her favours with the dead man? Tte
princess lies under a spell and is half woman, half serpent. The dead
man claims his share, the hero keeps to their bargain, and the dead man,
well pleased with this loyal observance, takes for himself the bewitched
half of the princess, leaving the hero with a wife entirely human.

As antithesis to that notion, we have another theme from folklore:
the enterprising knight , as I like to call it. This time the hero is not
rich, but poor. His only possession is a grain of corn which he manages,
such is his cleverness, to exchange for a cock, in the first place, and
later for a pig, an ox, and finally a dead body, which he barters for a
live princess. Here the dead body is rather object than subject: no
longer a partner to be negotiated with, it is an instrument to be played
upon in a speculation in which untruths and swindling are involved.
Certain societies maintain an attitude of this sort towards their dead.
They do not allow them to rest, but rather conscript them: literally at
times, when cannibalism and necrophagy are based upon the wish to
annex for oneself the merits and capacities of the dead; and also
symbolically, in societies where competitive prestige plays a great part
and the peoples concerned must continually, as it were, summon the
dead to their rescue. Evocation of their ancestors and artful genealogies
are two of the means by which they try to justify their prerogatives.
Such societies feel themselves particularly harassed by the dead whom
they exploit. They think that the dead pay them back in kind for
their persecution: ever more exacting and irascible, the dead get their
own back on those of the living who aim to profit by them. But,

The Bororo

whether it is a matter of fair shares , as in my first example, or of
unbridled speculation, as in the second, the relation is never, and
cannot be, one-sided*

Between the two extremes are a number of intermediary positions,
lie Indians on the west coast of Canada and the Melanesians summon
all their ancestors to appear in ceremonies in which they bear witness
in favour of their descendants; in certain ancestor-cults, in China or
Africa, the dead keep their personal identity but for a few generations
only; among the Pueblos, in the south-west of the U.S.A., they
immediately lose their identities but share out among themselves a
certain number of specialized functions. Even in Europe, where the dead
have become anonymous and lost all character, folklore still preserves
certain vestiges of a quite different eventuality in the belief that there
are two different kinds of dead person: those borne off by natural
causes , who form a corps of protective ancestors, and those who died
by their own hand, or were murdered or magicked away; the latter
turn into jealous and maleficent spirits.

If we confine ourselves to the evolution of western civilization, there
is no doubt that we tended less and less to speculate on the dead,
and more and more to enter into contractual agreement with them.
Eventually this gave place to an indifference foreshadowed, perhaps, in
the New Testament phrase: Let the dead bury their dead. But there
is no reason to suppose that this evolution corresponds to any universal
pattern. It would seem, rather, that all societies have a certain obscure
awareness of both possible formulas. No matter towards which of the
two they incline, they will always take superstitious precautions against
the possible validity of the other as do we ourselves, whatever the
faith, or lack of faith, which we profess. The originality of the Bororo,
and of the other peoples whom I have cited as samples, lies in their
having clearly formulated both possibilities and built up a system of
ritual and belief applicable both to the one and to the other: machinery,
that is to say, with the aid of which they can pass to and firo in the hope
of a twofold conciliation.

I should express myself imperfectly if I were to say that there is no
such thing, for the Bororo, as natural death. A man is not, for them, an
individual, but a person. He is part of a sociological universe: the village
which exists for all eternity, side by side with the physical universe,
itself composed of other animate beings; celestial bodies and meteoro
logical phenomena. Nor is this affected by the fact that the village itself
rarely remains more than thirty years in any one place, so rapidly is the

The Living and the Dead 219

soil brought to the point of exhaustion. The village does not, in feet,
consist either of the land on which it stands, or of the huts which
comprise it at any one time; it consists in the lay-out which I have
described above. And this lay-out never varies, That is why, in putting
a stop to it, the missionaries destroyed an entire culture.

As for the animals, some belong to the world of men birds and
fish, above all and some, as in the case of certain terrestrial animals, to
the physical universe. The Bororo consider, therefore, that their human
shape is transitory: midway between that of the fish (whose name they
have adopted for themselves) and the arara (in whose guise they will
complete the cycle of their transmigrations).

If the Bororos* thought like that of the anthropologist is
dominated by the fundamental opposition between Nature and culture,
it follows that they go beyond even Durfcheim and Comte and con
sider that human life should itself be regarded as a department of
culture. To say, therefore, that death is either natural or unnatural is
meaningless. In feet and law alike, death is both natural and anti-cultural.
That is to say that, whenever a native dies, an injury is done not only
to those near to him, but to Society as a whole; and Nature, in conse
quence, is held to be in debt to Society. It is, in fact, as a debt that we
may best interpret the notion, essential to the Bororo, of the mm.
"When a native dies, the village organizes a collective hunt, incumbent
on the moiety of which the dead man was not a member. The object
of this expedition is to make Nature pay her debt; the natives hope, by
killing some sizable creature a jaguar, for preference to bring home
a skin, and a set of teeth and nails, which will constitute the dead man s
mori*

A man had just died wfam I arrived in Kejara but, unluckily, he
had died some way away, in another village. I could not, therefore,
witness the double burial ceremony: first, the body is put in a ditch,
covered with branches, in the middle of the village, and then, when
putrefaction has been completed, the bones are washed in the river.
Next, they are painted and ornamented with feather-mosaics stuck on
with glue and, finally, they are sent down in a basket to die bottom of
a lake or a running stream. All the other ceremonies at which I was
present were in strict traditional style, inclusive of the ritual scarification
of the relatives at the place where the provisional tomb had had to be
dug. I was also unlucky in that the collective hunt had taken place
either the day before, or on the afternoon o my arrival, so that I
could not witness it. Nothing had been killed, in any case, and an old

220 The Bororo

jaguar-skin was brought into service for the funeral dances. I even
suspect that our irara was commandeered to take the place of the
missing prey. They would never tell me if this was the case and
morels the pity: for, had it really been so, I could have claimed for
myself the role of the uiaddo, or chief huntsman and representative of
the dead man, His Emily would have presented me with an armband
of human hair and a jwori, or mystic clarinet: this was made up of a
little befeathered calabash which served as amplifier to the bamboo
reed-pipe on which the huntsman would play when the kill had been
completed; and, later, it would be attached to the skin. I should have
shared out, as I was bound to do, the meat, the hide, the teeth, and the
nails among die dead man s relatives; and they would have given me
in exchange a ceremonial bow and arrows, another clarinet in com
memoration of my services in the field, and a necklace of flat discs made
from shells. I should also, no doubt, have had to paint myself black in
order to escape the notice of the evil spirit which had been responsible
for the man s death. By the rules of the man, this spirit would be
incarnate in the animal I should set out to kill; and, although it had to
offer itself by way of compensation for the harm it had done, it would
be filled with a vindictive hatred for its executioner. For, in a sense,
the Bororo*s murderous Nature is human and operates through the
intermediary of a special category of souls, answerable direcdy to her
and not to Society.

As I said above, I was sharing a sorcerer s hut. The bari formed a
special category of human beings and did not belong completely
either to the physical universe or to the world of Society; their role was
rather to mediate between these two estates. It is possible, though not
certain, that they were all born in the Tugare moiety; mine certafcly
was, since our hut was Cera and he lived, as was the rule, with his wife.
A man becomes a bari by vocation. Often this follows upon a revelation
whose central motif is a pact concluded with certain members of a very
complex collectivity of evil, or perhaps mfcrely formidable, spirits.
These are in part celestial (and in control, therefore, of the phenomena
of astronomy and meteorology), in part animal, and in part subter
ranean. Their numbers are continually increasing, as the souls of dead
sorcerers arrive to swell the ranks: and they have in their charge the
operation of the solar system, the wind and the rain, sickness and
death. Their appearance varies, but is in every case terrifying: matted
with hair, some say, and with holes in their heads from which tobacco-
fiimes emerge when they smoke; monsters of the air with immensely

. 39

The Living and the Dead 221

long nails and rain pouring from
their eyes, nostrils, and hair; one-
legged creatures with huge bellies
and the soft and downy body of
a bat.

The ban is asocial. By reason
of his personal links with one or
more spirits, he is a privileged being:
when he goes out hunting by him
self, for instance, supernatural help
is forthcoming; he can turn himself
into an animal at will; he has the
gift of prophecy and knows the
secrets of disease. Neither an animal
killed in the chase, nor the first
fruits of a garden, can be eaten till
he has had his share. This last is the
mori owed by the living to the spirits
of the dead. Its role in the system is,
therefore, symmetrical with, and the
obverse of, that of the funerary hunt
which I have described.

But the ban is also under the
dominion of one or more guardian

spirits. They make use of him for their own incarnation; at soch times
the fcori, with the spirit, as it were, in the saddle above him, is subject
to trances and convulsions. In return for his guardianship the spirit
watches the bans every movement; he is the true proprietor, not merely
of the sorcerer s possessions, but of his very body. For every broken
arrow, every broken pot, every fingernail, or lock of hair not accounted
for, the sorcerer is answerable to the spirit, As none of these things may
be destroyed or thrown away, the ban drags along behind him the
debris of all his past existence. The old adage about the quick and the
dead here takes on an unexpected and terrible significance; for, between
the spirit and the sorcerer, the bond is of so jealous a nature that one
can never be quite sure which of the two partners is, in the end, the
master, and which the servant.

Clearly, therefore, for the Bororo the physical universe consists in
a complex hierarchy of individualized powers. Their personal nature
is directly manifested; but this is not the case with their other attributes,

Ceremonial ear
rings made of
pieces of motfaer-
o&pearl fastened
to strips of bark,
and trimmed
with feathers
and

222 The Bororo

for these powers are at once beings and things, living and dead. In
Society, tie sorcerer is the intermediary between mankind and the
equivocal universe of evil spirits who are at one and the same time
persons and objects.

The sociological universe has characteristics quite different from
those of the physical universe. The spirits of ordinary men (those, I
mean, who are not sorcerers) do not identify themselves with the
forces of Nature, but form a society, as it were, of their own; but,
conversely, they lose their personal identity and merge in that collective
being, the aroe, a term which, like the ancient Bretons anaon, should
doubtless be translated as the souls* society . This society is, in point of
fact, twofold, since the souls are divided after the funeral ceremonies
into two villages, of which one is in the east and the other in the west.
Over these villages stand guard, respectively, the two great hero-
divinities of the Bororo Pantheon: in the west, the older of the two,
Bakororo, and in the east the younger, Itubore. This east-west axis
corresponds, by the way, to the course of the Rio Vermelho. It is
therefore probable that there is a relation, as yet unillumined, between
the duality of the villages of the dead and the secondary division of the
village itself into an upstream and a downstream moiety.

The Sari serves, therefore, as intermediary between human society
and the evil spirits, individual or cosmologicaL (The spirits of the dead
ban are both at once, as we have seen.) There is also another mediator
one who presides over relations between the society of the living and
the society of the dead (this last being beneficent, collective, and
anthropomorphic). This is the araettowaraare, or Master of the spirits*
road . His distinguishing marks are the opposite of the tan s. He and
the kari hate and fear one another, what is more. The Road Master is not
entitled to receive offerings, but he must keep strictly to certain rules:
there are things that he must not eat, and he must be very quiedy
dressed. All ornament, all brightly coloured clothing, is forbidden him,
Nor is there any pact between him and the spirits, and these are always
present to him and, in a sense, immanent. Instead of taking possession of
him when he is in a trance, they appear to him in dreams; if he calk
upon them from time to time, it is always to someone else s advantage.

If the ban has the gift of foreseeing illness and death, the Master is
both nurse and healer. It is said, by the way, that the ban, as the
embodiment of physical necessity, is always ready to confirm his
prognostications by killing off any invalid who is too slow to realize
his grim predictions. But it must be noted here that the Bororo do not

The Living and the Dead 223

share our conception of the relation between life and death. Someone
said to me one day, of a woman who was lying in a high fever in the
corner of her hut: She s dead* meaning that they had given up her
case as hopeless. And, after all, this is not so different from our army s
way of lumping together dead and wounded under the single heading
of casualties . As far as immediate effectiveness goes, they are indeed
one and the same, even if, from the wounded man s point of view,
there is an undeniable advantage in not being among the dead.

The Master can, like the bari, turn himself into an animal at will. But
he never turns himself into a man-eating jaguar, symbol (until he is
killed in his turn) of the power of the dead to exact their mori from the

FIG. 40, Bororo paintings of cult objects

living. The Master chooses, rather, one of the provider-creatures: die
fruit-picking aura, the fish-catching harpy-eagle, or the tapir, on whose
flesh the whole tribe can feast. The ban is possessed by its spirits; die
aroettowaraare sacrifices himself for die salvation of mankind. Even the
revelation which makes him aware of his mission has its painful side;
he recognizes it, initially, by the dreadful stench which follows him
everywhere. This stench recalls, no doubt, the smell which hangs over
the village at the time when a dead body is given provisional burial at
grounds-level, in the middle of the dance-area; but at die moment of
revelation it is associated with a mystical being, die mje. The aije is a
mythical monster of die aquatic deep, repellent, evil-smelling, and
affectionate: it appears before the budding aroettowaraare and forces
Viim to endure its caresses. The scene is mimed, during die funeral
ceremony, by young men daubed wida mud who throw dieir arms

FIG. 41 . Bororo painting of an officiant,
trumpets, a rattle, and various
ornaments

round the fancy-dressed impersonator of the young spirit. The natives
have so clear an idea of die mje that they can even paint his portrait;
and they give it the same name as is given to the bult-roarer, whose
humming announces the emergence of the animal and imitates its cries.
And so it is not surprising that the fiineral ceremonies go on for
several weeks. Their functions, many and various, are situated on the
two planes which we have just distinguished. Seen from an individual
point of view, every day is the pretext for negotiations between
Society and the physical universe. The hostile forces which compose
the physical universe have done harm to Society, and that harm must
somehow be put right: that is the role of the funerary hunt. Once die
dead man has been at once avenged and redeemed by the hunters, as a
group, he must be admitted to the society of spirits. That is the function
of the rowfamluo, the great fimeral dirge which I was about to have die
good fortune to hear.

224

The Living and the Dead 225

In a Bororo vilkge, one moment in the day has a particular
importance: the evening roll-call. As soon as night falls a great fire is
lit on the dancing-place, and the chiefs of the clam assemble there. A
herald calls out in a loud voice to each group: Radedjeb&> the chiefs;
O Cera, those of the ibis; Ki, those of the tapir; Bokod&ri, those of the
big tattoo; Bakoro (from the name of the hero Bakororo); Boro, those
of the lip-plugs; Ewaguddu, those of the buriti-palm; Arore, those of the
caterpillar; Paiwe y those of the hedgehog; Apibore (a word whose
meaning is uncertain). ... As and when each group arrives, the orders
for the morrow are made known to them, still in a tone of voice that
can be heard even in the most distant huts in the village or would be,
if those huts were not by now more or less empty. As the mosquitoes
vanish with the last of the light, the men all move away from the
family houses, whither they had returned towards six in the evening.
Each has under his arm the mat that he will spread out on the beaten
earth of the dance-plaza that lies to the west of the men s house. There
they stretch themselves out, wrapped in a cotton blanket died orange
by long contact with bodies stained with urucu; the Service de
Protection would hardly recognize in these blankets one of its bene
factions to the region. There are also larger mats, on which five or six
men can lie together, occasionally exchanging a word or two. Some
are quite on their own, and amble about among the prostrate bodies of
their fellows. As the roll-call proceeds, the head of one family after
another will rise to his feet in answer to his name, receive his orders,
and once again lie down, face upwards towards the stars. The women,
too, have left their huts, and stand in groups on the threshold. Conr-
versation dies down and gradually, led at first by two or three officiants
and growing even greater in volume as more and more people arrive,
we begin to hear, first from the depths of the men s house and
eventually on the plaza itself die songs, recitatives, and choruses which
will continue all night.

The dead man was a member of the Cera moiety; the Tugare
officiated, therefore, at his funeraL In the centre of the square, branches
had been strewn to stand in for the tomb itself! These are flanked to
right and to left by raised bundles of arrows, before which bowls of
food had been set out. Priests and singers numbered about a dozen, and
most of them had on a large diadem of brilliantly coloured feathers
(others wore this on their buttocks), with, on their shoulders, a rec
tangular wickerwork fan, kept in place by a thin cord round their
necks. Some were entirely naked and painted either in red (all over

226 The Bororo

or striped) or in black, or else covered with long thin strips of white
down; others wore a long straw skirt. The main character, whose role
it was to personify the young spirit, had a change of costume to suit
the various stages of the action. Sometimes he appeared dad in fresh
green leaves, wearing on his head the enormous diadem I described
above, and carrying, like a ceremonial train, a jaguar-skin; this last was
held up behind him by a page. On other occasions he was naked and
painted black, with no ornament but what looked like a huge pair
of glassless straw spectacles round his eyes. This detail is especially
interesting in that it is analogous to the motif by which Tlaloc, the rairt-
god of ancient Mexico, may be recognized. Perhaps the Pueblo Indians
of Arizona and New Mexico hold the key to the mystery, for the
spirits of their dead turn into the gods of rain; and they also have
certain beliefs relating to magical objects which protect the eyes and
allow their possessor to become invisible at will. I have often noticed
that spectacles exert a great fascination among South American
Indians so much so that on my last expedition I took along a great
quantity of glassless spectacle-frames. These had a great success among
the Nainhikwara as if their traditional belief made them particularly
welcome. We had had no record of straw spectacle-frames among the
Bororo* bet as Hack paint is said to render the wearer invisible, it may
well be that spectacles do the same as they do, for that matter, in
Pueblo mythology. And, finally, the butarico (the spirits responsible for
rain among the Bororo) are described as having the same redoubtable
aspect hooked hands and great fangs as the Maya goddess of water.
During the first few nights we witnessed, one after another, the
dances of the Tugare clans; Ew&ddo, those of the palm-tree, and P^iii^e,
those of the hedgehogs. In both cases the dancers were covered with
leaves from head to foot and, as their heads were invisible, we took
them to be higher than they really were on the level, in fact, of the
feathered diadem which stood up in so imposing a fashion that we
involuntarily took the dancers to be enormously tail In their hands
they held palm-stems or sticks ornamented with leaves. There were
two sorts of dances. In the one, the performers came on alone divided
into two quadrilles which faced one another at the two extremities of
the square, ran towards one another with cries of Ho, ho! and
whirled round and round each other until they were facing the opposite
way from which they had come. Later, women would weave in among
die men dancers, and the dance became an interminable farandofe
which formed up, moving forward or simply marking time, led by

The Living and the Dead 227

naked coryphees who walked backwards, waving their rattles, while
other men squatted on the ground and sang.

Three days later the ceremonies were interrupted, so that Act IE,
the mariddo dance, could be got ready. Teams of men went off into the
forest, returning with armfuls of green palms: these were stripped of
their leaves and the stems were cut into sticks, each about a foot in
length. With crude ropes of plaited foliage these were roughly tied
together, in bundles of two or three, to form the steps of a flexible
kdder several yards in length. Two such ladders were made, of dif
ferent lengths; and they were then rolled up to form two wheeWike
shapes. Each stood on its narrow breadth, and they rose to a height of

FIG. 42. Diadem of yellow and blue arara
feathers carrying flan

roughly five feet in the one case and four in the other. Hie sides were
then decorated with a network of foliage, held together with thin
ropes of plaited hair. The two objects, when complete, were solemnly
taken to the middle of the square and put down side by side. These
were the mariddos, male and female, whose construction was the
responsibility of the Ewaguddu dan.

Towards evening two groups, each of five or six men, made off
respectively to east and to west. I followed the first group to the point,
some fifty yards distant, at which I could watch them at their prep
arations. Hidden from the public by a screen of trees, they were
covering themselves with leaves, like dancers, and fitting their diadems
in place. But on this occasion secrecy was essential to their role: like

Z2& The Bororo

the other group, they represented the spirits of the dead who had come
from their villages in, respectively, the west and the east to welcome
the new addition to their number. When all was ready they headed,
whistling, towards the square, where the eastern group was already in
position (the westerners had come upstream , in symbolical terms, so
that it was natural for them to take longer than those who had come
^downstream* from the east).

Their hesitant and fearful bearing was admirably descriptive of the
plight of the shades; I thought of how, in Homer, Ulysses strives to
keep hold of the phantoms conjured up by blood. But all at once the
ceremony became more lively: men seized one of other of the mariMos
(all the heavier, these, for being made up of fresh-cut branches),
hoisted them at arm s length, and danced beneath them until they
dropped from exhaustion, leaving the mmddo for some rival to
continue the dance. Hie scene lost its initial, mystical character and
became a fairground on which the young men of the village showed
off tiieir muscles in an environment of sweat, horseplay, and crude
joking. The sport is one that recurs among certain related peoples in a
purely profane sense in, for instance, the log-races of the Ge on the
Brazilian plateau; but among the Bororo it still retains its full religious
significance; the hilarious and disorderly scene is one in which the
native really feels that he is playing with the dead and wresting from
them the right to go on being alive.

Ttiis opposition the living against the dead is expressed, in the
first place, by the division of the villagers, throughout the ceremonies,
into participants and spectators. But the real participants are the men,
protected as they are by the secrecies of the communal house. The lay
out of the village must, therefore, have a significance even deeper than
that which we ascribed to it on the sociological level. When a villager
dies, each half takes it in turn to play the living, or the dead, in relation
to the other. But this game of poise and counterpoise mirrors another,
in which the roles have been distributed once and for all; for the men
who have grown up in the baitemanm^eo symbolize the society of
spirits, whereas from the huts all around, which belong to the women
(who have no part in the most sacred of the rites and are, therefore,
predestined spectators), is drawn the audience of the living.

We have observed already that the supernatural world is itself
twofold, since it includes both the domain of the priest and the domain
of the magician. The magician is the master of the celestial and
terrestrial powers, from the tenth heaven (the Bororo believe in a

The Living and the Dead 229

plurality of heavens, each superimposed upon the other) down to the
depths of the earth. The forces he controls and on which he depends
are, therefore, disposed along a vertical axis; whereas the priest,
Master of the spirits* road, presides over the horizontal axis which unites
east and west, where the two villages of the dead are ituated. Bat
much goes to show that the bari is invariably Tugar6 in origin, and the
araettowaraare Cera; this suggests that the division into halves is also
expressive of this duality. It is a striking feet that all the Bororo myths
present the Tugare heroes as creators and demiurges and the Cera
heroes as men of peace and organization. The Tugare heroes are
answerable for the existence of things: water, rivers, fish, vegetation,
manufactured objects. The Cera heroes have put creation in order,
delivering the human race from monsters and assigning to each animal
its specific nourishment. One myth even tells how the supreme power
once belonged to the Tugare, who voluntarily made it over to the Cera
as if the antithesis of the moieties was intended to symbolize, in
native thought, the passage from an unbridled Nature to an ordered
Society.

This explains the apparent paradox by which the Tugare are known
as the strong , while the Cera, though the repository of political and
religious power, are known as the weak . The Tugar6 stand closer to
the physical universe, and Cera to the human universe: and the latter
is not the more powerful of the two. Social order cannot cheat the
hierarchy of the cosmos and get away with it. Even among the Bororo,
Nature can be vanquished only if we recognize her authority and
allow her fatalities their true role. A sociological system such as theirs
allows them, in any case, no choice: a man can never belong to the same
moiety as either his father or his son, since it is to his mother s side that
he owes allegiance: only with his grandfather and grandson is he again
at one in the matter of moieties. If the Cera should wish to justify their
power by claiming an exclusive affinity with the founder-heroes, they
set themselves, in so doing, at a further distance of one whole gen
eration becoming, in effect, the heroes* grandsons , whereas the
Tugar6 would become their sons*.

But to what extent are the natives bemused by the logic of their
system? I cannot, after all, dismiss the feeling that the dazzling meta
physical cotillon which I witnessed can be reduced, in the end, to
a rather gruesome farce. The men s brotherhood claimed to be im
personating the dead in order that the living should have the illusion
of a visit from the spirits; the women were excluded from the rites and

230 The Bororo

deceived as to their tree nature doubtless to sanction the division of
rights by which they take priority, where housing and birth rights are
in question, leaving the mysteries of religion to their men. But their
credulity, whether presumed or authentic, has also a psychological
function: that of giving, for the benefit of both sexes, an affective and
intellectual content to fantasy-figures which might otherwise be
altogether less meaningfully manipulated. If we bring up our children
to believe in Father Christmas, it is not simply because we want to
mislead them: it is also because their enthusiasm gives ourselves fresh
warmth. Through them, we contrive to deceive ourselves also, and to
believe, as they believe, that a world of unqualified generosity is not
absolutely incompatible with reality. And yet men die, and die never to
return; and all forms of social order draw us nearer to death, in so much
as they take something away from us and give back nothing in
exchange.

For the moralist, Bororo society has one particular lesson. Let him
Bsfcen to his native informers: they will describe to him, as they des
cribed to me, the ballet in which the two halves of the village set them
selves to live and breathe in and for one another; exchanging women,
goocls, and service in a kind of shared passion for reciprocity; inter
marrying their children; burying one another s dead; offering each
other gmrantees that life is eternal, that human beings help one another,
and that Society is based on justice. To bear witness to these truths, and
back them up in their convictions, the wise men of the tribe have
evolved a grandiose cosmology which is writ large in the lay-out of
their villages and distribution of their homes. When they met with
contradictions, those contradictions were cut across again and again.
Every opposition was rebutted in favour of another. Groups were
divided and redivided, both vertically and horizontally, until their
lives, both spiritual and temporal, became an escutcheon in which
symmetry and asymmetry were in equiKbrium just as they are in
the drawings with which a Caduveo beauty, equally though less
explicitly a prey to the same preoccupations, will ornament her face.
But what remains of all that, what is left of the moieties and the
counter-moieties, the clans and the sub-dans, when we draw the
conclusions which seem to proceed inevitably from certain recent
observations? In a society whose complexities seem to spring from a
(Might in complication for its own sake, each dan is subdivided into
three groups: upper, middle, and lower. One regulation takes prece
dence over all others: that an upper* should marry another upper*, a

The Living and the Dead 23 1

middle another middle*, and a lower another lower*. Despite, that is
to say, all the appearances of institutionalized brotherhood, the Bororo
village is made up in the last analysis of three groups, each of which
always marries within its own numbers. Three societies which, all
unknowingly, remain for ever distinct and isolated, each imprisoned
within its own vainglory, dissimulated even from its own self by

Diagram of the classic

arrangement oF the

Bororo village

Middle

Lower

The actual
situation

FIG. 43 . Diagram showing the real and apparent social structure of the

Bororo village

misleading institutions; with the result that each of the three is the
unwitting victim of artificialities whose purpose it can no longer
discover. Try as the Bororo may to bring their system to full flowering
with the aid of a deceptive prosopopoeia, they will be unable, as other
societies have also been unable, to smother this truth: that the
imagery with which a society pictures to itself the relations between
the dead and the living can always be broken down in terms of an
attempt to hide, embellish or justify, on the religious level, the
relations prevailing, in that society among the living.

PART VII

The Nambikwara

21 The Lost World

A,

IN ANTHROPOLOGICAL expedition to central
Brazil was being got into shape at the intersection of the Rue R6aumur
and the Boulevard de SebastopoL There it is that the wholesalers of the
dress-and-clothing trade congregate; and there, if anywhere, that we
could find goods acceptable to the fastidious Indians.

A year had passed since my visit to the Bororo; and, during that
year, all the conditions required to make an anthropologist of me had
been fulfilled. Levy-Bruhl, Mauss, and Rivet had given me their
blessing even if only after the event; my collections had been shown
in an art gallery in the Rue du Faubourg St Honore; I had lectured and
written articles. Thanks to Henri Laugier, who presided over the
youthful destinies of the department of scientific research, I had been
accorded funds for a more ambitious venture. It remained for me to
assemble my equipment; my three months intimacy with the natives
had taught me to know their needs, and those needs were much the
same amazingly so, in feet from one end of the South American
continent to the other.

And so, beset by Czech importers, in a part of Paris as unfamiliar
to me as die Amazon itself, I began my strange negotiations. Knowing
nothing of their afiairs, I was not even able to explain what I wanted.
All I could do was to apply the Indians* own criteria. I picked out, for
instance, the smallest of the embroidery pearls ( pebbles was their
name in the trade) which, strung together in heavy ropes, filled rack
upon rack. I tried to break them between my teeth, to test their
strength; I sucked them to see if they were coloured all the way through
and would not turn transparent after their first dip in the river; I
bought in quantities which varied according to the Indian colour-
canon: equal amounts of black and white, to begin with; red, next;
yellow, in much smaller amounts; and merely token quantities of the

235

236 The Nambikwara

colours -blue and green which the Indians would, as like as not,
disdain altogether.

These preferences are perfectly comprehensible. When the Indians
make their own pearls, and do it by hand, they set the highest value
upon those which involve the most, and the most skilled, work: the
smallest, that is to say. As raw material they use the black rind of the
palm-nut and milky, mother-o-pearly shells from the river-bed; they
enjoy playing off the one against the other. Like everyone else, they
like best what they already know: I should be most successful, therefore,
with my blacks and my whites. Red and yellow often fell, for the
Indians, into one and the same category: such is the result of using
urucu dyes which vary, according to the quality of the seeds and the
degree of their development, between vermilion and a yellowy-orange,
red predominates, none the less, by reason of an intensity which certain
seeds and certain feathers have long made familiar to the Indians. As
for blue and green, these are comparatively cold colours, iUustrated in
Nature by short-lived vegetable substances; hence the Indians in
difference towards them and, what is more, the indifference of their
language to nuances of blue, which is seen rather as a department of
black, in some regions, and of green, in others.

My needles had to be large enough to admit a good stout thread,
yet not so large as to prevent the threading of tiny pearls. The thread
itself had to be strong in colour, preferably red (the Indians dye theirs
with urucu), and made up with a good firm twist to give it a look of
hand-made craftsmanship. Generally speaking I was wary of junk
jewellery and gewgaws; the Bororo had taught me a profound respect
for native techniques. Life in the bush soon shows up any shortcomings
of quality; and if I was not to lose face, paradoxical as this may seem, I
had to offer the natives the finest-quality steels, glass coloured throughand
through, and thread worthy of the Queen of England s saddle-maker.

Sometimes I fell upon wholesalers who delighted in the special
problems of my mission and were ready to adapt their special know
ledges to its exoticism. I remember a fish-hook maker near the Canal
Saint-Martin who let me have all his remnants at a bargain price: for a
whole year I tramped the bush with bundle after bundle of these hooks,
but nobody would take them on they were too small and too fine for
any fish worthy of the Amazonian angler. In the end I got rid of them
on the Bolivian frontier. All my purchases had to serve a double
function: on the one hand, I needed to barter with, or, on occasion, to
give them away to, the Indians; and on the other I used them to buy

The Lost World 237

myself goods or services in distant regions where white traders rarely
or never penetrated. At the end of the expedition, when I had spent all
my money, I kept going for several weeks by opening a shop in a
hamlet of rubber-gatherers. The local prostitutes would exchange
and not without bargaining one of my necklaces for two eggs.

I planned to spend a whole year in the bush, and had hesitated for
a long time as to where, and for what reason, I was to go. In the
end, with no notion that the result would be quite contrary to my
intentions, and being anxious rather to understand the American
continent as a whole than to deepen niy knowledge of human nature by
studying one particular case, I decided to examine the whole breadth of
Brazil, both ethnographically and geographically, by traversing the
western part of the plateau, from Cuiaba to Rio Madeira. Till quite
recently, this was the least-explored part of the country. Hie Paulist
explorers of the eighteenth century got hardly any farther than Cuiaba,
so discouraging were the desolation of the landscape and the hostility
of the Indians. Even at the start of the twentieth century the thousand
miles between Cuiaba and the Amazon were still forbidden ground
so much so that, in order to go from Cuiaba to Manaus or Belem, on
the Amazon, the simplest method was to go by way of Rio de Janeiro
and continue northwards by sea, or up the estuary of the Amazon- Only
in 1907 did General (then Colonel) Candido Mariano da Silva Rondon
begin to penetrate the area; and it took him eight years, first to explore
the region, and second to establish the strategically important telegraph
wire that for the time established a link between Cuiaba, the federal
capital, and the frontier posts to the north-west.

From the reports of the Rondon Commission (not yet published in
full, by the way); from some of the General s lectures; from the recol
lections of Theodore Roosevelt, who accompanied the General on one
of his expeditions; and from a delightful book, Rondonia? published in
1912 by the late Roquette-Pinto, who at the time was Director of the
National Museum, I had gleaned certain summary indications about
the very primitive peoples who had been discovered in the region. But
since then, and for a long time, die ancient curse seemed to have fallen
once again upon the plateau. Not one professional anthropologist had
penetrated it. I was much tempted to follow the telegraph line, or what
remained of it, and in so doing to try to find out exactly who were the
Nambikwara and who, too, were those enigmatic peoples, farther to
the north, whom no one had seen since Rondon had left a bare mention
of their existence.

238 The Nambikwara

Interest had centred hitherto on the tribes along the coast, and those
who lived in the great river-valleys which were the traditional high
roads into the Brazilian interior. By 1939, however, the Indians of the
plateau were already a subject for speculation. My own experience of
the Bororo had persuaded me that, on both the religious and the
sociological levels, tribes sometimes dismissed as primitive were often,
on the contrary, possessed of an exceptional degree of refinement.
People had become aware of the researches then being made by a
German anthropologist, now dead, called Kurt Unkel: Unkel had taken
the native name of Nimuendaju and, after spending some years in the
Ge villages of central Brazil, had confirmed that the Bororo were not
an isolated phenomenon, but rather a variation upon a theme fun
damental to, and shared with, a number of other peoples. The
savannahs of central Brazil were occupied, therefore, to a depth of
nearly fourteen hundred miles by the survivors of a remarkably homo
geneous culture. The marks of this culture were a language diversified
by a number of interrelated dialects and a relatively low standard of
living: in contrast to this latter, social organization and religious
thought had attained a high level of development. Surely these were
the original inhabitants of Brazil peoples either forgotten in the
depths of the bush or driven back into inhospitable country, not long
before the discovery of Brazil, by more warlike tribes who had come
from no one knows where to appropriate for themselves the coast
line and the river-valleys?

In the sixteenth century travellers encountered, along more or less
the whole length of the coast, representatives of the great Tupi-
guarani culture. These were in occupation of almost all Paraguay, and
of the Amazon from source to sea. Their territories comprised, that is
to say, a broken ring, two thousand miles in diameter, which the area
between Paraguay and Bolivia interrupted hardly at all. These Tupi,
who had certain obscure affinities with the Aztecs the very group
who had belatedly taken possession of the Mexico valley these Tupi
were themselves newcomers: in the valleys of the Brazilian interior
they did not, for instance, complete their occupation until the nine
teenth century. Possibly they had begun their dispersal, several cen
turies before the discovery of Brazil, in the belief that somewhere on
earth there was a country where death and evil did not exist* Such
was still their conviction at the end of their migrations when, in the
last years of the nineteenth century, little groups of them appeared on
the Sao Paulo littoral, guided by their sorcerers, dancing, singing the

The Lost World 239

praises of the land where death was unknown, and fasting for long
periods to make themselves worthy of it. In the sixteenth century, in
any case, they were engaged in bitter struggles for the possession of the
coast; we know litde of their opponents, die former occupants of the
area, but they may have been those we know as the Ge.

To the north-west of Brazil the Tupi co-existed with other peoples:
the Caraibes or Caribs, who ended by conquering the Antilles.
Though different from them in their language, they were very similar
in their culture. There were also the Arawaks, a rather mysterious
people. Older, and of greater refinement than the other two, they
formed the majority of the population of the Antilles and had spread
as far as Florida. Though unlike the Ge in that they enjoyed a high
degree of material culture notable in pottery and wood-^ulpture
they were not unequal to them in the complexity of their social
organization. Caribs and Arawaks seemed to have penetrated the
continent much earlier than the Tupi: already in the sixteenth century
they were massed in the Guianas, in the estuary of the Amazon, and
in the Antilles. But small colonies may still be found in the interior, on
certain tributaries of the right bank of the Amazon: the Xingu and
the Guapore. The Arawaks even have descendants in upper Bolivia. It
was probably they who brought the art of ceramics to the Mbaya-
Caduveo, since the Guana (who, as the reader will remember, were
reduced to slavery by the Mbaya-Caduveo) spoke an Arawak dialect.

By traversing the least-known part of the plateau, I hoped to find
in the savannah die most westerly representatives of the Ge group; and,
once in the Madeira basin, I hoped to be able to study the unpublished
vestiges of the three other linguistic families on the borders of their
great highroad into the interior: the Amazfrn.

If these hopes were only partly realized, it was because of our
over-simplified view of pre^-Colombian history in America. Today,
in the light of recent discoveries, and thanks, as far as I myself am
concerned, to years spent in the study of North American ethnography,
I realize that the western hemisphere must be considered as a whole. Hie
social organization and religious beliefs of the Ge correspond curiously
to those found in the forests and prairies of North America, just as the
analogies between the tribes of the Chaco, such as the Guaicuru, and
those of the plains of Canada and the U.S.A. have long been evident,
even if no conclusion was drawn from them. The civilizations of
Mexico and Peru were certainly in touch with one another, at many
moments in their history, through "the intermediary of rafts plying

240 The Nambikwara

along the Pacific coasts. All this had not been much examined, because
American studies were dominated for a very long time by the
conviction that only recently (ie. five thousand or six thousand years
before Christ) had America first been penetrated. That penetration was
attributed entirely, what is more, to Asiatic peoples who had made
their way in by way of the Bering Strait.

The fact had therefore to be explained away that somehow, in the
course of a very few thousand years, these nomads had established
themselves from one end to the other of the western hemisphere:
adapting themselves perfectly to its wide varieties of climate and
discovering, developing, and distributing over immense areas of land
the wild plants which turned, in their hands, into tobacco, beans,
manioc, sweet potatoes, potatoes, ground-nuts, cotton, and, above all,
maize. Successive civilizations had to be accounted for: in Mexico,
central America, and the Andes there were born and brought to
maturity the civilizations of which Aztecs, Mayas, and Incas were but
the distant descendants. All this called for a kind of historical marquetry
in which every new development had to fall neatly into place, a mere
century or two after its predecessor. Pre-Colombian history in America
became a succession of kaleidoscopic images in which the whims of the
theoretician would summon forth, instant by instant, an entirely new
picture. It was as if those who specialized in the subject were bent on
imposing on primitive America that shallowness which characterizes
the history of the New World in modern times.

All this was knocked sideways, or rather backwards, by discoveries
which proved that Man had, in point of feet, penetrated the American
continent very much earlier than had been supposed. We know that
Man knew of, and hunted, animals now extinct in America sloth,
mammoth, camel, an archaic form of bison, and the antelope whose
bones have been found side by side with his stone weapons and
instruments. That some of these animals should have been found in,
for instance, the Mexico valley is proof that the climate there was once
very different from what it is now. Such a change can only take place
over a period of many thousands of years. Similar results have been
given when radio-activity has been used to determine the antiquity of
archaeological remains. We have therefore to admit that men lived in
America at least twenty thousand years ago; in certain regions maize
was cultivated more than three thousand years ago. Over more or
less the whole of North America remains dating from fifteen to twenty
thousand years ago have been found. And, by measuring the residual

The Lost World

241

radio-activity of the carbon in the earliest known archaeological
remains of the American continent, we have been able to back-date
those remains between five and fifteen hundred years. Like those
Japanese flowers, made out of flat paper, which open out when put in
water, pre-Colombian history acquired overnight that volume in time
which it had hitherto lacked.

And yet . . . we are faced with a difficulty just the opposite of that
with which our predecessors had to wrestle. How are we to furnish
these enormous areas of time? We realize that the migrations which I
mention above exist on the surface of the truth, and that something
must have preceded the great civilizations of Mexico and the Andes.

FIGS. 44-45. People of ancient Mexico, on the left from the south-east
(American Museum of Natural History), on the right from
the Gulf coast (Exposition d Art Mexkaio, 1952)

Already in Peru, and in many parts of North America, vestiges of the
first inhabitants have come to light: tribes that knew nothing of agri
culture gave place to tribes that settled in villages, had gardens of their
own, and yet had neither maize nor pottery; next, as we also know,
came groups that sculptured in stone and knew how to work in
precious metals in a style freer and more inspired than any which was
to follow. We had inclined to believe that the whole of American
history came to full bloom and achieved, as it were, a perfect synthesis
in the Incas of Peru and the Aztecs of Mexico. But now we know that
these civilizations were as distant from their sources as is our style
Empire from the Egypt and the Rome to which it owes so much. All
Q

242 The Nambikwara

three were totalitarian arts, harking avidly back to that colossal scale
of activity for which ignorance and clumsiness had been originally
responsible a scale appropriate to a State anxious above all to give
expression to its power, and concentrating not so much upon refine
ment of manner as upon efficiency in administration or the making of
war. Even the Mayas monuments now seem to us to mark, however
flamboyantly, the decadence of an art which reached its zenith a
thousand years earlier.

Where did these founder-fathers come from? Our forbears thought
they knew for certain, but we have to admit that we simply do not
know at all. Population movements in the Bering Strait region have
been of great complexity. Quite recently, the Eskimoes took part in
them. They were preceded over a period of about a thousand years by
the paleo-Eskimoes whose culture is evocative of archaic China and the
Scythians; and for a very long rime indeed, from about 8000 B.C. up
till the eve of the Christian era, other and different populations have
been traced there. Sculptures going back to the first millennium B.C.
suggest that the ancient inhabitants of Mexico may have been of a
physical type very different from that of today s Indians: well-fleshed
Orientals whose dean-shaven features were flabbily modelled, and, with
them, bearded and aquiline profiles which put us in mind of the
Renaissance. Evidence of another kind is provided by the geneticists,
who tell us that at least forty vegetable species which grew wild,
or were cultivated, in pre-Colombian America, have either the same
chromosomic composition as corresponding species in Asia, or a
composition derived from the same source. Should we infer that
maize, which is on the list, was brought in from south-east Asia? And
how could this be, if the Americans were growing maize four thousand
years ago, at a time when the art of navigation was in its infancy?

Without going so far as to follow Heyerdahl in his audacious
theory that Polynesia was colonized by primitive Americans, we must
admit that the voyage of the Kan-Tiki proves that trans-Pacific
contacts could have taken place, and taken place often. But at the time,
towards the beginning of the first millennium B.C., when great civil
izations were already in existence in America, the Pacific islands were
empty: nothing has been found, at any rate, which dates so far back.
We should therefore look beyond Polynesia, towards Melanesia, which
may already have been inhabited, and towards the whole length of the
Asiatic coast. We now know that communications between Alaska and
the Aleutians, on the one hand, and between Alaska and Siberia on the

FIGS. 46-7. On the left Chavin culture, northern Peru (after Tdlo); on the
right Monte Alban, southern Mexico (from bas-reliefs known
as die dancers*)

FIG. 48. Hopewell culture, eastern United
States (after Charles C. Wilt
oughby. The Turner Group of
Earthwork, Papers of the Pea-
body Museum, Harvard Uni
versity, Vol. Vffl, No. 3, 1922)

244 The Nambikwara

other, went on without interruption. Towards the beginning of the
Christian era, iron tools were in use in Alaska, though the natives there
knew nothing of metallurgy; similar types of pottery may be found
from the region of the Great Lakes in North America to central Siberia,
as can also die same legends, the same rites, the same myths. At a time
when the West lived shut in upon itself, it would appear that all the
northern peoples, from Scandinavia right across to Labrador, by way
of Siberia and Canada, were in close and constant contact with one
another. If the Celts took certain of their legends from that sub-Arctic
civilization, of which we know almost nothing, we can understand why
it is that the Grail cycle is closer to the Indian myths which flourished
in the forests of North America than to any other mythological system.
Nor is it, in all probability, by chance that the Lapps are still building
conical tents identical with those of the North American Indians.

In southern Asia, American civilizations give rise to echoes of
another sort. On the frontiers of southern China are peoples ( Bar
barians , the Chinese call them) with an extraordinary affinity with
those of America; and this is still more the case with the primitive
tribes of Indonesia. In the interior of Borneo, anthropologists have
recorded myths, elsewhere missing, which are among those most
widely known in North America. And, then again, specialists have long
pointed out the similarities between archaeological documents found
in south-east Asia and those which belong to the proto-history of
Scandinavia. Probably, therefore, these three regions Indonesia, the
American north-east, and Scandinavia formed the trigonometrical
points of the pre-Colombian history of the New World.

One of the major events in human history is the emergence of
neolithic civilization, with its widespread use of pottery and weaving,
the beginnings of agriculture and livestock-farming, and the first
experiments in the field of metallurgy. Originally this was confined to
the region, in the Old World, between the Danube and the Indus. But
may it not have provoked an uprush of excitement among the most
backward peoples of Asia and America? It is difficult to understand
the origins of American civilisation without admitting the hypothesis
of an intense activity on both the Asiatic and the American coasts of
the Pacific. For thousands of years this activity may well have been a
carrier of ideas along the whole length of these coasts. Formerly we
refused to allow pre-Colombian America the space, as it were, to
breathe in history, on the grounds that that space had also been denied
to post-Colombian America. We may still be falling into a second

Fig. 49. Chavin, northern Peru (after TeEo)

246 The Nambikwara

error that of thin Icing that for twenty thousand years America was
cut off from the rest of the world, simply because, during that time, she
was cut off from western Europe. Everything points, on the contrary,
to the hypothesis that, while the Atlantic remained in total silence, a
humming as of innumerable bees could be heard all around the
periphery of the Pacific.

Be that as it may, at the beginning of the first millennium B.C., an
American hybrid seems to have already engendered three sub-species,
solidly grafted on to problematic variants traceable to an earlier stage
of evolution. Among rustic cultures, the Hopewell culture, which oc
cupied or contaminated all that part of the U.S.A. which lies east of
the plains, corresponds to the Chavin culture in the north of Peru (this
in its turn is echoed in the south by Paracas). Chavin, for its part,
resembles the earliest manifestations of the so-called Olmec civilization
and foreshadows the development of Maya civilization. In all three
cases, we are faced with an art that is cursive, free, supple, and marked
by an intellectual delight in double-meanings (in Hopewell, as in
Chavin, certain motifs bear one meaning when read normally, and
quite another when read upside-down). There is as yet almost no sign
of the angular stiffiiess, the immobilism, which we associate with pre-
Colombian art. Sometimes I try to persuade myself that the drawings
of the Caduveo are, in their way, a continuation of this distant
tradition. Was it at that time that the civilizations of America began to
draw away from one another, with Mexico and Peru talcing the
initiative and marching ahead with giant s strides , while the others
kept to an intermediary position or fell behind, gradually sinking into a
state of near-savagery? We shall never know exactly what happened in
tropical America, because climatic conditions there do not favour the
preservation of archaeological remains; but it is a disturbing fact that
the social organization of the Ge and even the lay-out of the Bororo
villages is similar to what we have been able to reconstruct of such
vanished civilizations of pre-Inca times as those of Tiahuanaco in
upper Bolivia,

These considerations have carried me a long way from the
preparations for my expedition into the western Mato Grosso. But they
were indispensable if I was to give the reader an idea of the intense
excitement which attaches to all American studies, whether on the
archaeological or the anthropological level. Such is the scale of the
problems, so narrow and so precarious are the paths hitherto trodden,
so final the annihilation of tract after immense tract of the past, and so

Fie 50 Hopewell, eastern United States (after W. K. Moorehead, the
Hopewell mound. . . . Field Museum, Chicago AnthropoL Senes,
Vol. VI, No. 5, 1922)

248 The Nawbikwara

uncertain the bases of our speculations, that even the briefest recon
naissance on the terrain plunges the enquirer into a state of indecision,
in which feelings of humble resignation fight for supremacy with
moments of the insanest ambition. He knows that the essentials have
gone for ever and that all he can do is to scratch the surface. Yet may
he not stumble upon some indication, preserved as if by a miracle,
which will shed new light upon the whole problem? Nothing is
possible: everything, therefore, is possible. The darkness in which we
grope our way is too intense for us to hazard any comment on it: we
cannot even say that it will kst for ever.

22 In the Sertao

ACK in Cuiaba, after a two years absence, I tried
to find out exactly what the position was in respect of the telegraph
line three or four hundred miles to the north.

That line was detested in Cuiaba, and for more than one reason.
Since the foundation of the town in the eighteenth century, such rare
contacts as it had had with the north had always been made by water,
along the middle reaches of the Amazon. For supplies of their favourite
stimulant, the guarana, the inhabitants of Cuiaba relied on expeditions
by dug-out canoe on the Tapajoz: these might last as long as six months
at a time. This guarana is a hard paste, chestnut in colour: the Maue
Indians are almost the only people who make it, and they use as its
base the fruit of a liana, the Paullinia sorbilis. They take a short sausage
of this paste and grate it on the bony tongue of a fish, the pirarucu:
these tongues are kept in a buckskin purse. These are important details,
for the use of a metallic grater, or of a purse made from any other skin,
would cause the precious substance to lose all its powers. (The
Cuiabanos also believe that their ropes of tobacco must be torn open
and shredded by hand; cut with a knife, they might lose their flavour.)
The guarana powder is then poured into sugared water, where it does
not dissolve but floats around in a compact mass. The taste is faintly
chocolatey. I myself never found that it had the slightest effect, but for
the peoples of the central and northern Mato Grosso the guarana is as
important as is the mate for the peoples more to the south.

People thought it worth while, in any case, to go to great trouble
to get supplies of guarana. Before venturing among the rapids, a group
of men were left behind on the bank, where they cut away a corner of
the forest and planted manioc and maize, so that the expedition should
find fresh provisions waiting for it on its way home. But, since the
development of the steam-ship, guarana could be had quicker and in

249

250 The Nambikwara

greater quantity from Rio de Janeiro, whither the coastal-steamers
would bring it from Manaus and Belem. The expeditions along the
Tapajoz were relegated, therefore, to a heroic and already forgotten
past.

And yet, when Rondon announced that he was about to open the
north-western part of the area to civilizations, memories revived. A
little was known of the edges of the plateau, where two hamlets,
Rosarion and Diamantino, respectively sixty-five and a hundred miles
north of Cuiaba, were drowsing their existences away now that their
veins and gravels were exhausted. Beyond, the journey would have to
be made over land, fording one after another the little rivers which
made up the tributaries of the Amazon, instead of canoeing down
them: an enterprise, this, as dangerous as it would be lengthy. Towards
1900 the northern region was still mythical territory, and people even
believed in the existence there of a mountain-range, the Serra do
Norte, which was even marked on their maps.

This state of ignorance, when allied to the still-recent opening-up
of the American Far West and the consequent Gold Rush, led to the
craziest aspirations among the peoples of the Mato Grosso, and even, too,
among those along the coast. Once Rondon s men had laid their
telegraph line, a great flood of emigrants would invade the territory,
exploit its undreamed-of resources, and build there a Brazilian
Chicago. A great disappointment was in store: like that north-easterly
region in which is the ill-omened territory described by Euclides da
Cunha in Os Sertoes, the Serra do Norte proved to be a semi-desert, a
savannah as inhospitable as any in America. And, what is more, the
telegraph line lost all importance after the beginnings, in 1922, or
thereabouts, of radio-telegraphy: these coincided with the completion
of the line, which became overnight an object of merely archaeological
interest, veteran of a period in the development of science which came
to an end just as the line was ready to come into service. It did, however,
enjoy its hour of glory when, in 1924, the federal government was
cut off from all contact with the interior by the insurrection of Sao
Paulo. Only by telegraph could Rio remain in contact with Cuiaba, by
way of Belem and Manaus. Then began the days of decline, and those
few enthusiasts who had thought to seek employment in the telegraph
service dropped away or lingered on, forgotten. When I reached them,
it was several years since they had been sent any provisions. Nobody
quite dared to shut the line down; but nobody thought of using it,
either. The poles were left to tumble down, the wire to go rusty; as

In the Sertao 251

for the last survivors of the staff, they had neither the courage nor
the means to leave; and so, slowly, one after another, eaten away by
sickness, hunger, and solitude, they were dying off.

All this weighed the more heavily upon the consciences of the
Cuiabanos because their hopes, though dashed, had none the less
produced one small tangible result: the exploitation of those employed
in the telegraph service. Before leaving to take up their posts, every
employee had to nominate a procurador, or representative, who would
collect their salaries for them and use them according to instructions .
These instructions were limited, as a rule, to requests for the purchase
of cartridges, paraffin, salt, sewing needles, and cloth. All these were
accounted for at high prices, thanks to an understanding between
pracur adores, Lebanese merchants, and caravan-managers. After a few
years the wretched employee was so heavily in debt as to be even less
able than before to envisage escaping from the bush. The line was best
forgotten, beyond a doubt; and my project of using it as a base was
generally discouraged. And when I tried to seek out the retired
N.C.O.s who had served under Rondon I could get nothing out of
them but a sombre, ever-repeated um pais ruim, muito ruim, mais ruim
que qualquer outro . . . a ghastly country, simply ghastly, more ghastly
than anything anywhere . . / A country, they said, to keep out of at all
costs.

And then there was the problem of the Indians. In 1931 unidentified
Indians had come down from the valley of the Rio de Sangue, which
had been beHeved to be uninhabited, and attacked and destroyed the
telegraph station at Parecis, in a relatively frequented region two
hundred miles north of Cuiaba and a mere fifty miles from Diamantino.
These wild people had been nicknamed the wooden muzzles , on
account of the wooden discs which they had mounted in their lower
lips and in the lobes of their ears. They had continued their sorties, at
irregular intervals, and as a result the line had had to be moved some
fifty miles to the south. As for the Nambikwara nomads who had been
in intermittent contact with the outposts since 1909, their relations with
the whites had been marked by ups and downs of fortune. Cordial
enough at first, they had got progressively worse until, in 1925, they
invited seven white workpeople to visit their villages: nothing more
was heard of these guests, and from that moment onwards the
Nambikwara and the staffs of the telegraph service kept well clear of
one another. In 1933 a Protestant mission established itself not far from
the station at Juruena; relations would seem to have been embittered

252 The Nambikwara

almost from the start, the natives being displeased with the gifts,
insufficient in their eyes, with which the missionaries rewarded them
for their help in building a house and laying out its garden. A few
months later, an Indian with high fever came to the mission-post and
was given two aspirins, which he swallowed in front of his friends. He
then went off for a bathe in the river, caught pneumonia, and died. As
the Nambikwara are expert poisoners, they could only imagine that
their friend had been murdered; reprisals were taken, in the course of
which six inhabitants of the mission among them a baby aged two
were massacred. A rescue party from Cuiaba arrived to find only one
woman still alive. Her story, as it was repeated to me, tallied exactly
with that given to me by the originators of the attack, who served me
faithfully for several weeks as companions and informers.

Since this incident, and one or two others which followed upon it,
the atmosphere had remained tense along the whole length of the line.
When I at last managed, at the main post office of Cuiaba, to get into
contact with the main stations a task which took several days to
accomplish, in every case the news was uniformly depressing. One
post had just been been threatened with an Indian attack; another had
not seen any Indians for three months, which in a way was just as bad;
a third, which had once had Indians working nearby, reported that
they had reverted to their wild state, become braves, and so on. Only
one indication was or so I was assured encouraging: three Jesuit
Fathers had been trying for the last few months to settle in near Juruena,
on the edge of Nambikwara territory, four hundred miles north of
Cuiaba. I could always go and see them, get the news from them, and
make my final plans afterwards.

And so I spent a month at Cuiaba, getting my expedition ready.
Having once got leave to go, I was determined to see the thing
through; a six months journey in the dry season across a plateau des
cribed to me as more or less a desert, with no grazing animals, and
no game. I had therefore to take with me all the food I should need, not
only for my men, but for the mules which would serve us as mounts
until we got to the basin of the Madeira and could continue by canoe.
A mule that has no maize to eat is in no state to travel* To carry all this
food, I needed oxen, which are more hardy and can get by on leaves
and dry grass. Even so, some of my oxen might well die of hunger
and exhaustion; it would not do to take too few. And as I should have
to have herdsmen to drive the oxen, and to unload and load them at
each halting-place, our numbers would be correspondingly increased.

In the Sertao 253

More food, therefore; and more mules; and more oxen to carry the
food for those men and those mules. ... It was a vicious circle. In the
end, after consultation with experts in the matter, I settled for fifteen
men, fifteen mules, and thirty oxen. Where mules were concerned, I
had no choice: within a radius of thirty miles around Cuiaba there were
not more than fifteen for sale. I bought the lot, at prices ranging, at the
1938 rate of exchange, from one hundred and fifty to one thousand
francs a head, according to their looks. As leader of the expedition, I
kept the best for myself: a majestic white animal, bought from the
nostalgic, elephant-loving butcher of whom I spoke earlier.

The real problem began with the recruitment of my men. The
scientific personnel, including myself, were four in number at the time
we set out, and we knew very well that our success, our safety, and
even our lives, would depend on the loyalty and competence of the
team I was about to engage. For days on end I picked over the bad-
hats and adventurers who formed the lowest depths of Cuiaban
society: then an elderly colonel of sorts recommended to me a former
herdsman of his, now living in an isolated hamlet, whom he described
as poor, reliable, and high-principled. I went to call on him, and he
won me over at once by that instinctive nobility which is often found
among the peasants of the Brazilian interior. Instead of begging me, as
did the others, for the rare privilege of a year s paid employment, he
made certain conditions: that he alone should decide on the choice of
both men and oxen, and that I should allow him to bring along one or
two horses, which could be sold at a good price, he thought, in the
north. I had already bought a herd often oxen from a caravan-manager
in Cuiaba; what had tempted me was their great stature and, even
more, their saddles and harnesses, which were made from tapir-hide
in a style already historic. Moreover the Bishop of Cuiaba had per
suaded me to take on a protege of his as my cook. After a few days
march he turned out to be a veado branco, or white roebuck a homo
sexual, that is to say and so badly afflicted with piles that he could no
longer sit on a horse. He was only too glad to drop out. My magnificent
oxen (who had just walked three hundred miles a fact unknown to
me) had not an ounce of fat on their bodies. One after another they
began to suffer great pain from the fact that saddles bit into their skins
and, despite all the skill of our arreieros, their hide was soon worn
through. Great openings appeared, streaming with blood, infested with
worms, and offering a clear view of the spinal column. These skeletal,
festering beasts were our first casualties.

254 The Nambikwara

Luckily Fulgencio pronounced Frugencio my head-man, was
able to make up for lids by buying a number of oxen which, though
nothing much to look at, managed for the most part to complete the
journey. As for his own team, he recruited it in his village, or there
abouts, relying on very young men who had known him from their
childhood onwards and had a great respect for his skills. Most of them
came from old Portuguese families that had settled in the Mato Grosso
a hundred or two hundred years earlier and still kept to their austere
and ancient traditions.

Poor as they were, each one of these recruits possessed a hand-towel,
embroidered and lace-bordered, which had been made for them by
their mother, sister, or fiancee: and never, at any point on the journey,
would they have dried their faces on anything else. But when I offered
them a ration of sugar to go with their coffee, I met with a proud
refusal. They were not viciados (perverted), they said. I had one or
two difficulties with them, because they, like myself, had made up their
minds once and for all about the problems involved in our journey.
For instance, I only just escaped having a mutiny on my hands where
our victualling arrangements were concerned. They were convinced
that they would die of hunger if I did not devote all the available space
to rice and beans. They would just tolerate the idea of dried meat,
although they were convinced that we should never go short of game.
But sugar! Dried fruit! Preserves! Such notions appalled them. They
would have died for us, but never could we expect to be called Sir .
Nor would they do any washing, except on their own behalf: such
duties were fit only for women. The bases of our contract were as
follows: for the duration of the expedition each of them would be lent
a mountand arifle; and over and above his foodhe would get five francs
a day, at the 1938 rate of exchange. This, they insisted, should be kept
back until they were home again by which time they would have
put by one thousand five hundred or two thousand francs: a nest-egg
large enough for a man to get married, in some cases, or start a cattle-
farm, in others. It was also agreed that Fulgencio would pick up a
few young Indians, half-civilized Paressi, at the moment when we
crossed the former domain of that tribe, which today provides the
great majority of those responsible for the upkeep of the telegraph line
on the edge of the Nambikwara territories.

And so, slowly, by groups of two or three men and a few animals,
our expedition got organized in one hamlet or another all round
Cuiaba. We were due to assemble one day in June 1938 at the gates of

In the Sertao 255

Cuiaba, whence oxen and riders were to set off to rendezvous with
Fulgencio, taking some of our baggage with them. Our oxen could
carry from one hundred and twenty to two hundred and fifty pounds
avoirdupois apiece, according to their strength, the weight being
distributed in two bundles, one exactly as heavy as the other, on either
side of a wooden pack-saddle; this saddle was padded round with
straw, and the whole apparatus covered with dried skins. Our day s
march averaged about eighteen miles, but at the end of a week our
animals needed to rest for several days. So we decided to let them go on
ahead, with as light a load as possible, while I myself would come up
behind with a heavy lorry as far as the track allowed to Utiarity, that
is to say, some three hundred and thirty-five miles north of Cuiaba.
Utiarity was a telegraph station, over the borders of Nambikwara
territory, on the bank of the Rio Papagaio: here the raft used as a
ferry was too fragile to bear the weight of my lorry. Beyond that
point, adventure began.

Eight days after the departure of our troop tropa is the word for a
caravan of oxen our lorry and its cargo were on the move. Barely
thirty-five miles along the road we came upon our men and their
beasts, peacefully encamped in the savannah, at a time when I had
supposed them to be almost at Utiarity. It was the first, and not the last,
time that I got angry. After one or two more disappointments of this
sort I began to realize, however, that the idea of time had no currency
in the universe I had just entered. It was not I who was the leader of the
expedition; nor was it Fulgencio; it was our oxen. These ponderous
creatures turned into so many duchesses, whose every whim, moment
of fatigue, or sudden shift of temper had to be carefully watched. An
ox that is too heavily laden or suddenly feels tired will give no warning
of these facts; he will go steadily on, till quite suddenly he collapses,
dead or, if not dead, so exhausted that it will take six months rest to
get back his strength. In either case, he must be abandoned. The
herdsmen are, therefore, the servants of their oxen, every one of whom
has a name that corresponds to his colour, his way of walking, or his
temperament. Mine, for instance, were called: Piano (the musical
instrument) ; Ma9a-Barro (mud-squasher) ; Salino (Fond of salt) ; Chico-
late (my men had never tasted chocolate, but this was their name for a
mixture of hot sweetened milk and egg-yolk); Taruma (palm-tree);
Galao (big cock); Lavrado (red ochre); Ramalhete (bouquet); Rochedo
(reddish); Lambari (a fish); A^anha^o (a blue bird); Carbonate (an
impure diamond); Galala (?); Mourinho (half-caste); Mansinho

256 The Nambikwara

(gentle); Correto (correct); Duque (duke); Motor (motor, because,
his driver told me, he had such a good engine inside him ); Paulista;
Navigante (navigator); Moreno (brown); Figurino (model); Brioso
(lively); Barroso (muddy-looking); Pai de Mel (bee); Ara$a (a wild
fruit); Bonito (pretty); Brinquedo (toy); Pretinho (swarthy).

The whole troop came to a halt whenever the herdsmen thought
it necessary. One by one, the oxen were unloaded and camp set up. If
it was safe, the oxen were allowed to roam freely; if not, they had to
graze tinder supervision. (Pastorear was the word, in the latter case.)
In the morning, men would scour the country for miles around until
each animal had been located. That was called campiar. The vaqueiros
speak of their animals as deeply mischievous by nature: likely, in fact,
to run away from sheer devilry, hide themselves, and evade capture for
days on end. Was I not once immobilized for a week because one of
our mules, they said, had gone off into the campo, walking now side
ways, now backwards, in such a way that his rastos, or traces, were
indecipherable?

When the animals had been got together their sores had to be
inspected and covered with ointment, and the load had to be readjusted
so that the pack-saddles did not bear directly on a sore place. And they
had still to be harnessed and laden. Next began a further drama: four
or five days rest had left the oxen quite out of practice. No sooner did
they feel the pole on their backs than some of them would kick up their
heels and send the carefully balanced load flying in all directions: all
had to be begun again from the beginning. We counted ourselves lucky
if none of the recalcitrants had headed at top speed for open country.
For, if that occurred, camp had to be set up afresh: unloading, pastorear,
campiar, and so on all had to be gone through before the troop could
be reassembled and the loading gone through for the fifth or sixth time
until, for no apparent reason, all went smoothly.

Myself less patient, even, than my oxen, I took weeks to resign
myself to this whimsical manner of progress. Leaving the troop behind
us, we arrived at Rosario Oeste, a little town of a thousand inhabitants,
black for the most part, dwarfish, and be-goitred, lodged in casebres,
mud huts a flaring red in colour beneath fronds of bright green palm-
leaves, aligned in long straight avenues with tall grasses running wild in
the roadway.

I remember my host s little garden: it might have been a living-
room, so minutely was it organized. The earth was swept and beaten,
and the plants set out as carefully as the furniture in a drawing-room:

In the Sertao 257

two orange-trees, a lemon-tree, a pimento-plant, ten stems of manioc,
two or three chiabos (an edible hibiscus), the same number of stems of
vegetalbe silk, two rose-trees, a small group of banana-trees, and another
of sugar-canes. Lastly, a parrot in a cage and three chickens, each tied
by one foot to a tree.

At Rosario Oeste, dishes for state occasions are divided down the
middle: half of each chicken is served roasted and hot, the other half
cold, with a sauce piquante. Half of each fish is fried, and the other half
boiled. The meal is rounded off with a cachafa, an alcoholic drink made
from sugar-cane; with this there goes a ritual salutation: cemiterio, cadeia,
cachafa nao e feito para uma so pessoa. This means: The three Cs
cemetery, prison, brandy-wine never visit the same person together/
Rosario is already in the middle of the bush, and its inhabitants
sometime prospectors for rubber, gold, and diamonds might have
useful advice to give me as to the route to be followed. I listened, with
this object in mind, to my visitors life-histories, in which legend and
personal experience were inextricably mingled.

I could not bring myself to believe, for instance, that^flfos valentes,
super-cats produced by the cross-breeding of the jaguar and the
domestic cat, were to be found in the north. But another story may be
worth telling, even if nothing remains of it in the end but the style,
the turn of mind, of the sertao.

At Barra dos Bugres, a little town in the western Mato-Grosso, in
upper Paraguay, there lived a curandeiro, a bone-setter who also cured
snake-bites. Fkst he made an incision in the victim s forearm with the
teeth of the sucuri, or boa. Next he drew on the ground, in gunpowder,
a cross and set it on fire while the victim held his arm in the smoke.
Finally he took a piece of cotton, singed it with an artificio (a tinder-box
whose tinder is made of lint screwed up into a cornet-shaped
receptacle), dipped it in cachafa, and made the victim drink the mixture.
That was all.

One day the leader of a turma de poaieros (a troop of ipecacuanha-
pickers) witnessed one of these cures and asked the bone-setter to wait
till the following Sunday, when his men would arrive and, beyond a
doubt, would want to have themselves vaccinated (at five milreis a
time, or, in 1938, five francs). The bone-setter agreed. On the Saturday
morning a dog was heard howling outside the barracao, or collective
cabane. The troop-leader sent a camarada to see what was the matter:
a cascavel, or rattle-snake, was running wild. The troop-leader told the
bone-setter to capture the snake, and when he refused the troop-leader

258 The Nambikwara

said: No snake, no vaccinations. 3 And so the bone-setter reached for the
snake, got bitten, and died.

The man who told me this added that he had himself been
vaccinated by the bone-setter and that, shortly afterwards, he had
deliberately let himself be bitten by a snake, to see how far the
vaccination was effective. It worked perfectly. By the way, he added,
*it wasn t a poisonous snake/

I tell this story because it illustrates very well the combination of
malice and naivety in regard to incidents, in themselves tragic, which
the peoples of the Brazilian interior treat as the small change of every
day life. This combination is typical of their way of thinking, and the
conclusions drawn from it are only superficially absurd. I heard much
the same kind of reasoning from the leader of the neo-Moslem Ahmadi
sect, who had invited me to dinner in Lahore. The Ahmadis strayed
from orthodoxy in that they believed, for instance, that all those who,
in the course of history, had claimed to be Messiahs (and Socrates and
Buddha were among those whom they included) had in fact deserved
the tide; God would otherwise have chastised them for their impu
dence. My friend in Rosario no doubt thought, in the same way, that
if the bone-setter s magic had not been authentic the supernatural
powers would have exposed him by making a poisonous snake out of
one that was normally harmless. As the cure was considered to be
magical, he had verified it on a level which was also, in its way, that of
magic.

We had been assured that the road to Utiarity had no surprises in
reserve for us: none comparable, at any rate, to those I had encountered
two years earlier on the route to the Bio Sao Lourenfo. And yet, when
we reached the summit of the Serra do Tombador, at the point known
as Caixa-Furada, one of the pinions of our driving-shaft broke. We
were some twenty miles from Diamantino, whither our drivers set off
on foot to telegraph to Cuiaba. Rio could fly the necessary spare part
to Cuiaba, and it could be sent up to us by lorry: with luck the whole
operation would take eight days, by which time our oxen would have
overtaken us.

So we set our camp on the heights of the Tombador, a rocky spur
about a thousand feet high, at the end of the chapada over the basin of
the river Paraguay. On the other side, stream after little stream was
already swelling the tributaries of the Amazon. What were we to do
in this spiky savannah, once we had found the few trees on which were
hung hammocks and mosquito-nets? Sleep, daydream, hunt? The dry

In the Sertao 259

season had begun a month before; we were in June; apart from one or
two half-hearted showers in August the chuvas de caju, and even they
never came in 1938 -not a drop of rain would fall before September.
The savannah had already taken on its winter-time look: plants were
faded and dried-up, burnt in places by bush-fires, with the sand showing
through in big patches beneath the scorched brushwood. It was the
season at which such game as was wandering across the plateau was
concentrated in those impenetrable round thickets, the capoes, whose
domed outlines marked the point at which a spring bubbled up: there,
a yard or two of still-green pasture could be found.

During the rainy season, from October to March, when rain fell
almost every day, the temperature rose to forty-two or forty-four
degrees Centigrade during the day. The nights were cooler, with on
occasion a sudden chill at dawn. During the dry season, on the contrary,
changes of temperature were very great sometimes from a maximum
of forty degrees in the day to a minimum of eight or ten degrees at
night.

As we sat round our camp-fire drinking mate we listened to the
tales of adventure in the sertao which were being told by our drivers,
and by the two brothers who were our particular servants. They
described how it is that the big ant-eater, the tamandua, is quite harmless
in the campo, where he loses his balance if he attempts to stand upright.
In the forest he leans up against a tree, steadying himself with his tail,
and smothers, with his forepaws, whatever comes within reach. The
ant-eater has no fear of night attack, what is more, for he sleeps with
his head folded back along his body, and not even the jaguar can
make out where he has put it . In the rainy season, one ear must be kept
on the alert for the wild pigs (caetetu) which go about in bands of fifty
or more; the grinding of their teeth can be heard for miles around
(whence their second name of queixada, from queixo, the chin). The
hunter should take to his heels when he hears this sound, for if any one
of the pigs is killed or wounded the others will make a mass attack on
their adversary, whose only course is to climb a tree, or a cupim
(anthill).

One man told of how once, when travelling with his brother, he
heard someone crying for help but, for fear of the Indians, did not do
anything about it till the morning. The cries went on, meanwhile, till
dawn when they found a hunter perched up in a tree, with his rifle
fallen to the ground and an angry circle of pigs all around him.

His fate was less tragic than that of another hunter, who, hearing

2<5o The Nambikwara

the wild pigs in the distance, took refuge on an anthill, where the pigs
surrounded him. He fired into them until his last cartridge was spent,
and he could only defend himself with the woodcutter s knife or
facao. The next day a rescue-party came out to look for him, and before
long they knew, from the urubus, or carrion-birds, that were circling
overhead, just where he must be. Nothing remained on the spot but
his skull and the gutted carcasses of the pigs he had killed.

The talk took a more humorous turn: how the seringueiro, or
rubber-prospector, once met a hungry jaguar. Each followed the other
round and round a big clump of trees till suddenly the man dodged in
the wrong direction and came face to face with the jaguar. Neither
dared to move. The man didn t even dare to cry out: and it was only
after half an hour that he got cramp, made an involuntary movement,
and noticed he was carrying a gun 5 .

Unluckily our camp was infested with the usual insects: maribondo
wasps, mosquitoes, piums, and borrachudos (tiny blood-sucking flies that
came up by the swarm), and with these the pais-de-mel, honey-fathers
bees, in a word. South American bees have no sting, but they plague
the visitor in quite another way. Delighting in human sweat, they
battle for their favourite positions at the corners of the eye, the lip,
and the nostril. Once established, they seem to become completely
intoxicated by their victim s secretions, preferring rather to die in situ
than to take refuge in flight. Further connoisseurs then fly up, attracted
by the sight of such corpses as linger on one s skin. Thence their nick
name of lambe-olhos: eye-lickers. The bees are the real plague of the
tropical bushlands, worse even than the mosquitoes and the blood
suckers, to whose infections one s system adapts itself at the end of a
few weeks.

But where there are bees, there is honey: and honey that can be
collected with impunity, gutting the bees above-ground shelters, or
finding in a hollow tree shelf upon shelf of spherical cells, each as big
as an egg. Each species of bee produces a honey with its own special
flavour I counted at least thirteen and all of them so pungent that
we soon learned to do as the Nambikwara do and dilute them with
water. The scents are deep-lying and slow to reveal themselves in their
entirety in this respect they are like the wines of Burgundy and they
have a disconcerting strangeness. I found something of the same sort
in a condiment, produced in south-east Asia from cockroach glands and
worth its weight in gold. The merest touch of it is enough to scent a
whole dish. Also very near to it is the smell given off by a French

In the Sertao 261

coleoptera, dark in colour, which is called procuste chagrine (shagreen
procuste).

At long last the rescue-lorry arrived with the new part and a
mechanic to fix it in place. OS we went again, through hal-ruined
Diamantino in the valley that looked over towards the Rio Paraguay,
and up on to the plateau uneventfully, this time. Skirting the Rio
Arinos which sends its waters to the Tapajoz, and thence to the
Amazon, we turned off to the west, towards the accidented valleys of
the Sacre and the Papagaio contributors, both, to the Tapajoz who
mark their arrival by falls two hundred feet high. At Paressi, we stopped
to inspect the weapons left behind them by the Beios de Pau who were
said, once again, to be not far away. A little farther on, we spent a
sleepless night in the marshlands, disturbed by the native camp-fires
whose smoke was rising, a mile or two away, into the cloudless skies
of the dry season. One more day, to see the river-falls and get together
a little information in a village of Paressi Indians. And there we were,
at the Rio Papagaio, a hundred or more yards wide, with its waters,
flowing by at ground-level, so clear that we could see deep, deep down
to the rocky river-bed. On the far side, a handful of straw huts and
mud-walled sheds: the Utiarity telegraph station. "We unloaded the
lorry, sent over our luggage and our stores of food by the raft which
served as a ferry, and took leave of our drivers. Already on the farther
shore we could glimpse the naked bodies of the Nambikwara.

23 On the Line

L

DIVING on the Rondon Line was much like living
on the moon. Imagine a territory the size of France, three-quarters of
it unexplored; inhabited only by little bands of nomads, who are
among the most genuinely primitive* of the world s peoples; and
traversed from one end to die other by a telegraph line. The picada, or
summary track which runs alongside it, is for nearly five hundred miles
the region s only landmark. The Rondon Commission undertook a
reconnaissance or two to the north and the south, but except for these
the traveller may be said to step into the unknown the moment he
leaves the picada and even the picada itself is sometimes not easily
distinguished. There remains, you may say, the wire itself: but the wire,
obsolete from the day of its completion, hung down from poles never
replaced when they go to rot and tumble to the ground. (Sometimes
the termites attack them, and sometimes the Indians, who mistake the
humming of the telegraph wires for the noise of bees on their way to
the hive.) In places the wire trails on the ground, or has been carelessly
draped across the nearest little tree. Paradoxically, in short, the line
rather aggravates than takes away from the prevailing atmosphere of
desolation.

An entirely virgin landscape is so monotonous as to deprive its
wildness of all meaning. It does not so much defy us as return a blank
stare: almost it abolishes itself as we look at it. And, in this bush that
seems to go on for ever, the narrow slit of the picada, the contorted
outlines of the remaining poles, the reversed arcading of the pendent
wires -all put us in mind of those incongruous objects which float in a
vast loneliness in the paintings of Yves Tanguy. Bearing witness, as they
do, to the passage of western Man and the vanity of his efforts, they
mark out, more clearly than if they had not been there, the extreme
limit that he has attempted to cross. The erratic nature of the enterprise

262

On the Line 263

and the total reverse in which it culminated give a final authenticity
to the surrounding wastelands.

About a hundred people in all lived on the line . Some of them
were Paressi Indians, recruited on the spot, in days gone by, by the
Telegraph Commission. The army had taught them to keep the
wires in good condition and operate the machinery not that this
stopped them from hunting with bow and arrows, in traditional style.
The rest were Brazilians who had been attracted to the job by the hope
of finding either an Eldorado or a second Far West. These hopes had
long been dashed: the farther they advanced into the plateau, the rarer
became the deposits of diamonds.

Deposit, or form , was the name given to the little stones, notice
able either by their colour or by their strangeness of form, which are
to the diamond what footprints are to an animal. Anywhere where you
see those stones, there ve been diamonds. There are, for instance, the
emburradas, stuffed pebbles ; the pretinhas, little negresses ; the
amarellinhas, golden sovereigns ; the figados-de-gallmha, chicken-
livers ; the sangues-de-boi, Bull s blood ; thefeijoes-reluzentes, shining
beans ; the dentes-de-cao, dog s teeth ; tl&eferragems, tools ; and also the
carbonates, lacres, friscas de ouro, fader as, chiconas, and so on.

Diamonds in short supply, therefore: game almost non-existent;
and among these sandy wastes, where rain fell in torrents for one half
of the year and not a drop could be expected during the remaining six
months, nothing grew but a few spiky, mis-shapen shrubs. As has often
happened in the history of Brazil, a handful of adventurers, madmen,
and starvelings had been swept into the interior on an impulse of high
enthusiasm, only to be abandoned, forgotten, and cut off from all
contact with civilization. Each little station consisted of a group of
straw huts, fifty or seventy-five miles from its nearest neighbour a
distance which could, in any case, be covered only on foot their
isolation was complete, and each individual wretch had to adapt
himself to it by devising his own particular brand of insanity.

Every morning the telegraph system came momentarily to life.
News was exchanged: one station had seen the camp-fires of a band of
Indians, bent on their extermination: another reported the disappear
ance of two Paressis, victims no doubt of those same Nambikwara
bands whose reputation was firmly established along the whole length
of the line. They had been sent, beyond all question, na invernada do ceu
to hibernate in heaven . The tale is retold, with grim humour, of
the missionaries who were massacred in 1933, or the telegraphist who

264 The Nambikwara

was found buried up to his waist, with his chest riddled with arrows
and his automatic sender perched on his head. For the Indians have a
morbid fascination for the servants of the line. On the one hand, they
represent a continuous danger, the more intense for the play of fancy;
and on the other the visits of their little nomadic bands constitute the
sole distraction of the telegraphist s life and, more than that, his only
opportunity of human contact. So that when they turn up, once or
twice a year, many pleasantries fly to and fro between the reputed killers
and their potential victims each jest being couched, of course, in the
weird jargon of the line, which is made up of, in all, some forty words,
half Portuguese, half Nambikwara.

Apart from these episodes, each of which has its moment of
vicarious excitement for those who are listening in, every head of
station develops a personal style all his own. Take, for example, the
fanatic who never bathes in the river without loosing off half a dozen
rounds with his Winchester rifle. He hopes in this way to intimidate
the Indian bands who would otherwise, he feels sure, spring upon him
from both banks of the river and cut his throat: but the only result is
that he squanders his irreplaceable store of ammunition. This activity
is known as quebrar bala, or breaking a cartridge. Then there is the man
of the world who had been a student of chemistry in Rio and still
imagines himself to be passing the time of day on the Largo-do-Ouvidor .
But as he has now nothing whatever to say his conversation consists
merely of empty mimicry, stray clackings of fingers and tongue, and
meaningful* glances: in the days of the silent cinema he would have
passed as a boulevardier. Nor should the man of prudence be forgotten:
for he it is who has contrived to maintain his family in a state of
equilibrium, biologically speaking, with a band of deer which drinks
regularly from a nearby spring. Every week he kills just one of these
animals, never less, never more; and so both game and station manage
to keep going. But for the last eight years since the annual revictu-
alling of the stations, by a caravan of oxen, was discontinued he
and his family have eaten nothing but deer.

An equally picturesque note of quite another kind was struck by the
Jesuit Fathers who had had a few weeks* start of us and had just settled
down near the station of Juruena, some thirty-five miles from Utiarity.
There were three of them: a Dutchman who thought only of his
devotions, a Brazilian who planned to civilize the Indians, and a
Hungarian, a one-time squire and inveterate lover of the chase, whose
role it was to provide the mission with fresh meat. Not long after their

On the Line 265

arrival they were visited by their Provincial, an elderly Frenchman
with a prodigious roll to his r s who seemed to have stepped straight
out of the reign of Louis XIV; from the gravity with which he spoke
of the savages he never spoke of the Indians in any other way you
would have thought that he had disembarked in a new Canada, with
Carrier or Champlain at his side.

Hardly had he arrived when the Hungarian was seized with one
of the attacks which are known among French colonials as the coup de
bambou. (He was said to have been prompted to enter his Order by the
repentance consequent upon a first youth spent in debauch.) Insult
after insult rang through the compound as he set upon his superior, and
the Provincial, more than ever perfectly in character, exorcized him in
a flurry of signs of the cross and cries of Vade retro v Satanas! 9 The
Hungarian, delivered at last of his demon, was put on fifteen days
bread and water: a punishment which remained symbolical, since
bread was not to be had at Juruena.

Both Caduveo and Bororo could, without any play upon words,
be called in their different ways learned societies . The Nambikwara,
by contrast, brought the observer back to what he might readily,
though mistakenly, suppose to be the childhood of our race. We had
set up our camp on the edge of the little village, beneath a half-
dismantled straw roof which had been used as a store-room at the time
when the line was being laid. The Indians camp was only a few yards
away, and consisted of a score or so of people, making up six families
in aU. The little band had arrived there a few days before us, during
one of its nomadic sorties.

For the Nambikwara year is divided into two distinct parts. During
the rainy season, from October to March, each group takes up its
lodging on a little hill overlooking a river-bed and builds for itself
rough and ready huts with branches and palm-leaves. In a burnt-out
clearing in the forest gallery which fills the damp lower part of each
valley they plant and till their gardens. These include above all manioc
(both bitter and sweet), several kinds of maize, tobacco, sometimes
some haricot beans, cotton, ground-nuts, and calabashes. The women
grate the manioc on flat spiky strips of palm-wood; when one of the
poisonous species is in question, they get rid of the juice by pressing
the fresh pulp into a taut-drawn piece of bark. From these gardens they
get enough food to keep them going during part of their sedentary
period. To keep something in the larder , cakes of manioc-pulp are care
fully buried in the earth and dug up, half-rotten, weeks or months later.

266 The Nambikwara

At the beginning of the dry season they abandon their village and
split up into small roving bands. For seven months these nomadic
groups wander across the savannah in search of game: tiny animals
above all grubs, spiders, grasshoppers, rodents, snakes, lizards and,
with these, fruit, seeds, roots, wild honey everything, in short, which
might prevent them from dying of starvation. When they set up camp,
it is for a day or two, or sometimes for a few weeks, and each family
makes for itself a rude shelter of branches and palm-leaves stuck into
the sand in a semi-circle and tied together at the top. As the day
progresses the shelter is moved round, in such a way that its protective
screen stands always between its inmates and the sun or, as the case
may be, the wind or the rain. The search for food is uppermost, how
ever, in everyone s mind. The women arm themselves with pointed
sticks, to dig up roots or, on occasion, to kill off any little animal that
presents itself. The men go off hunting with big bows made of palm-
wood: their arrows are of several sorts. For birds they use a blunted
point, so that the arrow shall not get caught in a high branch. For fish
a longer arrow is used. It has no feathering, but is divided at one
end into either three or five tapering points. There are also poisoned
arrows, whose tips are dipped in curare and protected by a bamboo
sheath: these are for game of medium size. For big game jaguar or
tapir an arrow with a spear-shaped head of bamboo is used: this
brings on a haemorrhage, since the dose of poison carried by any one
arrow would not be effective.

After the splendour of the Bororo palaces, the material poverty of
the Nambikwara seems almost beyond belief. Neither sex wears any
clothing at all and their physical type, as much as the poverty of their
circumstances, marks them out at once from their neighbours. They
are small in stature: just over five feet, in the case of a man, and about
three inches less among tie women. As is the case with so many other
South American tribes, the women have no very clearly modelled
waist; but their limbs are unusually graceful, and their hands and feet
more elegantly made than is generally the case. Their skin is darker
too: many are afflicted with skin diseases that cover their entire bodies
with patches of violet, but, among those not so affected, the skin is
powdered with the sand in which they love to roll themselves; this
gives it, after a time, a look and feel of velvety beige which can, above
all in the case of the younger women, be enormously attractive. The
head is elongated, the features often delicate and well shaped, the eye
lively, the body hair better developed than among most peoples of

On the Line 267

Mongolian origin, and the hair of the head wavy and not, as a rule,
quite black. Earlier visitors to the region were so impressed by the
Nambikwara s physical type that they put forward the hypothesis of
cross-breeding with negroes who had escaped from their plantations
in order to take refuge in the quilombos, or colonies of rebel slaves. But,
if the Nambikwara had been so crossed in recent times, the admixture
of negro blood would make it out of the question for them all to
belong to blood group O, as our researches confirmed that they
do: for this group implies, if not a purely Indian origin, at any rate
a demographic isolation of several centuries duration. Today the
Nambikwara s physical type seems to us less problematical, since it
harks back to that of an ancient race whose bones have been found in
Brazil in the caves of Lagoa Santa, one of the sites in the State of
Minas Geraes. I myself was amazed to find myself reminded of the
almost-Caucasian faces, found in certain statues and bas-reliefs in the
region of Vera Cruz, which are now attributed to the oldest of
Mexican civilizations.

This similarity was all the more disturbing because the indigence
of the Nambikwara s material culture disposed one not to associate
them with the loftiest cultures of central and southern America, but
rather to treat them as survivors of the stone age. The women wore, at
most, a single strand of shell-beads round their waists and another
strand or two as necklaces or as shoulder-belts; their ear-rings were of
feathers or mother-of-pearl, their bracelets were carved from armadillo-
shell or, at times, made up from straw or cotton (woven by their men)
and tied round their ankles or biceps. The men s wardrobe was even
more summary, except that some of them wore a tuft of straw that
hung from their belts just above their genitals.

In addition to bow and arrows, their armament consisted of a sort
of flattened spike. But this seemed to relate as much to magic as to the
hunt, for I never saw it used except to deflect a hurricane or to kill off,
with a well-directed throw, the atasu, or evil spirits of the bush. The
name of atasu is given also to the stars, and to our oxen, of whom they
lived in terror. (And yet they will readily kill and eat mules, though
they made their acquaintance at the same time as that of the oxen.) My
wrist-watch was also called an atasu.

The Nambikwara s entire possessions can be assembled, therefore,
in the baskets which the women carry, slung over their shoulders,
during the nomadic season. These baskets are of plaited bamboo,
worked in an openwork pattern with six strands of split bamboo (two

268 The Nambikwara

pairs running perpendicularly and one cross-wise) made up into an
open network of large hexagonal shapes: at the top they spread slightly
outwards, and at the bottom they form a shape like a finger-stall. They
can be as much as five feet high as tall, that is to say, as the women
who bear them: at the bottom, a few cakes of raw manioc are covered
over with leaves. Next comes their furniture and their stock of tools:
calabashes used as receptacles; knives made from a sharp splinter of
bamboo, roughly flaked stones, scraps of iron (obtained, these, by
barter) stuck with wax, or tied with string, between two pieces of
wood that serve as a handle; drills made up of a sharp flake of stone or
iron point, mounted on the end of a wooden stem that can be rotated
between the palms of the hands. They also have the axes and hatchets
which the Rondon Commission gave them, so that their stone axes are
now used mainly as anvils when fashioning objects from bone or shell:
grinders and polishers are still made from stone, however. Among the
western groups, with whom I began my enquiries, pottery was
unknown: and elsewhere it is exceedingly crude. The Nambikwara
have no canoes, and when they come to water they swim across it,
helping themselves at times with buoys made of faggots.

All this equipment was so primitive as hardly to merit the name of
manufactures*. The Nambikwara basket contains above all the raw
materials from which tools can be put together as and when they are
needed: woods of various kinds, and notably those which can be used
as fire-drills; lumps of wax or resin; bunches of vegetable fibres; the
bones, teeth, and claws of animals; odd bits of fur; feathers; hedgehogs
quills; nutshells, and shells taken from the river; stones; cotton; and
seeds. All this has such a haphazard appearance that the collector may
well be discouraged and see in the whole assemblage the result not so
much of human activity as of that of some race of giant ants. And there
is, in effect, a resemblance between a column of ants and a Nambikwara
band as it marches in single file through the tall grasses, each of the
women encumbered with her plaited basket, much as an ant which
forms part of a colony on the move is encumbered with the egg it has
to carry.

The Indians of tropical America invented the hammock. Not to
know of the hammock, and not to have any convenience of that kind
for rest or sleep, is for them the very symbol of poverty. The
Nambikwara sleep naked on the bare earth. As the nights of the dry
season are cold they keep warm by sleeping close to one another, or by
drawing nearer and nearer to the remains of the camp-fire so much

On the Line 269

so, in fact, that they often wake up at dawn sprawled in the still-warm
ashes of the fire. For this reason the Paressi have a nickname for them
uaikoakore, those who sleep on the ground .

As I said before, the band who were our neighbours at Utiarity, and
later at Juruena, was made up of six families: the leader s, with his
three wives and his adolescent daughter; and five others, each made
up of a married couple and one or two children. All were interrelated,
for the Nambikwara prefer to marry a niece (their sister s daughter),
or a kinswoman of the kind which anthropologists call cross-cousin :
the daughter of their father s sister, or of their mother s brother.
Cousins of this sort are called, from birth, by a name which means
husband or wife, while the other cousins (the children respectively of
two brothers or two sisters and called, therefore, by anthropologists
parallel cousins) call themselves, and treat one another as, brothers and
sisters and may not intermarry. All the Indians seemed to be on very
good terms with one another: yet even so small a group twenty-
three persons in all, counting the children sometimes ran into trouble.
, A young widower had just married a rather good-for-nothing girl who
refused to take any interest in the children of his first marriage two
little girls, one six years old and the other two or three. Despite the
kindness of the elder child, who acted as mother to her little sister, the
baby was very neglected. The grown-ups would have been delighted
for me to adopt her, for she was being passed from one family to the
next, and not all were glad to care for her. The children, however, had
a solution which they preferred, and which seemed to them a tremen
dous joke: they brought me the little girl, who could as yet barely
walk, and suggested, with gestures which could have only one
meaning, that I should take her for my wife.

Another family was composed of father and mother, no longer
young, and their pregnant daughter, who had come back to them now
that her husband had abandoned her. And then there was a young
couple, with a child still at the breast. These were still suffering from
the prohibitions which are enforced upon parents whose child is still
unweaned. They were filthy, because they were not allowed to bathe
in the river; thin, because most kinds of food were forbidden them;
and idle, because they were excluded, for the time being, from the
collective life of the band. Sometimes the man went off on his own
to hunt or collect food; the woman was fed by her husband or her
relations.

The Nambikwara make no difficulties and are quite indifferent

270 The Nambikwara

to the presence of the anthropologist with his notebooks and camera.
But certain problems of language complicated matters. They are not
allowed, for instance, to use proper names. To tell one from another
we had to do as the men of the line do and agree with the Nambikwara
on a set of nicknames which would serve for identification. Either
Portuguese names, like Julio, Jos^-Maria, Luisa; or sobriquets such as
Lebre, hare, or Assucar, sugar. I even knew one whom Rondon or one
of his companions had nicknamed Cavaignac on account of his little
pointed beard a rarity among Indians, most of whom have no hair on
their faces.

One day, when I was playing with a group of children, a litde girl
was struck by one of her comrades. She ran to me for protection and
began to whisper something, a great secret , in my ear. As I did not
understand I had to ask her to repeat it over and over again. Eventually
her adversary found out what was going on, came up to me in a rage,
and tried in her turn to tell me what seemed to be another secret. After
a litde while I was able to get to the bottom of the incident. The first
little girl was trying to tell me her enemy s name, and when the enemy
found out what was going on she decided to tell me the other girl s
name, by way of reprisal. Thenceforward it was easy enough, though
not very scrupulous, to egg the children on, one against the other, till
in time I knew all of their names. When this was completed and we
were all, in a sense, one another s accomplices, I soon got them to give
me the adults names too. When this was discovered the children were
reprimanded and my sources of information dried up.

The second linguistic difficulty arose from die fact that the
Nambikwara speak a number of different dialects, all of which are
unknown. The termination of the nouns, and certain verbal forms,
distinguish one dialect from another. On the line* a kind of pidgin
language is spoken, and this is useful only at the very beginning. The
good nature and lively intelligence of die Indians were such that I
soon picked up the rudiments of their speech. Luckily, their language
includes a number of key words kititu in the eastern dialect, dige,
dage, or tchore elsewhere which when added to a noun turn it into a
verb with, if need be, a negative particle. In this way one can say more
or less whatever one wants to, even if this basic Nambikwara does
not allow of any very subtle processes of thought. The natives are well
aware of the uses of this short cut, and when they try to speak Portu
guese they employ much the same methods. Thus ear and eye
become respectively to hear (or to understand ) and to see , and

On the Line 271

they render the contrary notion by saying, for instance, orelha acabo or
olho acabo: Ear [or eye] I finish. . . .

The Nambikwara language has a rather clouded or fogged sound
to it, as if it were being whispered and spoken on the breath . The
women like to emphasize this by slurring certain words (thus kititu
becomes kediutsu when they pronounce it): they articulate with the
tip of the tongue, affecting a babyish, mumbled utterance. They are
perfectly aware of the mannered, not to say precious, character of their
diction; and when I did not understand them and had to ask them to
say something again they exaggerated all the more, out of mischief. If
I gave up in discouragement they would burst into laughter and make
fun of me: they had got the better of it.

I soon realized that apart from the verbal stiffly the Nambikwara
language included a dozen others, which marked off objects and living
things into categories. Hair, body hair, feathers; pointed objects and
orifices; bodies, whether supple or stiff; fruits, seeds, rounded objects;
things which hung down or trembled; bodies that swelled out or were
full of liquid; barks of trees, hides, and other forms of covering, etc.
This suggested a parallel with a linguistic family in central America and
the north-west of South America: Chibcha, once spoken by a great
civilization in what is now Colombia, an intermediary between the
civilizations of Mexico and Peru. Could the Nambikwara language be
a southerly offshoot of this? This was yet another reason not to be taken
in by appearances. For all their physical poverty, natives who hark
back in physical type to the most ancient of the Mexicans and in
language-structure to the Chibcha empire are not at all likely to be
primitives in the true sense of the word. Rather should they be
compared to a stock of prodigal sons for whom history has never
killed the fatted calf. Why this should be so we do not know: but the
answer may be found, one day, in their past, of which we as yet know
nothing, and in the inhospitable character of the terrain in which they
are now living.

24 Family Life

T

!H]

Nambikwara wake up at dawn, relight their
fires, warm themselves up as best they can after the chill of the night,
and make a light meal of whatever has been left over from the previous
day. Shortly after this the men go off hunting, individually or in
groups* The women stay behind in the encampment and busy them
selves in the kitchen. They take their first bathe when the sun begins to
get up. Women and children often bathe together, for the fun of it;
and sometimes they light a fire so that when they come out of the water
they can squat in front of it and warm themselves making the most,
again in fun, of such momentary shivers as may overtake them after
their bathe. Other bathes follow during the course of the day. There is
not much variety in their occupations. The most exacting, in terms of
time and trouble, is the preparation of their food: the manioc has to be
grated and pressed, and its pulp dried and cooked; or else it s a matter
of shelling and boiling the cumaru nuts which add a scent of bitter
almonds to so many of their dishes. When supplies run short the
women and children go off on an expedition to collect and gather.
When there s enough to eat the women turn to spinning, squatting or
kneeling the while, with their buttocks resting on their heels. Or else
they trim, polish, and string together their pearls nut-kernels or
river-shells and with these they make ear-rings and other ornaments.
And if they don t feel like work they pick off one another s lice, or idle
about, or go to sleep.

In the heat of the day the camp falls silent. Its inhabitants, speechless
if not actually asleep, make for the precarious shade of their huts. At
other times everybody talks all the time, no matter what he is doing.
Laughter and high spirits are general and there s a constant flow of
joking and teasing, obscene or scatological references being greeted
with particular approval. An enquiry or th* arrival of a visitor brings

272

Family Life 273

all work to a halt; and if two dogs or birds should chance to copulate
everyone downs tools and watches closely and with fascination. Work
does not begin again until this important event has been discussed at
appropriate length.

The children laze about for most of the day, and although the girls
may give their elders some momentary assistance the boys enjoy a more
leisurely life, with some occasional fishing. Men who have not gone
hunting devote themselves to wickerwork, or make arrows or musical
instruments, or do a little to help in the house . Most households are
perfectly harmonious. Towards three or four in the afternoon the
hunters return home. The camp then becomes more lively, conversa
tion takes a brisker turn, and the groups that form and re-form have no
longer a family basis. Dinner consists of flat cakes of manioc and what
ever has been found during the day. At nightfall the women take it in
turns to go out into the bush and cut down or otherwise collect enough
wood for the night. Back they come, stumbling in the half-light under
the load that pulls tight the porter s bandeau across their foreheads.
Eventually they squat down and lean a little backwards, so that the big
basket of plaited bamboo rests on the ground and the bandeau loosens.

The wood is heaped in one corner of the camp and everyone takes
what he needs. Family groups re-form as the fires begin to blaze and the
evening is spent either in talk or in singing and dancing. Sometimes this
is kept up well into the night; but usually, after some preliminary
caresses and a bout or two of affectionate tussling, each couple draw
more closely together, the mother takes her sleeping child in her arms,
all fall silent, and nothing is heard in the night but the crackling of a log,
the light step of someone looking after the fire, the barking of a dog,
or a child crying.

The Nambikwara have few children; childless couples are not
uncommon, though one or two children constitute the norm, and it is
quite exceptional for there to be more than three in one family. Sexual
relations between parents are forbidden while their child remains un-
weaned: often, that is to say, until it is three years old. The mother
carries her child astraddle on her thigh, and keeps it in place with a broad
shoulder-strap of cotton or bark; as she also has to carry a large basket
on her back, one child is clearly her maximum load. Living, as they do, a
nomadic life in a very poor environment, the natives have to be very care
ful; and the women do not hesitate to resort to abortion of one kind or
another medicinal plants, or some mechanical device in case of need.

They both feel and show, none the less, the liveliest affection for

274 The Nambikwara

their children; and this affection is returned. Sometimes, however, this
is masked by extreme nervousness; instability takes its toll. A little
boy, for instance, is suffering from indigestion; between headache and
vomiting he spends half his time groaning aloud and the other half in
sleep. Nobody pays the slightest attention to him and he is left com
pletely alone all day. But when evening comes his mother comes across
to him, tenderly picks off all his lice as he falls asleep, signs to the others
not to come near, and makes for him a kind of cradle with her arms.

Or, it may be, a young mother is playing with her baby. Playfully
she gives him slap after little slap on the back; he loves it, and to make
him laugh the louder she slaps harder and harder till he bursts into tears;
then she stops and consoles him.

Once I saw the little orphan of whom I spoke earlier literally
trampled underfoot during a dance; in the general excitement she
had fallen down and nobody had noticed.

When they are crossed, children often hit out at their mother, and
their mother does nothing to stop it. The children are not punished,
and I never saw one of them beaten not even in pantomime except
by way of a tease. Sometimes a child cries because he s hurt himself,
because he s hungry, because he s had a quarrel, or because he doesn t
want to have his fleas picked off but this last is rare: delousing seems
to be as much fun for the patient as for the operator, and it is prized as
a mark of interest and affection. A child or husband who feels in need
of it will ky his head on the woman s knees, offering first one side and
then the other. She will then parthishair, ridge by ridge, and peer through.
A louse, once caught, is instantly eaten. Any child who cries during the
proceedings is consoled by an older child or a member of his family.

And so there s a delightful gaiety in the spectacle of a mother with
her child. Sometimes she dangles an object in front of him through the
straw walls of their hut and whips it away just as he reaches out for it:
There you missed it! Grab it at the front or the back! Or else
she takes up the child and with great shouts of kughter threatens to
throw him down to the ground. Amdam nom tebu! I ll drop you!
And the child pipes up: Nikui! No, please don t!*

There s something correspondingly uneasy and exacting about the
loving kindness with which die children surround their mother. They
want to be quite sure that she gets her fair share of the spoils of tie
hunt. The child has lived very dose to its mother. When they move
camp she carries the child until it can walk; kter, it hurries along at her
side. It stays with her in their camp, or their vilkge, while its father

Family Life 275

goes hunting. Eventually, however, certain distinctions of sex may be
remarked. A father is more interested in his son than in his daughter,
because his son has to be taught the techniques of manhood; and the
same is true of mother and daughter. But the relations between father
and children are marked by the tenderness and solicitude which I
have described above; a father will take his child for a walk on his
shoulder and carve for him weapons appropriate to his tiny arm.

It s also the father s duty to tell his children the traditional legends of
the tribe transposing them down, of course, in terms acceptable to the
infant mind: Everyone was dead! No one left! Not one man!
Nothing! Thus begins the South American children s version of the
Flood in which all humanity was once engulfed.

In cases of polygamy a special relationship exists between the child
ren, of the first union and their youthful stepmothers: a free-and-easy
comradeship which is extended to all the other girls in the group. Small
in numbers as this group may be, there may none the less be distin
guished within it a society of adolescent girls and young women who
band together to go bathing in the river, troop off into the brushwood
to satisfy the needs of Nature, organize smoking-parties, enjoy private
jokes, and delight in games which we might consider in dubious taste
taking it in turns, for instance, to squirt their saliva in each other s
faces. The relationship between members of the band is a close one, and
all prize it, but there is no great courtesy about it; in this it resembles
our own schoolboy groups. Rarely will one of the girls render another
a service or show her any particular attention; but one interesting
result of it all should be remarked that the girls come to independence
much more quickly than the boys. They follow the young women and
take part in their activities, whereas the boys, left entirely to themselves,
make timid and largely ineffective attempts to band together in the
same way, remaining meanwhile mother-bound until their first child
hood is over.

The Nambikwara children know nothing of games. Sometimes
they make toys of a kind out of rolled or plaited straw, but in general
their only pastime is wrestling or some other form of shared physical
exertion and their existence is one long imitation of the grown-ups.
Little girls kre taught to spin, or left to play around, laugh among them
selves, or fall asleep. Little boys of eight or ten begin to play with
miniature bows and arrows and learn the rudiments of masculine
activity. But girls and boys alike soon learn that the basic, and some
times the tragic, preoccupation of Nambikwara life is how to get

276 The Nambikwara

enough to eat; and they learn that they are expected to take an active
part in it- Collecting and gathering are tasks to which they lend them
selves with great enthusiasm. When food runs short they can often be
seen scavenging on the outskirts of the camp, digging away at roots
or tiptoeing in the grass, stick in hand, in search of grasshoppers. The
little girls know the role of their sex in the economic life of the tribe
and are impatient to make themselves worthy of it.

Once I met a litde girl who was carrying a puppy in the shoulder-
carrier that her mother used for her litde sister. Seeing her, I said:
Stroking your puppy-baby? And she replied, in all seriousness: When
I m big I shall kill all the wild pigs and all the monkeys. I* 11 kill them
every one when the dog barks!

Actually she made a grammatical mistake which her father was
delighted to point out. Instead of saying tilondage for when I m big*
she used the masculine form: ihondage 9 , thus revealing a woman s
feminine ambition to raise the economic activities which are peculiar
to her sex to the level of those that are the privilege of manhood. As the
precise sense of the phrase which she used was kill by a heavy blow
with a dub or stick (a digging-stick, in this case) it would seem that
she was unconsciously trying to identify the women s scrounging for
food (their capture of, at most, very small animals) with the men s
true hunting with bow and arrow.

Another special relationship exists between those children whose
degree of cousinage is such that they are allowed to call one another
Husband and Wife . Sometimes thpy behave like a real married
couple and, at nightfall, they leave the family circle, take a few warm
logs into a corner of the camp, and light a fire. After which they set up
house and demonstrate their affections, in so far as they can, just as
their elders do; the grown-ups glance their way in amusement.

I must also say a word about the household pets; these live in
intimacy with the children and are indeed themselves treated as
children. They share in the family meals and receive the same marks of
interest or tenderness as do the human beings: their lice are picked for
them, they take part in games, and people talk to them and caress them.
The Nambikwara have a wide range of pets: dogs, first of all, and
cocks and hens descendants of those introduced into the region by the
Rondon Commission monkeys, parakeets, birds of many kinds, and
even wild pigs, wild cats, and coatis. The dog alone serves a specific pur
pose: it helps the women when they go hunting with sticks. (Men never
use dogs when they go out with bow and arrow.) The other

Family Life 277

are reared purely as pets. They are never eaten; nor, for that matter,
are the eggs which the hens lay in the undergrowth. But if a young *
bird dies during the process of taming it is eaten without hesitation.

When the Nambikwara move on, all the pets, save those able to
walk, are included in their baggage. The monkeys get a firm hold in
the women s hair, rising above it helmet-wise, with their tails wound
round the bearer s neck for double security. Hens and parakeets perch
on top of the baskets; other animals are carried bodily. None is very
well fed; but all even when food is short get something. In return
they act as fools and jesters to the company.

To turn to the grown-ups: the Nambikwara attitude to matters of
love can be summed up in their formula * Tamindige mondage, of which
an exact if inelegant translation would be: It s good to make love/
Daily life is impregnated, as I have said, with eroticism. Love-matters
arouse their interest and curiosity in the highest possible degree; they
never tire of discussing them, and conversation in the camp is full of
undertone and allusion. Most sexual activity takes place at night near
the camp-fires, at times, but more often the partners go off a hundred
yards or so into the neighbouring brushwood. Their departure, im
mediately noticed, is the subject of widespread jubilation; jokes are
made, speculations exchanged; even the children are carried away by
an excitement whose origins they know perfectly well. Sometimes a
little group of men, young women, and children will dart off, whisper
ing and laughing the while, in pursuit of such glimpses of the proceed
ings as they can secure through the branches. The protagonists don t at
all care for this, but they have to put up with it, just as they have to put
up with the teasing that will greet them as they return to the camp.
Sometimes a second couple will follow their example and make off
into the isolation of the bush.

Yet these occasions are rare. Nor is their rarity due altogether to
formal prohibition. The real obstacle would seem to lie rather in the
Nambikwara temperament. Never in all the amorous exercises to
which they devote themselves publicly and with such relish have I seen
even the beginnings of an erection; and yet often they go quite far. The
pleasure they seek would seem to be playful or sentimental, rather than
direcdy physical. This is perhaps why the Nambikwara, in contrast to
almost all the other populations . of central Brazil, wear the penis
uncovered. It is in fact probable that the penis-sheath, when used, is
intended not so much to prevent an erection as to make plain the
peaceful condition of him who wears it. Peoples who live entirely

278 The Nambikwara

naked are not ignorant of what we call modesty : they simply have
another frontier-line. Among the Brazilian Indians, as among certain
Melanesian peoples, modesty has nothing to do with how much or how
little of the body is exposed; tranquillity lies on one side of the frontier,
agitation on the other.

These nuances sometimes gave rise to misunderstandings between
ourselves and the Indians for which neither side was responsible. It was
difficult to remain indifferent to the pretty girls who would tease us as
they sprawled in the sand at our feet, naked (and supple) as worms.
When I went to bathe in the river I was often embarrassed by the
onslaught of a group of five or six people, young or old, whose one
object was to rob me of my soap, of which they were so particularly
fond. These liberties extended to every aspect of daily life. Often I had
to make the best of a hammock stained red by a native who had used it
at siesta-time after painting her body with urucu. And when I was at
work, sitting on the ground in the middle of a circle of informants, I
sometimes felt a hand tugging at my shirt-tails; some woman was
finding it easier to wipe her nose on my shirt than to go in search of the
little branch, folded in two like a pair of pincers, that usually did duty
in this respect*

To understand the attitude of the sexes towards one another we
must first bear in mind the fundamental character of the couple among
tie Nambikwara. The couple is, both economically and psychologi
cally, par excellence, the unit in Nambikwara life. Among these bands
of nomads, where each band forms and re-forms unceasingly, the couple
represents in theory at any rate stable reality. The couple forms,
moreover, the only subsistence-unit known to the Nambikwara. They
live, after all, in a double economy: fishing and gardening on the one
hand, collecting and scavenging on the other. The man takes care of
one, the woman of the other. While the men troop off for a day s hunt
ing with bow and arrow, or, during the wet season, work in the garden,
the women wander off, stick in hand, into the savannah with their
children and fell upon everything that may come in useful for food:
seeds, fruit, berries, roots, tubers, eggs, small animals of every sort.
At the end of the day the couple reunites around the fire. When the
manioc is ripe, and there is still some left, the man brings home a great
load of roots and the woman shreds and presses them to make cakes. If
the hunt has gone well the game is cut in pieces and cooked quickly
beneath the hot ashes of the family fire. But for seven months of the
year manioc is hardly ever seen; hunting is a matter of luck in this

Family Life 279

sandy desert where the game, such as it is, rarely stirs from the shaded
pastures of the springs; between each spring and the next is a consider
able expanse of largely inhospitable undergrowth. And so it s the
women, with their gathering, who keep the family alive.

I have often shared the grisly dolls dinners which, during half the
year, are the Nambikwara s only means of not dying of hunger. When
the man returns tired and silent from a fruitless day s hunting, the
woman turns to her basket and brings out a touching collection of
oddities: the orange-coloured fruit of the buriti palm, two large and
poisonous spiders, a lizard or two and some of their tiny eggs, a bat,
some little nuts from the bacaiuva or uaguassu palms, and a handful of
locusts. The fleshed fruits are crushed by hand in a calabash filled with
water, the nuts are broken open with a stone, and the animals and larvae
bundled higgledy-piggledy in among the ashes; and all sit down gaily
enough to a meal which, while it would barely take the edge offa white
man s hunger, must here suffice for a whole family.

The Nambikwara use the same word for young and for pretty ,
and the same one also for old and ugly . Their aesthetic judgments
are based therefore on human, and above all on sexual, values. But the
interest of one sex for the other is a complicated matter. Men regard
women, comprehensively speaking, as not quite of the same stuff as
themselves; their behaviour towards them is coloured by as the case
may be desire, admiration, or tenderness. The terminological confusion
on which I remarked above is in itself a form of homage. The sexual
division of labour does of course give the woman a role of capital
importance (since it is her collecting which, in large measure, keeps the
family alive) ; but this collecting is none the less regarded as an inferior
type of activity. The ideal life is seen in terms of hunting or farming:
the possession of great quantities of manioc and game of superior size
and quality is a dream continually cherished, though not often realized.
Provender got together as luck wills it is regarded, quite rightly, as
a miserable minimum. In Nambikwara folklore to eat locusts has in a
much stronger degree the pejorative sense of our to take pot-luck .
And it s the women and children who provide the locusts.

In the same way a woman is regarded as a secondary possession:
prized and loved, perhaps, but secondary. It s the custom among men
to speak of women with pitying goodwill, and to address them with a
slightly teasing indulgence. Men constantly say: Children don t know,
and women don t know, but I do know ; and women in general, dofu,
with their jokes and their endless talk, are the subject of much tender

28o The Nambikwara

mockery. But this is merely a social attitude. When the man and his
woman are alone beside their fire he will listen to her complaints, take
note of her wishes, and in his turn ask her help in a hundred-and-one
little things; masculine braggadocio gives place to the collaboration of
two partners who know very well that the one cannot get along without
the other.

This ambiguity in the men s attitude towards their women has its
exact counterpart in the women s attitude towards their men. The
women think of themselves as a distinct group. We ve already noticed
that they do not speak as the men speak: this is true above all of young
women, particularly when they have not yet had children, and of
concubines. Among mothers and older women the differences are much
less marked. Young women enjoy the society of children and adoles
cents and amuse themselves a great deal in their company; and it s the
women, too, who look after the animals with that humanity which
characterizes certain South American Indians. All this creates around
the women, within the interior of the group, a quite special atmosphere:
at once childish, high-spirited, mannered, and provocative; and the
men 611 in with this when they come back from hunting or gardening.

But when the women turn to those activities which are their special
preserve, their attitude becomes quite different. If it s a matter of work
ing with their hands they manifest an exemplary skill and patience as
they sit in a circle, back to back, in the hushed encampment. While
travelling they loyally hump the heavy baskets which contain food for
the journey, the family s combined belongings, and the arsenal of
arrows. Their menfolk meanwhile inarch at the head of the column,
bow at the ready, with one or two arrows merely and a wooden spear
or digging-stick: their job is to spot the occasional fruit-tree or the
animal that breaks cover; while the women, with their carriers head
bands braced across their foreheads, and the long narrow basket (shaped
like an overturned elongated bell) laid along their backs, march on for
mile after mile with their characteristic gait: thighs held stiffly together,
knees joined, ankles wide apart, and feet well forward, with the weight
on the outer edge of the foot and their haunches swaying. They are
brave women, and energetic, and gay.

This contrast between the women s psychological attitude and their
economic function is to be found also on the religious and philosophical
plane. Relations between men and women among the Nambikwara
oscillate between the two extremes around which their existence is
organized: on the one hand the settled existence of the gardening period,

Family Life 281

based on the two masculine activities of hut-building and cultivation,
and on the other the nomadic period, during which women are almost
entirely responsible for the supply of food. One stands for security and
a copious menu, the other for hazard and near-starvation. To these two
forms of existence, winter and summer, the Nambikwara react in very
different ways. They speak of winter with that melancholy that comes
from the conscious and resigned acceptance of our human condition:
a dismal doing-over-and-over of an unchanging routine. Summer on
the other hand is a matter for excited discussion, with the element of
discovery always present.

Where metaphysics are concerned, these relationships are seen in
reverse. The souls of Nambikwara men are incarnated, after death, in
jaguars; but the souls of women and children vanish into the air and
no more is heard or seen of them. This distinction explains why women
are excluded from the more sacred ceremonies: these are held at the
beginning of the cultivation period and consist in the manufacture of
bamboo flutes fed with offerings; the men play on these instruments,
after first withdrawing out of sight of the women.

Although the flutes were, as it were, out of season , I was very
anxious to hear them played and to acquire a few of them. A group of
men, yielding to my insistence, set off on an expedition to the distant
forest in which the big bamboos were to be found. Three or four days
later the returning travellers woke me up in the middle of the night;
they had waited for the women to go safely to sleep. We all trooped
off to a point about a hundred yards distant, where bushes hid us from
the rest of the camp, and the men set to work to construct their flutes.
When they were ready, four players struck up in unison; but as the
flutes were not quite in tune the effect was one of some harmonic
illusion. The tune was different from the Nambikwara songs with
which I had become familiar. (The melodic structure of these songs
reminded me of the rondes of the French countryside.) They differed
also from the strident calls which could sometimes be heard on the
three-holed nose-ocarina which was made up of two fragments of a
calabash stuck together with wax. The range of the flageolets was
restricted to a few notes, but the tunes were marked by a chromaticism
and rhythmic resource which seemed to me strikingly similar to certain
passages in Stravinsky s Sacre du Printemps notably to the woodwind
modulations in the passage entitled Action rituelle des an^etres . Any
woman who ventured upon the scene would have been struck down at
once. As with the Bororo, the women are the subject of a veritable

282 The Nambikwara

metaphysical curse; but the women of the Nambikwara differ from
those of the Bororo in that they do not enjoy special status in law
although it seems that among the Nambikwara descent also follows the
maternal line. In a society as little organized as theirs, these tendencies
remain a matter of implication, and the synthesis operates on a basis of
informal practice and non-crystallized attitudes.

When the men describe the kind of life which is summed up in
the temporary shelter and the everlasting basket-load, they speak as
tenderly as if they were caressing their wives. Each day they extract,
collect, or capture the most incongruous means of subsistence. They
live exposed to rain, wind, and cold. And this existence leaves behind
it no more trace than the spirits, dispersed by wind and storm, of the
women on whose activity it fundamentally resides. They conceive of
their sedentary life quite differently, though its specific and ancient
character is attested by the original species which they cultivate. The
unchanging sequence of agricultural activity confers on the sedentary-
life a perpetuity identical with that of the reincarnated spirits of the
men, die long-lasting winter-house, and the gardens which will go on
living and producing when the death of the farmer s predecessor will
have been forgotten .

Perhaps this explains the extraordinary instability of the Nambik
wara, and the speed with which they pass from cordiality to hostility?
The few observers who have got near to them have all been struck by
this. The Utiarity band was the one that, five years earlier, had mur
dered a group of missionaries. My male informants took pleasure in
describing this incident, and disputed with one another for the honour
of having struck the decisive blows. I must admit that I couldn t blame
them for it. I ve known many missionaries. Some, certainly, had great
merits both as men of science and as human beings. But the American
Protestant missions which tried to penetrate the central Mato Grosso
around the year 1930 were of a kind all their own. They came from
peasant families in Nebraska or Dakota and, as adolescents, had been
brought up to believe literally in hell-fire and cauldrons of boiling oil.
Some of them became missionaries in the way that other people take
out an insurance policy. Once assured of their salvation they felt no need
to do anything else to deserve it; and in the exercise of their profession
they were often revoltingly hard and inhuman.

How did the massacre come about? That I discovered as the result
of a piece of awkwardness which nearly got me into serious trouble.
The Nambikwara are accomplished toxicologists. They manufacture

Family Life 283

curare for their arrow-heads, for instance, beginning with an infusion
made from the red skin which covers the roots of certain strychnos , this
they heat over a fire until the mixture attains the consistency of a paste.
They also employ other vegetable poisons, and carry them about with
them in feather or bamboo tubes, wrapped round with cotton thread
or bark. These poisons are used to avenge hurts, whether amorous or
commercial; I shall have more to say of them.

These are poisons of a scientific sort, whose manufacture is carried
out quite openly, with none of the precautions and magical complexities
which surround the making of curare in more northerly regions. The
Nambikwara have also others, more mysterious in their nature. In
tubes identical with those used for authentic poisons, they collect
particles of the resin exuded by a tree of the genus bombax, whose trunk
swells out half-way up. They believe that if they project one of these
particles on to an adversary, he will take on the physical condition of
the tree: swell up, that is to say, and die. Authentic poisons and magical
substances are alike designated by the name of nande, which goes far
beyond the narrow meaning of our poison . It connotes, in fact, every
kind of threatening action as well as all the products or instruments
which may be useful when such action is taken.

I had in my luggage a few of those large and many-coloured silk-
paper balloons that are used by the thousand in Brazil on the feast-day
of St John. (You fill them withhot air by fixing a little torch underneath
them.) One evening I had the unhappy idea of showing the natives
how they worked. The first balloon caught fire on the ground
an incident which was received with general laughter, it being clear
that they had no idea of what ought to have happened. The second
balloon went off all too well, mounting rapidly into the upper air and
eventually mingling its tiny flame with those of the stars; after vaga
bonding above us for some time it disappeared. The spectators mean
while had ceased to be amused. Quite other sentiments overcame them;
the men watched fixedly and in great annoyance, while the women
cowered together in terror, hiding their heads in their arms. I heard the
word nan de used over and over again. The next morning a deputation
of the men came to see me, demanding to inspect my stock of balloons
and make sure that no nande was hidden among them. The inspection
was extremely thorough; thanks, however, to the Nambikwara s
remarkably positive turn of mind (despite all that I have just said) my
demonstration, with the aid of a fire and a few shreds of paper, of the
power of hot air to make objects rise, was, if not understood, at any

284 The Nambikwara

rate accepted. As usually happened when something had to be excused,
the whole thing was blamed on the women who understood nothing ,
had got the wind up , and were in terror of calamities of every kind.
I wasn t deceived: things might well have turned out very badly
indeed. Yet neither this incident nor others which I shall describe later
could detract from the filings of friendship which the Nambikwara
inspire in those, and those only, who live in intimacy with them for a
considerable period. I was therefore amazed to read the description
given by a foreign colleague of his encounter with the same band of
natives that I had known, ten years previously, at Utiarity. When he
went there in 1949 two missions were working there: the Jesuits of
whom I have spoken, and some American Protestants. The native band
had dwindled to eighteen: this is what our author has to say about them:

* Of all the Indians which I have visited in the Mato Grosso, the
members of this band of the Nambikwara were the most miserable.
Of the eight men, one had syphilis, another had some kind of infec
tion in his side, another had an injured foot, another was covered
with some kind of scaly disease from head to foot, and another was
deaf and dumb. The women and children, however, appeared to
be healthy. Owing to the fact that they use no hammocks but sleep
on the ground, they are always covered with dirt. On cold nights
they remove the fires and sleep in the warm ashes. . . . They wear
clothes only when they are given by the missionaries, who ask that
they be worn. Their distaste for bathing permits not only a covering
of dust and ashes to accumulate on their skins and hair but also
particles of decayed meat and fish which, combined with stale
sweat, makes proximity to them rather distasteful. They also appear
to be heavily infected with internal parasites, for their stomachs are
distended and they are continually passing wind. On several
occasions when a number of them had crowded into the small room
we used for working we had to cease work in order to air the room.

The Nambikwara are surly and impolite even to rudeness. On
many occasions when I went to visit Julio at his camp he was lying
down near a fire and, as he saw me approach, he turned his back to
me, sayinghedidnotwantto talk. The missionaries informed me that
a Nambikwara will ask for some object several times, and if it is not
given he will try to take it. In order to keep the Indians out they
would sometimes dose the screen door, but if a Nambikwara really
wanted to enter he would tear a hole in the screen and walk in. ...

Family Life 285

One does not have to remain long among the Nambikwara in
order to feel this underlying hatred, mistrust and despair, which
create in the observer a feeling of depression not unmixed with
sympathy/ 1

When I myself had known them, the diseases introduced by white
men had already decimated them; but there had not been, since
Rondon s always humane endeavours, any attempt to enforce their
submission. I should prefer to forget Mr Oberg s harrowing description
and remember the Nambikwara as they appear in a page from my
notebooks. I wrote it one night by the light of my pocket-lamp:

The camp-fires shine out in the darkened savannah. Around the
hearth which is their only protection from the cold, behind the
flimsy screen of foliage and palm-leaves which has been stuck into
the ground where it will best break the force of wind and rain,
beside the baskets filled with the pitiable objects which comprise all
their earthly belongings, the Nambikwara he on the bare earth.
Always they are haunted by the thought of other groups, as fearful
and hostile as they are themselves, and when they lie entwined
together, couple by couple, each looks to his mate for support and
comfort and finds in the other a bulwark, the only one he knows,
against the difficulties of every day and the meditative melancholia
which from time to time overwhelms the Nambikwara. The visitor
who camps among the Indians for the first time cannot but feel
anguish and pity at the sight of a people so totally dis-provided for;
beaten down into the hostile earth, it would seem, by an implacable
cataclysm; naked and shivering beside their guttering fires. He
gropes his way among the bushes, avoiding where he can the hand,
or the arm, or the torso that lies gleaming in the firelight. Laughing
whispers can still make light of the Nambikwara s poverty. Their
embraces are those of couples possessed by a longing for a lost one
ness; their caresses are in no wise disturbed by the footfall of a
stranger. In one and all there may be glimpsed a great sweetness of
nature, a profound nonchalance, an animal satisfaction as ingenuous
as it is charming, and, beneath all this, something that can be
recognized as one of the most moving and authentic manifestations
of human tenderness.

1 K. Oberg, Indian Tribes of the Northern Mato Crosso, Brazil Smithsonian Institution,
Institute of Social Anthropology. Publ. no. 15, Washington 1953. PP- 84-85.

25 A Writing Lesson

i

WANTED somehow to arrive at a figure, however
approximate, for the total of the Nambikwara population. In 1915
Rondon had put it at twenty thousand, which was probably too high.
But at that time the nomadic bands were of several hundred people
apiece, and all the indications I had collected along the line pointed to a
rapid decline. Thirty years ago, for instance, the known fraction of the
Sabane group comprised more than a thousand individuals; when that
same group visited the telegraph station of Campos Novos in 1928 it
consisted of one hundred and twenty-seven men, plus their women and
children. In November 1929, moreover, an influenza epidemic broke
out when the group was camping at the point known as Espirro. The
disease turned into a form of pulmonary oedema, and three hundred
Indians died of it within forty-eight hours. The whole group disinte
grated, leaving the sick and dying to fend for themselves. Of the thousand
Sabane who had once been known of, only nineteen men and their
families were still alive in 193 8 . This decline is due not only to the epidemic,
but also to the fact that some years ago the Sabane were in a state of war
with some of their easterly neighbours. But a large group installed not
far from Tres Buritis was wiped out by influenza in 1927: of the six or
seven survivors, only three were still alive in 1938. The Tarunde group,
once one of the largest, numbered twelve men, with their families, in
1936: three years later these twelve were reduced to four.

What was the position at the time of my arrival? Probably a bare
two thousand Indians were scattered about the territory. I could not
hope to make a systematic count, because certain groups were always
hostile, and because, during the nomadic season, all the bands were con
tinually on the move. But I tried to persuade my friends at Utiarity to
take me to their village at a time when a rendezvous had been arranged
with other allied or related bands. Thus I hoped to estimate the present

286

A Writing Lesson 287

siize of a gathering of this sort and to compare it with the reunions that
had been scrutinized in earlier years. I promised to bring them presents,
and effect some exchanges, but the leader of the band remained hesitant:
he was not sure of his guests, and if my companions and I were to dis
appear in the region where no white men had penetrated since the
incident of the seven telegraph-workers in 1925, then the precarious
peace which existed there would be compromised for a long time to
come.

In the end he agreed, on condition that we cut down the size of our
party, and took only four oxen to carry our presents. Even so, he said,
we should have to forswear the usual tracks, because our beasts would
never get through the dense vegetation which abounded in the lower
reaches of each valley. We should have to go by the plateau, improvis
ing our route as we went along.

This was a very dangerous expedition, but it now seems to me
largely grotesque. We had hardly left Juruena when my Brazilian
colleague remarked to me on the absence of the Nambikwara women
and children: only the men were with us, each armed with bow and
arrows. All the literature of travel indicated this as a sign that an attack
was imminent. Our feelings were mixed, therefore, as we went for ward,
verifying from time to time the position of our Smith and Wesson
revolvers ( Cemite Vechetone was our men s name for them) and our
rifles. These fears proved misplaced: towards the half-way point of the
day s march we caught up with the remainder of the band, whom their
provident chief had sent on ahead of us, the day before, knowing that
our mules would make much better time than the women, laden as
these were with their baskets and encumbered with little children.

Soon after this, however, the Indians got lost. The new itinerary
was not as straightforward as they had supposed. Towards evening we
had to come to a halt in the bush. We had been promised that there
would be game thereabouts and the Indians, counting on our rifles,
had brought no food with them. We, for our part, had brought only
emergency rations which could not be shared out all round. A troop
of deer which had been nibbling away at the edge of a spring fled at our
approach. The next morning everybody was in a thoroughly bad
humour: ostensibly, this took for its object the leader of the band,
whom they considered to be responsible for the venture which he and I
had devised between us. Instead of going off to hunt or collect wild
food on their own account, they decided to spend the day lying in the
shade, leaving it to their leader to find the solution to their problem.

288 The Nambikwara

He went off, accompanied by one of his wives: towards evening we saw
them coming back with their baskets heavy-laden with grasshoppers
that they had spent the entire day in collecting. Grasshopper pie is not
one of their favourite dishes, but the entire party fell on it, none the less,
with relish. Good humour broke out on all sides, and on the next
morning we got under way again.

And, at last, we got to the rendezvous. This was a sandy terrace
above a watercourse, bordered with trees between which the Indians
had laid out some little gardens. Incoming groups arrived at intervals
during the day and by the evening there were seventy-five people in
all: seventeen families, grouped under thirteen crude shelters hardly
more solid than those which served in camp. I was told that when the
rains began the whole company would take refuge in five round huts
built for several months wear. Many of the natives seemed never to
have seen a white man, and their more than dubious welcome combined
with their leader s extreme nervousness seemed to suggest that he had
forced their hand, somewhat, in the whole matter. Neither we nor the
Indians felt at all at our ease and, as there were no trees, we had to lie,
like the Nambikwaras, on the bare ground. No one slept: we kept, all
night long, a polite watch upon one another.

It would have been rash to prolong the adventure, and I suggested
to the leader that we should get down to our exchanges without further
delay. It was then that there occurred an extraordinary incident which
forces me to go back a little in time. That the Nambikwara could not
write goes without saying. But they were also unable to draw, except
for a few dots and zigzags on their calabashes. I distributed pencils and
paper among them, none the less, as I had done with the Caduveo. At
first they made no use of them. Then, one day, I saw that they were all
busy drawing wavy horizontal lines on the paper. What were they
trying to do? I could only conclude that they were writing or, more
exactly, that they were trying to do as I did with my pencils. As I had
never tried to amuse them with drawings, they could not conceive of
any other use for this implement. With most of them, that was as far as
they got: but their leader saw further into the problem. Doubtless he
was the only one among them to have understood what writing was
for. So he asked me for one of my notepads; and when we were work
ing together he did not give me his answers in words, but traced a wavy
line or two on the paper and gave it to me, as if I could read what he had
to say. He himself was all but deceived by his own play-acting. Each
time he drew a line he would examine it with great care, as if its mean-

A Writing Lesson 289

iiig must suddenly leap to the eye; and every time a look of disappoint
ment came over his face. But he would never give up trying, and there
was an unspoken agreement between us that his scribblings had a
meaning that I did my best to decipher; his own verbal commentary
was so prompt in coming that I had no need to ask him to explain what
he had written.

And now, no sooner was everyone assembled than he drew forth
from a basket a piece of paper covered with scribbled lines and pretended
to read from it. With a show of hesitation he looked up and down his
list for the objects to be given in exchange for his people s presents.
So-and-so was to receive a machete in return for his bow and arrows,
and another a string of beads in return for his necklaces and so on for
two solid hours. What was he hoping for? To deceive himself perhaps:
but, even more, to amaze his companions and persuade them that his
intermediacy was responsible for the exchanges. He had allied himself
with the white man, as equal with equal, and could now share in his
secrets. We were in a hurry to get away, since there would obviously
be a moment of real danger at which all the marvels I had brought
would have been handed over. ... So I did not go further into the
matter and we set off on the return journey, still guided by the
Indians.

There had been something intensely irritating about our abortive
meeting, and about the mystifications of which I had just been the un
knowing instrument. Added to that, my mule was suffering from
aphtha, and its mouth was causing it pain, so that by turns it hurried
inpatiendy forward and stopped dead in its tracks. We got into a
quarrel with one another and, quite suddenly, without realizing how it
happened, I found myself alone, and lost, in the middle of the bush.

What was I to do? What people do in books: fire a shot in die air
to let my companions know what had happened. I dismounted and did
so. No reply. I fired again, and as there seemed to be an answer I fired a
third shot. This scared my mule, who went off at a trot and pulled up
some distance away.

I put weapons and photographic equipment neady at the foot of a
tree, memorized its position, and ran off to recapture my mule, who
seemed quite peaceably disposed. He let me get right up to him and
then, just as I reached for the reins, he made off at full speed. This
happened more than once until in despair I jumped at him and threw
both my arms round his tail. This unusual proceeding took him by sur
prise, and he decided to give in. Back in the saddle, I made as if to

290 The Nambikwara

collect my belongings, only to find that we had twisted and turned so
often that I had no idea where they were*

Demoralized by this episode, I decided to rejoin our troop. Neither
my mule nor I knew where they had gone. Sometimes I would head
him in a direction that he refused to take; sometimes I would let him
lead, only to find that he was simply turning in a circle. The sun was
going down, I was no longer armed, and I expected at every moment to
be the target of a volley of arrows. I was not, admittedly, the first white
man to penetrate that hostile zone. But none of my predecessors had
come back alive and, quite apart from myself, my mule was a tempting
prey for people who rarely have anything very much to get their teeth
into. These dark thoughts passed, one by one, through my mind as I
waited for the sun to go down, thinking that since I at least had some
matches with me I could start a bush-fire. Just as I was about to strike
the first match I heard voices: two of the Nambikwara had turned back,
the moment my absence was noticed, and had been following me all
afternoon. For them to recover my equipment was child s play and, at
nightfall, they led me to the camp where our whole troop was waiting
for me.

Still tormented by this absurd incident, I slept badly. To while
away the hours I went back, in my mind, to the scene of the previous
morning. So the Nambikwara had learnt what it meant to write! But
not at all, as one might have supposed, as the result of a laborious
apprenticeship. The symbol had been borrowed, but the reality re
mained quite foreign to them. Even the borrowing had had a socio
logical, rather than an intellectual object: for it was not a question of
knowing specific things, or understanding them, or keeping them in
mind, but merely of enhancing the prestige and authority of one
individual or one function at the expense of the rest of the party. A
native, still in the period of the stone age, had realized that even if he
could not himself understand the great instrument of understanding he
could at least make it serve other ends. For thousands of years, after all,
and still today in a great part of the world, writing has existed as an
institution in societies in which the vast majority of people are quite
unable to write. The villages where I stayed in the Chittagong frills in
Pakistan are populated by illiterates; yet each village has a scribe who
fulfils his function for the benefit both of individual citizens and of the
village as a whole. They all know what writing is and, if need be, can
write: but they do it from outside as if it were a mediator, foreign to
themselves, with whom they communicate by an oral process. But the

A Writing Lesson 291

scribe is rarely a functionary or an employee of the group as a whole;
his knowledge is a source of power so much so, in fact, that the func
tions of scribe and usurer are often united in the same human being.
This is not merely because the usurer needs to be able to read and write
to carry on his trade, but because he has thus a twofold empire over his
fellows.

Writing is a strange thing. It would seem as if its appearance could
not have failed to wreak profound changes in the living conditions of
our race, and that these transformations must have been above all
intellectual in character. Once men know how to write, they are
enormously more able to keep in being a large body of knowledge.
Writing might, that is to say, be regarded as a form of artificial memory,
whose development should be accompanied by a deeper knowledge of
the past and, therefore, by a greater ability to organize the present and
the future. Of all the criteria by which people habitually distinguish
civilization from barbarism, this should be the one most worth retain
ing: that certain peoples write and others do not. The first group can
accumulate a body of knowledge that helps it to move ever faster to
wards the goal that it has assigned to itself; the second is confined within
limits that the memory of individuals can never hope to extend, and it
must remain the prisoner of a history worked out from day to day,
with neither a clear knowledge of its own origins nor a consecutive
idea of what its future should be.

Yet nothing of what we know of writing, or of its role in evolution,
can be said to justify this conception. One of the most creative phases
in human history took place with the onset of the neolithic era: agri
culture and the domestication of animals are only two of the develop
ments which may be traced to this period. It must have had behind it
thousands of years during which small societies of human beings were
noting, experimenting, and passing on to one another the fruits of their
knowledge. The very success of this immense enterprise bears witness
to the rigour and the continuity of its preparation, at a time when
writing was quite unknown. If writing first made its appearance be
tween die fourth and third millennium before our era, we must see it
not, in any degree, as a conditioning factor in the neolothic revolution,
but rather as an already-distant and doubtless indirect result of that
revolution. With what great innovation can it be linked? Where
technique is concerned, architecture alone can be called into question.
Yet the architecture of the Egyptians or the Sumerians was no better
than the work of certain American Indians who, at the time America

292 The Nambikwara

was discovered, were ignorant of writing. Conversely, between the
invention of writing and the birth of modern science, the western world
has lived through some five thousand years, during which time the sum
of its knowledge has rather gone up and down than known a steady
increase. It has often been remarked that there was no great difference
between the life of a Greek or Roman citizen and that of a member
of the well-to-do European classes in the eighteenth century. In the
neolithic age, humanity made immense strides forward without any
help from writing; and writing did not save the civilizations of the
western world from long periods of stagnation. Doubtless the scientific
expansion of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries could hardly have
occurred, had writing not existed. But this condition, however neces
sary, cannot in itself explain that expansion.

If we want to correlate the appearance of writing with certain other
characteristics of civilization, we must look elsewhere. The one pheno
menon which has invariably accompanied it is the formation of cities
and empires: the integration into a political system, that is to say, of a
considerable number of individuals, and the distribution of those indi
viduals into a hierarchy of castes and classes. Such is, at any rate, the
type of development which we find, from Egypt right across to China,
at the moment when writing makes its debuts; it seems to favour rather
the exploitation than the enlightenment of mankind. This exploitation
made it possible to assemble workpeople by the thousand and set them
tasks that taxed them to the limits of their strength: to this, surely, we
must attribute the beginnings of architecture as we know it. If my
hypothesis is correct, the primary function of writing, as a means of
communication, is to facilitate the enslavement of other human beings.
The use of writing for disinterested ends, and with a view to satisfactions
of the mind in the fields either of science or the arts, is a secondary
result of its invention and may even be no more than a way of reinforc
ing, justifying, or dissimulating its primary function.

There are, however, exceptions to this rule. Ancient Africa included
empires in which several hundred thousand subjects acknowledged a
single rule; in pre-Colombian America, the Inca empire numbered
several million subjects. But, alike in Africa and in America, these
ventures were notably unstable: we know, for instance, that the Inca
empire was established in the twelfth century or thereabouts. Pizarro s
soldiers would never have conquered it so easily if it had not already,
three centuries later, been largely decomposed. And, from the little we
know of the ancient history of Africa, we can divine an analogous

A Writing Lesson 293

situation: massive political groups seem to have appeared and dis
appeared within the space of not many decades. It may be, therefore,
that these instances confirm, instead of refuting, our hypothesis,
Writing may not have sufficed to consolidate human knowledge, but
it may well have been indispensable to the establishment of an enduring
dominion. To bring the matter nearer to our own time: the European-
wide movement towards compulsory education in the nineteenth
century went hand in hand with the extension of military service and
the systematization of the proletariat. The struggle against illiteracy is
indistinguishable, at times, from the increased powers exerted over the
individual citizen by the central authority. For it is only when everyone
can read that Authority can decree that ignorance of the law is no
defence*.

All this moved rapidly from the national to the international fefd,
thanks to the mutual complicity which sprang up between new-bom
states confronted as these were with the problems that had been our
own, a century or two ago and an international society of peoples
long privileged. These latter recognize that their stability may well be
endangered by nations whose knowledge of the written word has not,
as yet, empowered them to think in formulae which can be modified at
will. Such nations are not yet ready to be *edified*; and when they are
first given the freedom of the library shelves they are perilously
vulnerable to the ever more deliberately misleading effects of the printed
word. Doubtless the die is already cast, in that respect. But in my
Nambikwara village people were not so easily taken in. Shortly after
my visit the leader lost the confidence of most of his people. Those
who moved away from him, after he had tried to play the civilized man,
must hkve had a confused understanding of the fact that writing, on this
its first appearance in their midst, had allied itself with falsehood; and
so they had taken refuge, deeper in the bush, to win themselves a
respite. And yet I could not but admire the genius of their leader, for he
had divined in a flash that writing could redouble his hold upon the
others and, in so doing, he had got, as it were, to the bottom of an
institution which he did not as yet know how to work. The episode
also drew my attention to a further aspect of Nambikwara life: the
political relations between individuals and groups. This I was shortly to
be able to scrutinize more direcdy.

We were still at Utiarity when an epidemic of purulent ophthalmia
broke out among the natives. This infection, gonococchic in origin,
soon spread to every one of them. Apart from being terribly painful, it

294 The Nambikwara

led to what threatened to be permanent blindness. For several days the
entire band was paralysed. They treated their eyes with water, in which
a certain kind of bark had been soaked: this they introduced into the eye
with the help of leaves rolled into the shape of a funnel. The disease
spread to my own group. My wife was the first to catch it. She had
taken part in all our previous expeditions and had taken her full share
in the study of material culture: but now she was so seriously ill that
I had to send her back home. Most of our bearers went sick, and so
did my Brazilian associate. Before long it was out of the question to go
any farther. I ordered the main body of our party to rest, left our
doctor behind to do what he could for them, and myself pushed on
with two men and a few animals to the station of Campos Novos,
near which a number of Indian bands had been reported. There I spent
a fortnight in semi-idleness, picking the barely ripe fruit of an orchard
which had c gone back to Nature : guavas whose bitter taste and stony
texture belied the promise of their scent; caju, vivid in colour as any
parakeet, with a flesh that concealed within its spongy cells an astringent,
delicately flavoured juice. And when the larder was empty we had only
to get up at dawn and make our way to a thicket, a few hundred yards
from the camp, where woodr-pigeons would turn up, sharp on time
every day, and offer themselves as our prey. At* Campos Novos, too,
I met two bands which had arrived from the north, drawn by the
rumour of the presents I had brought with me.

These two bands were as ill disposed towards one another as they
were towards me. From the outset, my gifts were not so much solicited
as exacted. During the first few days only one of the bands was in
evidence, together with a native from the Utiarity group who had gone
on ahead of me. Did he show too much interest in a young woman who
belonged to our hosts group? I believe he did. Relations were bad,
almost from the start, between the strangers and their visitor, and he
dropped into the habit of coming over to my camp in search of a more
cordial welcome. He also shared my meals. This fact was taken note of:
and one day when he was out hunting I was visited by a delegation of
four Indians. There was a distinct menace in the tone of voice in which
they urged me to put poison into his food. They would bring me all
that I needed: four little tubes bound together with cotton and filled
with grey powder. I was very much put out: yet, as an outright refusal
would turn the whole band against me, I felt it best to go carefully, in
view of their maleficent intentions. So I decided to know less of their
language than I really did. Faced with my look of total inconipre-

A Writing Lesson 29$

hension, the Indians repeated to me over and over again that my guest
was kakorl, very wicked, and that I should get rid of him as socm as
possible. Eventually they made off, with every sign of discontentment.
I warned my guest of what had occurred, and lie at once took to his
heels; not till months later, when I revisited the region, did I see him
again.

Luddly the second band arrived on the following day, giving the
Indians a new target for their hostility. The meeting took place at my
camp, which was both neutral ground and the terminal-point of thek
respective journeyings. I had, therefore, a front seat in tie stalk Hie
men of each party came up on their own; a lengthy conversation
followed between their respective leaders, consisting mainly of mono
logues, in alternation, on a plaintive, nasal note that I did not remember
having encountered before. We are very angry! 5 one group kept on
whining. *You are our enemies! To which the others replied: *We are
not at all angry! We are your brothers! Friends! We can understand
each other! and so on. Once this exchange of protests and provoca
tions was over, a common camp was set up, dose to my own. After
some dancing and singing, during which each group played down its
own contribution and glorified that of its adversaries The Tamainde
sang so well! And we sing so badly 1 / quarrelling began again, and
before long tempers began to run high. The night had hardly begun
when the noise of argument-cum-singingset up a tremendous row, tie
significance of which was lost upon me. Threatening gestures could be
seen, and once or twice men actually came to blows and had to be
separated. The menaces consisted, in every case, of gestures relating in
some way to thesexual organs. ANambikwarashowshostility by taking
his penis in both hands and pointing it towards his adversary . This is the
prelude to an attack on the adversary in question, with a view to
wrenching off the tuft of Jmriti straw that hangs down from the front
of his belt, just above his private parts. These parts are hidden by the
straw and the point of fighting is to get the other man s straw away
from him. This is an entirely symboEc action, for the masculine cache-
sexe is so fragile, and in any case so insubstantial, that it serves neither to
protect nor, in any true sense, to dissimulate the parts in question.
Another mark of victory is to wrest your opponent s bow and
arrows from htm and put them down some distance away. At^all
such times the Indians take on attitudes of extreme intensity, as if
in a state of violent contained rage. Eventually these individual
quarrels end up in a general pitched battle. But on this occasion they

296 The Nambikwara

died down at dawn. Still in the same state of evident exasperation, and
with the roughest of gestures, the adversaries began to scrutinize one
another closely, fingering an ear-ring here and a cotton bracelet or
feathered ornament there, and muttering rapidly throughout: Give . . .
give . . . give . . . look at that . . . how pretty! to which the owner
would reply: *No, no ... it s ugly, old, worn-out. . . .

This reconciliatory inspection marks the end of the conflict. It intro
duces, as between the two groups, another kind of relationship: that of
the commercial exchange. The material culture of the Nambikwara
may be of the rudest, but each band s manufactures are, none the less,
highly prized in the outer world. Those in the east are short of pottery
and seed-beads. Those in the north consider that their southerly neigh
bours make particularly beautiful necklaces. The meeting of two
groups, once established upon a pacific level, will therefore engender a
whole series of reciprocal gifts: the battlefield turns into a market-place.

But the exchanges go forward almost imperceptibly: the morning
after the quarrelling everyone went about his normal occupations, and
objects or products changed hands without either donor or recipient
making any outward allusion to what was going forward. Balls of
thread and raw cotton; lumps of wax or resin; urucu paste; shells, ear
rings, bracelets, and necklaces; tobacco and seed-beads; feathers and
strips of bamboo that could be made into arrowheads; bunches of palm-
fibres and porcupine-quills; complete pots and potsherds; calabashes.
This mysterious traffic went on until the day was half over, when the
two groups separated and went off, each on his own way.

The Nambikwara leave everything, on such occasions, to the gener
osity of their opposite number*. Totally foreign to them is the notion
that anyone could set a price on any object, discuss that price, haggle
over it, insist on getting it, or chalk it up as a debt. I once offered an
Indian a forest-knife in return for his having carried a message to a
nearby group. When he came back I did not immediately give him the
knife, because I assumed that he would come and ask for it. But nothing
of the kind: and the next day I couldn t find him anywhere. His friends
told me that he had gone away in a rage, and I never saw him again. I
had to entrust the present to another Indian. This being so, it is not sur
prising that when the exchanges are over one side or the other is often
discontented with the result; and that, as weeks and then months go by,
and he counts up, over and over again, the presents he received, and
compares them with those he has given, he becomes more and more
bitter. Often this bitterness turns to aggression. Many a war has broken

A Writing Lesson 297

out for no other reason. There are other causes, of coarse: a murder, or
a rape to be either brought off or avenged It does not seem as if a band
feels itself bound to take collective reprisals for an injury done to any
one of its members. But such is the animosity which reigns between
groups that often every advantage is taken of preteads of this HTM^
especially if the group in question feels itself in a strong position. The
case is then presented by a warrior, who sets out his grievances in the
same tone and in much the style of the encounter-ritual: Hallo there!
Come here! Now look here Tin very angry! Really very angry
indeed! Arrows! Big arrows!

Specially dressed for the occasion tufts of bttriti straw striped with
red, jaguar-skin helmets the men assemble behind their leader and
dance. A divinatory rite must be observed: the chie or the sorcerer, if
one exists, hides an arrow in a corner of the bush. The next day die men
search for the arrow and, if it is stained with blood, war is declared: if
not, they call it all off. Many expeditions that begin in this way come to
an end after a few miles march. The war-party loses all its enthusiasm
and excitement and turns back towards home. But sometimes the
venture is pressed to its conclusion, and blood is shed. The Nambikwara
attack at dawn, after having first scattered to create the conditions of an
ambush. The signal to attack passes from man to man by means of the
whistle that each carries round his necL This whistle, made up of two
tubes of bamboo tied together with cotton, makes a noise like that of
the cricket and, doubtless for that reason, bears the same name. The
war-arrows are those used in peace-time for hunting the bigger game, bet
their points are cut to a saw-edge. Arrows poisoned with curare, though
common in hunting, are never used in battle, because anyone wounded
by one of them would get it out before the poison had had time to get
into his veins.

26 Men, Women, and Chiefs

B,

BEYOND Campos Novos, at the highest point of
the plateau, was the post of Vilhena. In 1938 it consisted of a few huts
in the middle of a lengthy clearing several hundred yards wide. This
clearing marked the point at which the builders of the line had hoped
that the Chicago of the Mato Grosso would one day be built. I believe
it is now a military airfield, but in my time its only inhabitants were two
families who had not had any supplies of food for the previous eight
years. They it was who, as I described earlier, had managed to keep in
biological equilibrium with the herd of deer which provided them with
a modest living.

There I met two new nomadic bands. One of them numbered in all
eighteen persons, and their dialect was not far distant from the one
which I was beginning to speak; the other, thirty-four strong, talked
an unknown language and one that I never succeeded in identifying.
Each was led by a chief. In the case of the smaller of the two bands, his
attributes seemed to me entirely secular. But the chief of the larger band
was soon revealed to me as a sorcerer of some kind. His group were
called the Sabane, and the others the Tarunde.

Except for the language, there was no telling them apart: looks and
culture were identical. This was already the case at Campos Novos; but
at Vilhena the two bands, so far from being on bad terms, lived in
perfect harmony. Their camp-fires were some way apart, but they
travelled together, camped side by side, and seemed to be indissolubly
allied, for all that they spoke different languages, and that their chiefs
could communicate with one another only through the intermediary
of one or two men, in either group, who could act as interpreters.

Their union must have been a recent one. Between 1907 and 1930,
as I explained earlier, epidemics traceable to the arrival of white men
had decimated the Indians. Consequently there were bands so reduced
in numbers that they could not pursue an independent existence. At

298

Men, Women, and Chiefs 299

Campos Novos I had examined the internal antagonisms of Nambik-
wara society and watched the forces of disintegration at woffc. At
Vilhena, by contrast, I was faced with an attempt at reconstruction.
For there was no doubt that this was the two bands* conscious aim. The
grown men of the one band addressed the women of Ac other band
as sisters* and were called by them brothers in return. As for the mm,
they addressed the men of the other band by the words which, in one
language or the other, mean cousin of the type which anthropologists
call crossed : this corresponds to the rektionship which we define as
that of brothers-in-law * Given the marriage-laws of the NamMkwara,
this means that all the children of the one band are potentially &e
husbands or wives of children of the other band, and vice versa. By
the time that the next generation has grown up, therefore, the two
bands will have merged completely.

But there were still obstacles to this grand design. A third band,
enemies of the Tarunde, was in the neighbourhood. Sometimes their
camp-fires were within sight of our own camp, and the Tarunde made
themselves ready for any emergency. As I could understand the
Tarunde up to a point, and the Saban6 not at all, I found myself more
in sympathy with the Tarunde. Also the Saban6, with whom I had no
means of communication, were much less trusting in their relations
with me. So it is not for me to expound their point of view. In any case,
the Tarund6 were not sure that the Sabane s motives in uniting with
them were altogether disinterested. They were frightened of the third
group, and what frightened them still more was the possibility that die
Sabane might suddenly decide to go over to the other side

A strange incident soon showed that there was foundation for dieir
fears. One day, when the men had gone out hunting, the Sabane chief
did not come back at his usual time. Night fell, and by nine or ten
o clock in the evening consternation reigned in the camp above all in
the home of the vanished chief, where his two wives and one child
were huddled together in tears at the presumed death of their husband
and father. At that moment I decided to go for a tour of the area, taking
a few Indians with me. Hardly had we gone two hundred yards whoa
we came upon our man, squatting on the ground and shivering in the
dark. He was entirely naked stripped, that is to say, of his necklaces,
bracelets, ear-rings, and belt. By the light of my torch we could see
that he was haggard and distraught. He offered no resistance as we
helped him back to our camp, where he sat, speechless, in an attitude of
dejection which was really quite startling.

3oo The Nambikivara

Eventually his disquieted audience got the story out of him. He had
been swept away by the thunder, he said. (Amon is their word for a
storm, harbinger of the rainy season, and a storm had, in fact, just taken
place.) This thunder had carried him up in the air and set him down at
a point eighteen miles from our camp. It had stripped him of all his
ornaments and brought him back to the place where we had found him.
Everyone dropped slowly off to sleep as they hashed over the story, and
by next morning the Sabane chief was back in his best humour and,
what is more, had recovered all his ornaments. No one seemed sur
prised by this: nor did he attempt to explain it. But before long a very
different account of the episode was being put about by the Tarunde.
They declared that under cover of his high adventure the Sabane chief
had been negotiating with the other band of Indians who were camping
nearby. These insinuations were never brought up in public, and the
official account of the incident was still given official credence. But in
private the Tarunde chief made no secret of his anxieties. As the two
groups moved off shortly afterwards I never heard the end of the story.

This incident, allied to my previous observations, caused me to
reflect on the nature of the Nambikwara bands and on the political
influence exerted within them by their chiefs. There is no social struc
ture more fragile, or shorter-lived, than the Nambikwara band. If the
chief is too exacting, if he allots to himself too large a share of the
women, or if he cannot find enough food for his subjects during the
dry season, discontentment follows immediately. Individuals, or whole
families, will break away from the group and go off to join a band with
a better reputation. This other band may be better fed, thanks to the
discovery of better places for hunting and scavenging; or it may have
a larger store of ornaments, thanks to favourable exchanges with
neighbour-bands; or it may even have become more powerful as a
result of a victorious campaign. One day the leader will find himself at
the head of a group too small either to cope with the difficulties of
everyday life or to protect its women from the designs of outsiders.
When that happens he will just have to give up his position and ally
himself and his few supporters with some more fortunate group. From
all this it will be clear that the Nambikwara social structure is essentially
fluid. Bands are constantly forming and being dissolved, doubling their
numbers or disappearing altogether. A few months may suffice for their
composition, numbers, and general character to change beyond recog
nition. Domestic political intrigues and conflicts between neighbour-
bands impose their separate rhythms upon these variations, and both

Men, Women, and Chiefs 301

individuals and groups pass from zenith to nadir, and vice versa, in a
way that is often disconcerting.

Why, therefore, do the Nambikwara divide themselves into i>ands
at all? Economically speaking, they could hardly do otherwise than
break up into small groups, given their extreme poverty in natural
resources and the large area of ground which is needed, in the dry
season, to keep even one Indian alive. The problem is not why, but
how, they should so divide themselves. Initially there is a mall group
of acknowledged leaders who constitute the nucleus around which
each band forms itself. On the ability of the leader to consolidate his
position and keep his followers in their place will depend the import
ance of his band and the quasi-permanence of its character throughout
the dry season. Political power does not seem to result from the com
munity s needs; rather does the little community derive its character
istics form, size, origins even from the potential leader who existed
before the group came into being.

I knew two of these chiefs very well: the one at Utiarity, whose
band was called Wakletxxju, and the Tarunde chief. The first was
remarkably intelligent, active, resourceful, and well aware of his respon
sibilities. He fbrseaw the consequences of any new situation; drew up
an itinerary expressly adapted to my needs; and elucidated it, where
necessary, by drawing a map in the sand. When we reached his village
we found that stakes to which we could tether our animals had already
been planted by a party which he had sent on ahead for the purpose.

As an informant he was invaluable to me, in that he understood my
problems, solved my difficulties, and took a real interest in my work.
But his functions preoccupied him, and for days together he would go
off hunting, or on reconnaissance, or to see if the fruit- or seed-bearing
trees were doing well. There were also his wives, whose continual
invitations to amorous amusements of one sort or another found in him
the readiest of partners.

In general his activites revealed a logic, and a capacity for sustained
effort, which are rare among the Nambikwara. (Instability and caprice
are more the rule.) His conditions of life were precarious, and his means
derisory: yet he had great powers of organization and took upon him
self entire responsibility for his group. He was a thoroughly competent
leader, though somewhat given to speculation.

The Tarunde chief was, like his colleague, about thirty years old.
He was equally intelligent in his quite different way. The Wakleto^u
chief struck me as an informed and resourceful leader, who was always

3Q2 The Nandrikwara

turning over in his mind some possible political manoeuvre. His
colleague was a man, not of action, but of contemplation: he had an
attractive and poetical turn of mind and was unusually sensitive. He
EeaBzed that his people were decadent, and for this reason his conversa
tion had often a note of mdbncholy. *I used to do that once, he would
say, but now it s finished . . / as he spoke of the days when his group,
so &r from being too small to carry on the traditions of the Nambik-
wara, mi to several hundreds, every one of them a fervent upholder of
those auoeat customs. He was as interested in our own ways, and in
ifaose of other tribes that Ihad examined, as I was in his own. With him,
the anthropologist s work was never one^-sided: he saw it as an exchange
of information, and always had a cordial welcome for all that I could
tell him. Often, indeed, he would ask me for, and carefully keep,
drawings of tie feather-ornaments, the head-dresses, and the weapons
thai: I had noted down among peoples near or far. Did he hope that
these would help bim to perfect the material and intellectual equipment
of Iris own band? Conceivably although his day-dreamer s tempera-
nimt did not lend itself well to practical activity. And yet when, one day,
I asked him about the Pan-pipe, with aview to verifying the position of
dbe air-holes on that instrument, and he, never having heard of it, asked
me to draw him a picture of one, he later contrived to make himself such
a flute, rooglily but servkeably constructed, on the basis of my drawing.

Tlhe eaxeptiotial qualities manifested by both these chiefs derived
from die manner of their designation for political power is not
hereditary among the Nambifcwara. When a chief grows old, falls ill,
or feels that he can no longer shoulder his heavy burdens, he himself
chooses his successor: That one shall be chief. . / But this autocracy is
EQOfe apparent than real. We shall see later on how slender is the chief s
authority; and in this matter, as in others, the final decision would seem
to be preceded by an appeal to public opinion, so that the heir finally
appointed is die man most acceptable to the majority. But the choice of
the new chief is not dictated entiidy by the wishes or preferences of the
group; the leader-designate must be willing to take on die job and, not
uncommocdy, he answers widi a violent: *No, I doe t want to be chief!*
A second choice must then be made. There does not, in fact, seem to
be any great competition for power, and die chiefs whom I knew were
more likely to complain of their heavy burdens and manifold responsi
bilities than, to talk with pride of the chiefs lofty position. What, in
fact, are the chiefs privileges, and what are his obligation?

Around the year 1560 Montaigne met, in Rouen, three Brazilian

Men, Women* and Chiefs 303

Indians who had been brought back by some early navigator. What,
he asked one of them, were the privileges of a chief f king was what he
said) in their country? The Indian, himself a chief, said: He s the first
man to march off to war. Montaigne tells this story in his Essays and
marvels at the proud definition. It was a matter, for me, of intmse
astonishment and admiration that I received the same reply, nearly
four centuries later. The civilized countries do not show anything Kfce
the same constancy in their political philosophy! Striking as it is, the
formula is not so fraught with meaning as the choice of the word for
chief in Nambikwara language. Uilikan&e seems to mean the one who
unites or the one who binds together , and it suggests that .the Indian
mentality is aware of the phenomenon which I have already underlined:
that the chief is rather the cause of the group s wish to constitute itself
as a group, than the effect of the need, felt by an already-existing group,
for a central authority.

Personal prestige and the ability to inspire confidence are the
foundations of power in Nambikwara society. Both are indispensable
to the man who will be their guide in the adventurous, nomadic life of
the dry season. For six or seven months the chief will be entirely res
ponsible for the leadership of his band. He it is who organizes their
departure, chooses their itinerary, aixd decrees where and for how long
they will stop. He decides on the expeditions hunting, fishing, collect
ing, scavenging and he deals with relations with neighbour-bands.
When the chief of a band is also the dhief of a village (by this I mean a
semi-permanent installation for use during the rainy season) his obliga
tions go further. He determines the time and the place for the sedentary
life. He supervises the gardens and says what crops are to be planted.
More generally, he adapts his band s activities to the needs and possi
bilities of the season.

Where these manifold functions are concerned it should be said at
once that the chief cannot seek support either in clearly defined powers
or in a publicly recognized authority. Consent lies at the origins of
power, and consent also confers upon power its legitimacy. Bad cort-
duct (from the Indians point of view, needless to say) or marks of ill
will on the part of one or two malcontents may throw the chiefs whole
programme out of joint and threaten the well-being of his little
community. Should this happen, the chief has no powers of coercion.
He can disembarrass himself of undesirable elements only in so far as
all the others are of the same mind as himsel And so he needs to be
clever: and his cleverness is not so much that of an all-powerful

304 The Nambikw&ra

sovereign as that of a politician struggling to maintain an uncertain
majority. Nor does it suffice for him merely to keep his group together.
They may live in virtual isolation during the nomadic season, but they
never forget that neigh!x>ur-groups are not far away. The chief must
not iBerdy do well: he must try, and his group will expect him to try,
to do better than the others.

How does the chief fulfil his obligations? The first and the main
instrument of his power is his generosity. Generosity is among most
primitive peoples, and above all in America, an essential attribute of
power. It has a role to play even in those elementary cultures where the
notion of property consists merely in a handful of rudely fashioned
objects. Although the chief does not seem to be in a privileged position,
from the material point of view, he must have under his control surplus
quantitiesof food, tools, weapons, andornamentswMch,howevertrifling
in themselves, are none the less considerable in relation to the prevailing
poverty. When an individual, a family, or the band as a whole, wishes
or needs something, it is to the chief that an appeal must be made.
Generosity is, therefore, the first attribute to be expected of a new chief.
It is a Bo$e which will be struck almost continuously; and from the
nature, discordant or otherwise, of the sound which results the chief
can judge of his standing with the band. His subjects* make the most of
all this: of that there can be no doubt The chiefs were my best informers;
and as I knew the difficulties of their position I liked to reward them
liberally. Rarely, however, did any of my presents remain in their hands
for more than a day or two. And when I moved on, after sharing for
several weeks the life of any particular band, its members rejoiced in the
acquisition of axes, knives, pearls, and so forth from my stores. Hie
chief, by contrast, was generally as poor, in material terms, as he had
been when I arrival. His share, which was very much larger than the
average allowance, had all been extorted from him. This often reduced
the chief to a kind of despair. A chief who can say *No* in such situations
is like a Prime Minister, in countries subject to parliamentary democ
racy, who can snap his fingers at a vote of confidence. A chief who can
say: Til give no more! I ve been generous long enough! Let someone
else take a turn!* must really be sure of his authority if he is not to
provoke a moment of grave crisis.

Ingenuity is generosity transposed to the level of the intellect. A
good chief gives proofs of his initiative and skilL He it is who prepares
the poison for the arrows. He, likewise, who constructs the ball of wild
rubber which is used on Nanabikwara sports days. He must also be able

Men, Women, and Chiefs 305

to sing and dance, with a repertory krge enough to amuse the band at
any time and distract them from the monotony of their everyday life.
These functions might easily make of him something of a shaman, and
some chiefs do, in fact, combine the roles of warrior and witch-doctor.
But mysticism in all its forms remains well in the background of
Nambikwara life, and the gift of magic, when present, is merely one of
the secondary attributes of command. It is more common for one
person to assume the temporal and another the spiritual power. In this
the Nambikwara differ from their neighbours, the Tupi-Kawahib,
whose chiefs are also shamans much given to premonitory dreams,
visions, trances, and the dissociation of personality.

But the skill and ingenuity of the Nambikwara chief are none the less
astonishing for being directed towards a more positive outlet. He must
have a minute knowledge of the territories frequented by his band and
by its neighbours: the hunting-grounds must have no secrets from him,
and he must know just when each dump of wild fruit-trees will be ripe
for plucking. Thus instructed, he can work out a rough itinerary for
each of his neighbour-bands, whether friendly or hostile; and, as he
needs to be constantly on the move, reconnoitring or exploring, he may
well seem to be not so much leading his band as circling rapidly round it.

Apart from one or two men who have no real authority, but are
prepared to collaborate if paid to do so, the passivity of the band is in
striking contrast to the dynamism of its leader. It is as if, having handed
over to him certain advantages, they expect him to take entire charge
of their interests and their security. This attitude was well displayed in
the episode which I have already described of the journey on which,
when we lost our way and had not enough food, the Indians lay down
on the ground instead of going off to look for some, leaving it to the
chief and his wives to remedy the situation as best they could.

I have often spoken of the chief s wives . He is, practically speaking,
the only polygamist in the band: and this is both a consolation, moral
and sentimental, for the heavy burdens of office, and one of the means
of shouldering those burdens. With rare exceptions the chief and the
witch-doctor (when these functions are shared between two men) are
the only people to have more than one wife. But this polygamy is of a
special type: it is not plural marriage in the strict sense, but rather a
normal monogamous marriage to which are added relationships of a
a different sort. The first wife fulfils the normal role of the wife in
monogamous marriages, in that she does the work usually attributed to
her sex, looks after die children, does the cooking, and goes out to
u

306 The Nambikwara

collect such food as she can. Later unions, though recognized as
marriages, are of a different kind. The wives come, to begin with, from
a younger generation, and the first wife addresses them as daughter* or
*niece*. Nor do they obey the rules of the division of labour between
the sexes, but do the work of either men or women, as they please. In
camp, they regard house-work as beneath them and live in idleness,
dither playing with children nearer their own age, or making love with
their husband, while the first wife busies herself with the routine work
of die home. But when the chief goes hunting or exploring, or on
some other masculine errand, his secondary wives go with him and
give him both physical and moral support. Boyish in appearance, and
chosen firom the prettiest and healthiest girls of the group, they are,
indeed* more mistresses than wives, and he lives with them in an
atmosphere of amorous camaraderie which is in striking contrast to the
conjugal atmosphere of his first union.

Men and women do not as a rule bathe together, but the chief can
sometimes be seen in the river with his secondary wives, and these
occasions are marked by a great deal of splashing about, horse-play, and
jokes of every kind. In the evening he plays with them. Sometimes the
games are clearly erotic, and they roll about, two, three, or even four
together, closely entwined on the sand. Sometimes they are more
childish in tone: for instance the WakletO9U chief and his two wives
would lie on the ground in the shape of a three-leafed clover, with their
feet together in the middle, and then, raising their legs in the air, would
bring them together, clapping the soles of their feet together in
unison.

This form of polygamy represents, therefore, a normal mono
gamous marriage, to which is added a pluralist variant of amorous
camaraderie. It is also an attribute of power, and has a functional value
in both the moral and the economic spheres. The wives generally live
together in harmony, and, although the lot of the first wife may seem
thankless, she seems to feel, or at any rate to show, no bitterness as she
toils away while her husband and his little playmates amuse themselves
and, at times, go to the limits of erotic enjoyment, within sight and
sound of her. This distinction between the original wife and her succes
sors is not, in any case, immutable. It happens, though less often, that
the first wife may join in the fun: nor is she in any way excluded from
the lighter sides of family life. And the fact that she takes less part in
their dalliances is balanced by the greater respect, and to some extent
the obedience, which is owed to her by her youthful successors.

Men, Women, and Chiefs 307

This system has serious consequences for the life of the group. By
withdrawing, as he does, a number of young girls from the normal
matrimonial cycle, the chief creates a disequilibrium between the
number of young men and the number of available girls. The young
men suffer most from this, for they are condemned either to remain
single for years, or to ally themselves with widows or older women
whose husbands have had enough of them.

The Nambikwara have, however, another way of resolving the
problem, and that is by homosexual relations or, as they call them,
tamindige kihandige: "the loving he . These relations, common among
the younger men, are carried on with a publicity uncommon in the
case of more normal relations. The partners do not go off into the bush,
as they would with a partner of the opposite sex, but get down to it
beside the camp-fire, much to the amusement of their neighbours. The
incident provokes a joke or two, on the quiet, the relations in question
being regarded as childishness and of no serious account. It remains
doubtful whether these exercises are carried to the point of complete
satisfaction or whether, like much that goes on between husbands and
wives among the Nambikwara, they are limited to sentimental out
pourings and a certain amount of erotic fore-play.

Homosexual relations are only allowed between adolescent boys
who stand to one another in the relations of crossed cousins cases, that
is to say, in which one partner would normally marry the other s sister
and is taking her brother as a provisional substitute. Whenever I asked
an Indian about a relationship of this sort, the answer was always the
same: "They are two cousins (or brothers-in-law) who make love
together/ Even when fully grown, the brothers-in-law are still very
free in their ways, and it is not unusual to see two or three men, all
married and the fathers of children, walking round in die evening with
their arms round one another s waists.

The privilege of polygamy, which gives rise to these makeshift
arrangements, is clearly an important concession to the chief on the part
of the entire group. How does he see it? The fact of being able to pick
and choose among the prettiest young girls gives him great satisfaction
a satisfaction not so much physical, for reasons I have already given,
as sentimental. But, above all, polygamy and its specific attributes are
the means put by the group at die disposition of their chief in order to
help him to carry out his duties. Were he alone, he could only with
difficulty do more than the others. His secondary wives, freed, in virtue
of their special status, from the normal bondage of their sex, can help

The Natnbikwara

and comfort him. Tliey are both the reward and the instrument of
power. Can we say, however, that from the Indian s point of view the
reward is adequate? To get an answer to that, we must examine the
question more generally and see what the Nambikwara band, if con
sidered as an elementary social structure, has to teach us about the
origins and function of power.

The evidence of the Narnbikwara runs, to begin with, clean counter
to the ancient sociological theory, now temporarily resurrected by the
psycho-analysts, according to which the primitive chief derives from a
symbolical Father. This view goes on to assert that the forms of the
State have developed, from this starting-point, on the analogy of family
life. At the foundations of power in one of its most primitive forms, on
the other hand, we have discerned a decisive phase which introduces, in
relation to the phenomena of biology, quite a new element: this phase
consists in the^uwig of consent. Consent is at the origins, and at the same
time at the furthest limit, of power. What are in appearance one-sided
relations (those existing, for instance, in a gerontocracy, an autocracy,
or any other form of government) may arise among groups whose
structure is already complex; but in forms of social organization as
simple as the one I am now trying to describe they are inconceivable.
In such cases, political relations may be reduced to a kind of arbitration
between, on the one hand, the talents and authority of the chief and, on
the other, the size, coherence, and good will of the group. All these
factors exert a reciprocal influence upon one another.

I should like to be able to show how markedly, in dais regard, con
temporary anthropology supports the theses of the eighteenth-century
philosaphes. Doubtless Rousseau s schema differs from the quasi-con
tractual relations which obtain between the chief and his companions.
Rousseau had in mind quite a different phenomenon the renunciation
by the individual of his own autonomy in the interests of the collective
will It is none the less true, however, that Rousseau and his contempo
raries displayed profound sociological intuition when they realized that
attitudes and elements of culture such as are summed up in the words
contract* and consent* are not secondary formations, as their adver
saries (and Hume in particular) maintained: they are the primary
materials of social life, and it is impossible to imagine a form of political
organization in which they are not present.

As a consequence of all this, it is dear that power is founded, psycho
logically speaking, in consent. But in daily life it finds outlet in the game
of oath and counter-oath which is played out by the chief and his

M?, Women, and Chiefs 309

companions. Another of the attributes of power is, in effect, the notion
of reciprocity. The chief has power, but he must be generous. He has
duties, but he can also have several wives. Between himself and die
group there is a constantly adjusted equilibrium of oaths and privileges,
services and responsibilities.

But in the case of marriage the whole thing goes one stage father.
By conceding to its chief the privilege of polygamy, the group ex
changes the individual elements of security guaranteed by the role of
monogamy and receives in return the collective security which it
expects from Authority. Each man receives his wife from another man,
but the chief receives his several wives from the group as a group. In
return, he offers to guarantee the group in times of danger or need; and
this guarantee is offered not to the individuals whose daughters or
sisters he marries, nor even to those who, as a result of this, will have to
remain single. It is offered to the group as a group, for it is the group
as a group which has suspended the common kw to his personal
advantage. These reflections may be of interest to any theoretical study
of polygamy: but above all they remind us that the conception of the
State as a system of guarantees, renewed after discussion of a national
insurance system such as that put forward by Beveridge and others, is
not a purely modern development. It is a return to the fundamental
nature of social and political organization.

Such is the group s point of view, where power is concerned. What,
now, is the chiePs own attitude to his function as chief? From what
motives does he accept an office which is not always a very pleasant one?
The Nambikwara chief knows that his is a difficult role, and that it will
take all he has to sustain it adequately. l what is more, he does not
succeed in continually enhancing his personal standing he may easily
lose what he has taken months or years to acquire. That is why many
men decline the position of power. But why is it that others accept it,
and indeed go out of their way to get it? It is never easy to judge of
psychological motives, and it becomes almost impossible to do so when
die culture in question is so very different from our own. One can say,
however, that the privilege of polygamy, however attractive from the
sexual, social, and sentimental points of view, would not in itself be
enough. Polygamous marriage is one of the technical conditions of
power: as far as private satisfactions are concerned, it can offer only an
auxiliary significance. Nor is that all: for when I call to mind the moral
and psychological characteristics of the Nambikwara chiefs, and try to
capture the fugitive nuances of their personality (these nuances cannot

3io The Nambikwara

be analysed scientifically, but where the experiment of friendship is
concerned, or the intuitive feeling of human communication, they may
be of great value), I am carried irresistibly forward to the following
conclusion: that if there are chiefs, it is because there are, in every group
of human beings, men who, unlike their companions, love importance
for its own sake, take a delight in its responsibilities, and find rewards
enough in those very burdens of public life from which their fellows
shrink. Certainly these individual differences are developed and find
outlet in a manner, and to a degree, which will itself differ from one
culture to another. But the fact that they exist in a society so largely un-
competitive as that of the Nambikwara would suggest that their origin
is not entirely social. Rather are they a part of that raw material of
psychology in which every society somewhere finds it foundations.
Men are not all alike, and even in primitive tribes, which sociologists
have portrayed as crushed by all-powerful tradition, the differences
between one man and another are noted as exacdy, and exploited with
as much pertinacity, as in what we call our individualist society.

This is, in another form, precisely the miracle of which Leibnitz
speaks, in connection with the American savages whose ways, as des
cribed by early travellers, taught him never to mistake the hypotheses
of political philosophy for demonstrations . For my own part, I went
to the ends of the earth in search of what Rousseau called the barely
perceptible advances of the earliest times . Beneath and beyond the veil
of the all-too-learned laws of the Bororo and the Caduveo I had gone
in search of a state which, to quote once again from Rousseau, no
longer exists, perhaps may never have existed, and probably will never
exist . And yet, he goes on, without an accurate idea of that state we
cannot judge properly of our present situation. Myself luckier than he,
I thought that I had come upon that state in a society then nearing its
end. It would have been poindess for me to wonder whether or not it
was a vestigial version of what Rousseau had in mind; whether tradi
tional or degenerate, it brought me into contact with one of the most
indigent of all conceivable forms of social and political organization. I
had no need to go into its past history to discover what had maintained
it at its rudimentary level or what, as was more likely, had brought
it thus far down. I had merely to focus my attention on the experiment
in sociology which was being carried out under my nose.

But that experiment eluded me. I had been looking for a society
reduced to its simplest expression. The society of the Nambikwara had
been reduced to the point at which I found nothing but human beings.

PART VIII

The Tupi-Kawahib

27 By Canoe

. HAD left Cuiaba in June, and it was now September.
For three months I had wandered across the plateau, camping with the
Indians while my animals had a rest, or pushing on interminably from
one point to the next, asking myself the while what it would all add up
to in the end. Meanwhile the jerky motion of the mule gave me sore
places so atrociously painful, and yet so familiar, that I ended up by
feeling that they were a permanent part of my anatomy and that I
should even miss them if they were not there the next morning. Bore
dom got the upper hand of adventure. For weeks on end the same
austere savannah would unroll before me a land so dry that living
plants could scarcely be distinguished from the dead stumps that marked
the place where someone had lately struck camp. And as for the
blackened remains of bush-fires, they seemed merely the natural cul
mination of a territory where it was the destiny of everything, sooner
or later, to be burnt to a cinder.

From Utiarity we went to Juruena, and thence to Juina, Campos
Novos, and Vilhena. September saw us moving towards the last stations
on the plateau: Tres-Buritis first, and then Barao de Melga9O, which
was already at the foot of the plateau. At more or less every station we
had lost one or two of our oxen, either from thirst, or from hunger, or
from hervado eating poisonous grasses, that is to say. When we
crossed a river by a bridge that was crumbling into ruins, several oxen
fell into the water, together with our baggage, and it was with great
difficulty that we saved the most precious fruits of our expedition. But
such incidents were rare: every day was spent in exactly the same way:
setting up camp, slinging our hammocks, with their mosquito-nets,
putting our baggage and pack-saddles out of reach of the termites,
seeing to our animals, and making ready for the same procedures, in
reverse, the next morning. Should an Indian band come in sight, we put

313

314 The Tupi-Kawahib

another routine into action, making a census, taking note of the names
given to the various parts of the body and to certain family relation
ships, drawing up genealogies, and making an inventory of the natives*
possessions. If this was escape , I was one of escape s bureaucrats.

We had had no rain for five months, and there was no game to be
seen. It was a great day for us if we could shoot an emaciated parrot, or
capture a big tupinambis lizard that could be boiled with our rice, or
roast in their shells a tortoise or an oily, black-fleshed armadillo. We
had to content ourselves, most often, with xarque: that eternal dried
meat, prepared months previously by a butcher in Cuiaba. The thick
slices would be swarming with worms when we unrolled them each
morning in the sun: we cleaned them as best we could, only to find
them in the same state next day. Just once, however, someone killed a
wild pig. Its bleeding flesh seemed to us more heady than any wine,
and as we tore into it, eating at least a pound a head, I could well under
stand the supposed gluttony which so many travellers had instanced
as proof of the savage s barbaric state. Once one had lived as they live,
and eaten as they eat, one well knew what hunger could be, and how
the satisfaction of that hunger brought not merely repletion, but
happiness itself.

Gradually the landscape changed its character. The former crystal
line and sedimentary soils, which make up the central plateau, gave way
to a base of clay. The savannah was replaced by zones of dry chestnut-
forest (not our own chestnuts, but the Brazilian Bertholktia excelsa), and
forests too of the balsam-secreting copaiba-tree. The once limpid
streams became clouded with yellow, foul-smelling waters. Landslides
could be seen on every hand: eroded hills with, at their feet, marshes
full ofsapezals (tall grasses) and buritizals (palm-trees). On the verges
of these, our mules would pick their way through fields of wild pine
apples little fruit with orange-yellow skins whose flesh was full of
big black seeds, with a taste midway between that of the cultivated
pineapple and the richest of raspberries. From the soil there arose a
smell we had not smelt for months past: that of a hot chocolate-
flavoured tisane, which is in reality nothing more than the smell of
tropical vegetation and organic decomposition. Suddenly one realized,
when confronted with this smell, how this soil could produce cocoa,
just as sometimes in Haute-Provence the scent of a field full of half-
faded lavender will explain how that same earth can secrete the truffle,
A last ledge in the terrain brought us to the edge of a meadowland
immediately above the telegraph station of Barao de Melga<;o. And from

By Canoe 3*S

there, as fax as the eye could see, the Madbado valley stretchied oi& into
the Amazonian forest that went on for another thousand miles, right
up to the Venezuelan frontier.

At Barao de Melga9O there were meadows of green grass senromKled
by humid forest lands loud with the trampet-nofce of die jno*, or
barking-bkd After two hours in these surroundings one codd be
confident of coming back to camp with one s arms foil of game. A kind
of gastronomic frenzy took hold of us, and for three days we did
nothing but cook and eat Thenceforward we should never go short;
our so carefully husbanded stocks of sugar and alcohol melted away as
we got our first taste of Amazonian dishes: above all the tocm or Brazil-
nuts, whose meat, when grated, enriched our sauces with a smooth
white cream. Here are some details of our culinary adventures that I
have retrieved from one of my notebooks:

Humming-bird (called in Portuguese beija-fior, or ffower-kisser)
roasted on a needle and jlambe in whisky.

The grilled tail of a caiman.

A parakeet roasted and jlambe in whisky.

A salmis ofjacu in a fruit-salad made from the fruitsof the ossoipalm-
tree.

A ragout of mutiim (a sort of wild turkey) and palm-buds, with
pepper and a tocari sauce.

Roast jaat with caramel.

After these debauches and certain no less necessary aHotioii&---for
we had spent many days without a chance of taking off the overalls
which, together with cap and boots, mack up our entire wardrobe I
began to draw up my plans for the rest of the journey. From that point
onwards we would do better to keep to the rivers, ratfaor than hazard
ourselves in the overgrown forest, I bad, in any case, only seventeen of
my original oxen still with me, and their state was such that they could
not have gone on, even on easy ground. We would split up into three
groups, My troop4eader and some of his men would go overland
towards the nearest of the rubber-seekers* posts, and there try to sell
our horses and some of our mules* Otto: men would stay with our
oxen at Barao de Melga^o, to allow them time to recover their strength
in pastures afcapim-gordtira, or fk grasses. Tiburcb, their old cook, was
the more ready tso take command of them in that they all loved him.
He had a good deal of African blood in him, and they said of him that

3*6 The Tupi-Kawahib

he was black in colour and white in quality 5 which shows, by the
way, that the Brazilian peasant is not exempt from racial prejudices.
In Amazonia a white girl who has a black suitor will often say: Have
I such a white carcass that an urulou conies and perches on my belly? In
this she harks back to the familiar spectacle of the dead crocodiles who
float downstream with a black-feathered vulture picking away at the
belly of each for days together.

Once the oxen were better, the troop would turn in its tracks and
go back to Utiarity. There we foresaw no trouble, since the oxen would
have nothing to carry and the now-imminent rains would have turned
the desert into a prairie. Finally, the scientific personnel and the
remainder of our men would take our baggage and convey it in canoes
to the inhabited areas in which we should go our separate ways. I myself
intended to cross into Bolivia by the Madeira, fly across the country,
go back to Brazil by way of Corumba, and thence to Cuiaba, and on
to Utiarity, in the month of December or thereabouts, to rejoin my
comitiva my men and animals and bring the expedition to a close.

The chief of the Melgafo station lent us two galiotes light coracles
made of planks and some men to paddle them. And so it was good
bye to our mules! For now we had only to ge down with the stream of
the Rio Machado. Month after month of dryness had made us careless,
and on our first evening we did not bother to hang our hammocks in a
sheltered place, but simply slung them between the trees on the bank.
Hie storm broke out in the middle of the night with a noise like a horse
at full gallop and, before we had even woken up, our hammocks were
awash with water. We unfolded an awning as best we could to shelter
us from the rain: actually to erect it was quite impossible in such a
deluge. Nor was there any question of going to sleep: squatting in the
water, with the sheet draped over our heads, we had to keep a constant
watch on the folds of the canvas which kept filling up with water and
had to be shaken out before the water had time to get through. To pass
the time, the men told one another stories : I remember one that Emy dio
told us.

A widower had an only son, who was already almost grown up.
One day he sent for him and told him that it was high time he got
married. "What must I do to get married?" the boy asked. "It s very
simple," his father said. "All you have to do is to go and see our
neighbours and try to get their daughter to like you." "But I don t
know how to make a girl like me!" "Well then play the guitar, and

By Canoe 317

laugh, and sing her a song or two!" Hie son did as he was told. But as
he arrived just as the girl s father was dying his behaviour was thought
to be most unsuitable and they drove him away and threw stones after
him. He went home and complained to his father, who told him how he
ought to behave in such cases. The boy went off to his neighbours again
and arrived just as they were killing a pig. Remembering the latest of
his lessons he burst into tears: "How sad! How good he was! How we
loved him! We shall never find a better!" Once again the neighbours
drove him away in exasperation. He described all this to his father,
and once again he was told exacdy how to behave in such circumstances.
When he paid his third visit, his neighbours were busy clearing the
caterpillars from their garden. Always one lesson behind, he burst out
with: "What an abundance of good things! May you have more and
more such animals on your property ! May they never be lacking ! n And
he was chased away again.

After this third rebuff the father told his son to build himself a but.
He went into the forest to cut down the necessary trees. A werewolf
passed by in the night, thought the site a good one for himself to settle
in, and went to work. Next morning the boy came back to the clearing
and found the work well advanced, "God is giving me a hand!" he
thought to himself delightedly. And so they worked in double shifts, the
boy by day and the werewolf bynight. Before longthehouse was ready.

By way of house-warming the boy decided to feast off a roebuck.
The werewolf preferred a human body. The one brought the bock by
day, the other a corpse during the night. And when the boy s fadber
came along to j oin in the feast he saw a dead man on the table as piece de
resistance and said to his son: "Ah, my boy, f m afraid you E never be
up to anything much.

The next day it was still raining and as we sailed down to tie
Pimenta Bueno station we had to bail the whole time. The station stood
at the point where the river from which it took its name joined the Rio
Machado. About twenty people lived in it: a few whites from the
interior, and some Indians of varied extraction who were working to
maintain the line Cabishianas from the Guapore valley, and Tupi-
Kawahibs from the Rio Machado. All were to provide me with impor
tant information. Some of it had to do with the Tupt-Kawahibs who
were still completely primitive: older reports had made out that these
had disappeared. Of this I shall say more later. Other stories related to
an unknown tribe which seemed to live some days distant, by canoe,

318 The Tupi-Kawahib

along the Rio Kmenta Bueno. Immediately I wondered how I could
get to meet them and, as luck would have it, a black man named Bahia
was passing through the station. He was a commercial traveller, and
something of an adventurer, who made, every year, a most remarkable
journey. Hrst he would go down as far as the Madeira and stock up with
the merchandise to be found in the riverside warehouses. Then he
would canoe upstream along the Machado and, for two days, up the
Hmenta Bueno. There he knew of a track which allowed him to drag
his canoes and their load through the forest for three solid days until he
came to a little tributary of the Guapore. At this point he could dispose
of his stock at prices all the more exorbitant for the fact that the region
served by this little river had no other source of supplies. Bahia said that
he was quite ready to go up the Kmenta Bueno beyond the normal
limit of his itinerary, on condition that I paid him not in money but in
merchandise. This was a sound speculation on his part, in that the
Amazonian wholesale prices were higher than those I had paid at Sao
Paulo. So I handed over to him some lengths of red flannel: these had
lost their charm for me ever since, at Vilhena, I had offered one to the
Nambikwara, only to see, on the following day, that not only they
themselves, but their dogs, monkeys, and tame boars were dressed from
head to toe in red flannel. (An hour later, the joke being exhausted, the
flannel was strewn about the bush in ribbons and no one paid any more
attention to it.)

Our team was soon made up: with two canoes borrowed from the
station, four paddlers, and two of my own men, we were ready to set
off on our improvised adventure.

Nothing is more exciting for an anthropologist than the prospect of
being the first white man to penetrate a native community. Already in
1938 this greatest of compensations could be procured only in a very
few parts of the world few enough, in feet, to be counted on the
fingers of one hand. Today the possibilities are still more restricted. In
my journey I was to re-live the experience of the travellers of old; and
at the same time I should be faced with that moment, so crucial to
modern thought, at which a community which had thought itself
complete, perfected, and sel&sufficient, is made to realize that it is
nothing of the kind. The counter-revelation, in short: the feet that it is
not alone in the world, that it is but part of a vast human ensemble,
and that to know itself it must first look at the unrecognizable image of
itself in tibat mirror of which one long-forgotten splinter was about to
give out, for myself alone, its first and last reflection.

By Canoe 319

Perhaps my enthusiasm was out of place in the twentieth century?
The Indians of the Pimenta Bueno were unknown , cortainly: but I
could hardly expect to get from them a shock of the kind felt, four
hundred years earlier, by the great pioneers, Lery, Staden, and Thevet,
who were the first to set foot on Brazilian territory. What tfaey then
saw, our eyes could not hope to see again. The civilizations which they
were the first to consider had developed on lines different from oi3t own,
but they had none the less reached the maximum point of plenitude and
perfection which was compatible with their nature. The societies which
we could study today, in conditions which it would be a great illusion
to compare to those of four centuries ago, were enfeebled in body and
mutilated in form. Distant as they were from the western world, and
weird as had been the intermediaries between themselves and it (just
how weird these had been was a source of amazement to me, when I
managed to reconstruct the chain of events involved), they had been
pulverized by the development of western civilization. For them, as
for so large and so innocent a faction of the human race, this
development had come as a monstrous and unintelligible cataclysm*
We in the West should remember that that development has pet
upon the matter a second face, as truthful and as indelible as its
predecessor.

The men might have changed, but the conditions of the journey
remained the same. After the back-breaking ride across the plateau I
gave myself up to the delights of navigation. Our maps did not indicate
die course of that delectable river, but its every detail pot me in mind
of narratives long cherished.

I had to relearn the habits of river life that I had picked up, three
years before, on the Sao Louren^o: to recognize, for instance, the
different types and respective merits of the canoes, some cot out of a
tree-trunk, others assembled from planks, which are called, according
to shape and size, montana r amoe&> uba, or igarite. Ihad to get used, once
again, to squatting for hours together in the water that seeped in
through cracks in the wood and had to be bailed out continually with a
little calabash. Stiff as I was, I had to stretch myself slowly and with the
utmost care if I were not to capsize my boat. (As die Indians said, *agua
nao tern cabellos 9 : Water has no hair/ If ever I fell otit, there would be
nothing to hold on to.) And I needed great patience: for, whenever an
obstacle presented itself we had to unload the provisions and the
equipment that I had stowed away with such an extremity of care, and
carry both diem and the canoes along the rocky bank to a point,

32O The Tupi-Kawahib

several hundred yards distant, at which the whole operation could be
begun all over again.

These obstacles were of several kinds: seccos, where the river-bed was
dry; caehoeiras, rapids; $altos> fells. Each type was soon given a vivid
nickname bv our oarsmen: a detail of the landscape, such as castanhal,
palmos, an incident of the chase, veado, queixada, araras; or a name
suggestive of some more directly personal relationship with the
traveller: aiminosa, the criminal; encrenca, an untranslatable noun which
<lescribes the feeling of being caught in a trap; apertada hora, the
confined hour*, or the hour of anguish; vamos ver, we shall see *

And so I got away to an experience which, in its beginnings, was
familiar enough. We let the rowers space out the rhythms in traditional
style: first a series of short strokes, plou plouf, plouf . . . after which the
boat really gets under way, with two sharp taps on the gunwale between
each stroke, tra-plou tra~plou tra . . . and finally the long-distance
rhythm. In this last, the oar only goes into the water on every other
stroke, alternating with a mere caress of the surface which is preceded
and followed by a tap on the gunwale. The rhythm is, therefore, trar-
plouf, tra, sh, tra ... and so on. In this we saw first the blue and then
the orange side of each oar, hardly more heavy, as it skimmed above
the water, than the reflection (and at times the oars themselves seemed
no more than their own reflection) of the large groups of araras which
flew across the river with either their golden-yellow bellies or their
sky-blue backs sparkling all together in the sunlight. The air no longer
had the transparency that it had had in the dry season. At dawn every
thing was wrapped in a kind of thick rosy-pink froth as the mists of
morning rose slowly from the river. It was already very warm, but
little by little this indirect warmth declared itself more exactly. What
tad been merely a diffused heat became the strong downbeat of the
sun upon one part or another of one s face and hands. One began to
know just why one was sweating. The pink of the mist grew lighter hare,
darker there. Islets of blue made their appearance. The mist seemed, in
feet, to be getting richer in colour, whereas it was really only dissolving.

Going upstream was hard work, and our rowers needed an occa
sional rest. The morning was then spent in catching, with the help of a
coarse line baited with wild berries, enough fish for the peixada or
Amazonian bouillabaisse: pacus yellow with fat and eaten in slices held
by the backbone as one holds a cutlet by its handle*; silvery, red-
fleshed piracanjubas; the vermilion chrysophrys; casatdos, with black
armour-plate as heavy as a lobster s; speckled piaparas; tnandi; piavai

By Canoe

curimbata; jatuarama; matrinchao. . . . But we had to look out for the
poisonous rays and the purake, or electric fish; this latter can be caught
without bait, but its electric charge is strong enough to kill a mule. To
pass water in the river was still more dangerous for, according to our
men, there were tiny fish that could climb up the jet of urine and get
into one s bladder. . . *

Alternatively we would watch the vast thickets of green mould that
formed in the forest at the water s edge for the sudden irruption of a
band of many-named monkeys: the shrieking guariha> the co&ta with its
spidery limbs, the capuchin or nail-monkey , and the zog-zog, which
wakes the whole forest with its cries in the hour before dawn. With his
big almond-eyes, his lofty carriage, and his silken billowy coat, the
zog~zog could pass for a Mongol prince. With these came the whole
tribe of smaller monkeys: the saguin, which we call the ouistiti; the
macaco da noite, or night-monkey, with its dark gelatinous eyes; the
macaco de cheiro, or scent-monkey; the gogo de sol, or sunny-throat, and
so on. ... A shot fired at random into their troop would almost
certainly bring one down. Roasted, it would look like a mummified
child with clenched hands; in a ragout, it would taste like duck.

Towards three in the afternoon there came a dap of thunder, the
sky darkened, and rain masked one half of the sky with a great vertical
bar. Would it reach us? The black bar became streaky, tore itself open,
and revealed on the far side of it a glimmer of light which, at first
golden in colour, turned later to a faded blue. Only the centre of the
horizon was now dark with rain. But the clouds melted away, and tie
rain-patch thinned down to left and to right and finally disappeared. All
that remained was a composite sky, with blue-black masses super
imposed upon a background of blue and white. This was the moment,
before the next storm, to tie up at a point where the forest seemed not
quite so thick. We would quickly cut away a litde clearing with our
sabres, and look closely at the trees thus brought into the open. One of
them might boast the pan de novato, or novke^tree, so called because
the greenhorn who dings his hammock to it will be invaded by an
army of red ants; or the garlic-scented pau falho; or the catmela merda,
whose name speaks for itself. Perhaps too, if we were lucky, there
would be the soveira, whose trunk, when cut into in a circle, will in the
space of a few minutes pour out more milk than any cow. Its milk is
creamy and foaming but, if drunk neat, will cover the inside of one s
mouth with an insidious thm rubbery skin. Or the arafa, whose purplish
fruit, about as big as a cherry, has the smell of turpentine and, with it

3*2 The Tupi-Kffivahib

an acidity so light that the water in which one squeezes it will seem to
fizz; the poi-bearing inga, whose pods are full of sweet-tasting down;
the kzom, a pear such as one might steal from the orchards of Paradise;
and finally the assai, greatest of forest delicacies, whose liquid, when
drawn off, is like a thick raspherry syrup. Leave it overnight, and it will
tarn into a fruity and slightly sour cheese.

Some of our men would look to the food, while others slung the
hammocks beneath shelters of branches covered with a light roof of
palms, This was the moment for stories round the camp-fire stories
full of ghosts and apparitions: the lobis-homem, or werewolf, or the
headless horse, or the old woman with a skeleton s head. Always in
any troop there is an old garimpeiro who looks back with nostalgia to
that wretched way of life and its daily increment of hope. I was
writing one day * writing 1 means sifting the gravel when I saw a tiny
grain of rice glittering in the wash-trough. Shining out like a lighthouse
it was! Que coma baunita! I doubt if there is anywhere in the world

amsa mats bomita, a more beautiful sight When you looked at it,

it almost gave you an electric shock! And a discussion began:
Between Rosario and Laranjal there is a stone on a hill that sparkles.
You can see it from miles away, especially at night/ Perhaps it s
crystal?* *No, crystal doesn t light up at night. But diamonds do. And
no (me goes to get it? With diamonds like that, it s been settled oh,
ages and ages ago who s going to find them, and when!

Those who are not sleepy go and stand, sometimes till dawn, at
the water s edge, where they have seen the tracks of a boar, a capivara,
or a tapir; they try, in vain, the batuque hunt beating the ground at

regular intervals with a thick stick: poum . . . poum . . . poum Hie

animals mistake this for the noise of fruit felling from the bough, and
it seems that they always come up in the same order the boar first,
and then the jaguar.

Some there are, too, who simply keep the fire going. And so, after
the incidents of the day have been talked over and the mate has
been passed round, nothing remains but for each of us to slip into his
hammock. Around him is his mosquito-net, half cocoon in construction
and half kite, kept together and in place by an elaborate apparatus of
string and thin sticks. Once inside, he takes care to raise its skirts so
that none of them is trailing on die ground: and he bunches them
together, forming a kind of pocket which he wedges shut with the
heavy revolver that he keeps always within reach. Before long the rain
begins to fall.

28 Crusoe Country

JL OR four days we had been working our way
upstream. So numerous were die rapids that we had to unload our
boats, hump the cargo overland, and reload as many as five times a day.
The water ran down between rock formations that divided the river
into several arms; in the middle, trees that had floated downstream,
complete with branches, roots, earth, and attendant vegetation, were
lying, caught on the reefs. On these improvised islands vegetable life
had been quick to reassert itself indifferent even to the chaotic state in
which the last flood-waters had left it Trees grew in every direction,
with flowers in full bloom across waterfalls. It was difficult to tell
whether the river s main purpose was to irrigate this astonishing garden,
or whether it would be quite simply overwhelmed by the multiplicity
of plants and liana which had arrogated to themselves not merely the
vertical dimension, but all space s dimensions, now that the ordinary
distinctions between earth and water had been abolished. One could
no longer say Here is the river* or Here is the bank"; rather was there
a labyrinth of bouquets kept ever fresh by running water, with earth
burgeoning on the crest of the waves. This friendship between the
elements extended to living creatures also: the native tribes needed an
immense amount of ground to keep themselves alive, but in these
reaches the superabundance of animal life made it dear that for many
years past Man had been powerless to disturb the natural order of
things. The trees seemed to bear almost as many monkeys as leaves: it
was as if living fruits were dancing on their branches. Near the rocks
which stood just at water-level you had only to stretch out your hand
to stroke the jet-black plumage of the big coral- or amber-beaked
mutwn, or thejacamin, with its watered silky-blue, like that of labra-
dorite. These birds did not fly off at our approach, and when, like so
many precious stones in motion, they picked their way between the

323

324 The Tupi-Kawahib

water-rounded liana and the many-leaved torrents, they put me in
mind of those paintings from the studio of Breughel in which Paradise
is portrayed as a place in which plants, animals, and human beings live
together in tender intimacy: a place in which there has, as yet, been no
cleavage in the animal universe.

On the afternoon of the fifth day a slender canoe, tied up to the
bank, told us that we had reached our destination. A thinly spread
dump of trees would serve as our camping-ground. The Indian village
was just over half a mile inland: its garden, about a hundred yards wide
at its broadest point, stood in an egg-shaped clearing in which were
three collective huts, hemispherical in shape, with their central pole
sticking out of the top like a mast The two main huts faced one
another in the broader section of the egg, on the edge of a dance-floor of
beaten earth. The third stood at the pointed end of the clearing and was
linked to the *main square by a footpath that led through the garden.

There were twenty-five people in the village, in all, plus a small boy
of about ten who was, so far as I could make out, a prisoner of war. He
was treated, in any case, just like the other children. Clothes, for men
and women alike, were as scanty as with the Nambikwara, except that
all the men wore a conical penis-cover like that used by the Bororo and
almost everyone wore dbte straw pom-pom, above their private parts,
which was known, though less common, among the Nambikwara.
Men and women alike wore lip-pieces of hardened resin that looked
almost like amber, and necklaces of either discs or plaques of shining
mother-of-pearl or, on occasion, shells, polished and entire. Wrists,
biceps, calves, and ankles were adorned with tight-drawn strips of
cotton. And the women had pierced their nasal septum to make way
for an ornament made up of black and white discs, in alternation, strung
together and drawn tight along a length of stiff fibre.

The physical appearance of the Tupi-Kawahib was very different
from that of the Nambikwara. They had very light skins, squat sturdy
bodies, and short legs. Their pale skin combined with a faintly Mongo
lian cast of feature to give some of the natives a Caucasian look. The
Indians pluck out all their facial hair with the most minute care: the
lashes by hand, and the eyebrows with wax which they allow to harden
in situ for a number of days before getting down to work. In front, the
hair of the head was cut or, more exactly, burnt off in a rounded
fringe which left the forehead bare. The temples were bared by a
procedure which I have never encountered elsewhere, the hair being
pulled back in the knot of a thick rope twisted back upon itself. The

Crusoe Country 325

operator takes one end between his teeth: with one hand he keeps the
loop of the rope open, while with the other he pulls so hard on the free
end of the rope that it draws itself tighter and tighter, pulling out the
hair by the roots as it does so.

These Indians referred to themselves by the name of Munde, and
there had been no previous mention of them in anthropological
literature. They spoke a high-spirited language, in which the words
ended with a sharply accented syllable, zip, zep 9 pep, zet, tap, kat: these
underlined what they had to say with a noise like the clashing of
cymbals. Their language had affinities with the now-vanished dialects
of the Bas-Xingu, and with others recently recorded on die tributaries
of the right bank of the Guapore: and the Munde live very near, be it
remembered, to those sources. No one, to my knowledge, has visited
the Munde since I was there, save for a woman missionary who met
some of them, a litde before 1950, on the Haut Guapore, where three
families had taken refuge. I spent a very agreeable week with them: rarely
can hosts have been more unaffected, more patient, or more cordial.
They invited me to admire the gardens in which they were growing
maize, manioc, sweet potatoes, ground-nuts, tobacco, gourds, and
several sorts of broad and haricot beans. When they dear a patch of
ground they take care not to damage the palm-stumps, so rich in the
fat white larvae which they eat with immense relish: there results from
all this a curious farmyard, in which agriculture and stock-breeding are
carried on side by side.

The round huts allowed a diffused light, flecked with sunshine, to
filter through from outside. They were very carefully built, with a
dome-like interior made of long poles, planted in a cirde, and curved
towards the top to fit into a number of forks, which stood at an oblique
angle to them and acted as buttresses. Between these ten or a dozen
hammocks of stitched cotton were slung. At a point twdve or thirteen
feet from the ground all the poles met and were tied to the central pole,
or mast, that pushed on up through the roof. Horizontal drdes of
branches completed the main structure, and on top of that was a cupola
of palm-leaves which had been folded in the same direction, one on top
of another, to form a tile-like roof. The biggest hut was nearly forty
feet in diameter. Four families lived in it, and each had to itself die area
between two buttresses There were in all six such areas, but die two
immediatdy facing the front and back doors were left empty, to allow
people to come and go. I spent my days sitting on one of the litde
wooden benches which the natives used. These were made up of the

The Tupi-Kawahib

scoopedr-out half of a palm-log, laid with the flat part downwards.
We ate maize-seed grilled on a flat pottery plate and drank chicha of
maize a drink half-way between beer and soup out of calabashes
blackened on the inside with some sort of carbonaceous glazing. On
the outside these were decorated with lines, zigzags, circles, and
polygons, incised or poker-worked.

Even without knowing the language, and although I had no
interpreter, I could try to penetrate certain aspects of the natives
thought, and of their society: the composition of the group, relation
ships and the names given to them, the names of the parts of the body,
and the vocabulary of colour, according to a scale which I kept always
with me. The words for relationships, for the parts of the body, colours,
and forms (those drawn on the calabashes, for instance) have often
common properties which put them half-way between vocabulary
and grammar: each group forms a system, and the manner in which
different languages choose to separate or commingle the relationships
therein expressed gives rise to a certain number of viable hypotheses,
even where it does not define the distinctive characteristics, where these
things are concerned, of this or that society

And yet, although this adventure was begun with such high
enthusiasm, it left me with a feeling of emptiness.

I had wanted to pursue *the primitive* to its furthest point. Surely
my wish had been gratified by these delightful people whom no white
man had seen before me, and none would ever see again? My journey
had been enthralling and, at the end of it, I had come upon my savages.
But alas they were all too savage. Having encountered them only at
the last moment, I could not put aside the time that was indispensable
if I were to hope to know them properly. My resources needed careful
husbanding, my companions and I myself were physically near to
exhaustion a state shortly to be aggravated by the fevers which would
follow the rains. Consequently, where I should have spent a month in
serious consecutive study, I could match at most a few days for the
purpose. There they were, all ready to teach me their customs and
beliefs, and I knew nothing of their language. They were as close to
me as an image seen in a looking-glass: I could touch, but not under
stand them. I had at one and the same time my reward and my punish
ment, for did not my mistake, and that of my profession, lie in the
belief that men are not always men? That some are more deserving of
our interest and our attention because there is something astonishing to
us in their manners, or in the colour of their skins? No sooner are such

Crusoe Country 327

people known, or guessed at, than their strangeness drops away, and
one might as well have stayed in one s own village. Or i as in the
present case, their strangeness remained intact, then it was no good to
me, for I could not even begin to analyse it. Between these two
extremes, what are the equivocal cases which afford us the excuses by
which we live? Who is, in the end, the one most defrauded by the
disquiet which we arouse in the reader? Our remarks must be pushed a
certain distance, if we are to make them intelligible, and yet they must
be cut off half-way, since the people whom they astonish are very like
those for whom the customs in question are a matter of course. Is it
the reader who is deceived by his belief in us? Or ourselves, who have
not the right to be satisfied before we have completely dissolved that
residuum which gave our vanity its pretext?

Let the earth speak, therefore, since the men are beyond our grasp.
Over and above the delights which it had given me by the river s edge,
let it at last answer up and yield the secret of its unspoiledness. What lay
behind those confused appearances which are everything and nothing
at one and the same time? If I take any particular scene and try to
isolate it, that tree, that flower could be any other tree, any other
flower. Could that also be a lie, that whole which gave me such delight,
that whole whose parts vanished as soon as I tried to examine them
individually? If I had to admit that it was real, I wanted at last to master
it, all of it, down to its smallest detail. I turned a prosecutor s eye upon
the enormous landscape, narrowing it down to a strip of clayey river-
marge and a handful of grasses: nothing, there, to prove that when I
next raised my eyes to the world about me I should not find the Bois
de Boulogne stretched out all round that insignificant patch of ground.
Yet that same ground was trodden daily by the most authentic of
savages, though Man Friday s print had yet to be found there.

The journey downstream went remarkably quickly. Our oarsmen,
still carried away by the charm of the Munde, disdained to get out and
carry our baggage. When faced with a stretch of rapids they pointed
the prow of their canoe towards the foaming waters and, for a second
or two, the landscape whizzed by at a tremendous pace and we our
selves had the sensation of being brought to a halt and violently shaken.
Then suddenly all was calm again and we were safely through the
rapids and into dead water: only then did we feel dizzy.

In two days we got to Pimenta Bueno, where I made a new plan
one not to be understood without one or two moments of explan
ation. Towards the end of his explorations, in i9i5,Rondon came upon

328 The Tupi-Kawahib

several Tupi-speaking native groups and managed to get into contact
with three of them: the remainder proved irreducibly hostile. The
largest of the groups was installed on the upper reaches of the Rio
Machado, two days* march from the left bank and on a secondary
tributary, the Igarape do Leitao (or sucking-pig stream ). This was the
band, or dan, or of the Takwatip or bamboo . The term dan may
not be quite apt, for the Tupi-Kawahib bands usually formed a single
village, owned hunting-grounds whose frontiers were jealously guar
ded, and practised exogamy rather from a wish to form alliances
with neighbouring bands than from the application of any strict rule.
The Takwatip were led by the chief Abaitara. On the same side of the
river there were, to the north, a band known only by the name of its
chief) Pitsara. To the south, on the Rio Tamuripa, the Ipotiwat (the
name of a liana), whose chief was called Kamandjara: and then,
between Rio Tamuripa and the Igarape du Cacoal, die Jabotifet, or
tortoise-people , whose chief was called Maira. On the left bank of
the Machado, in the valley of die Rio Muqui, lived the Paranawat,
river-people , who are indeed still there, but respond to any attempt
to malce contact widi them with a shower of arrows; and, a litde farther
to the south, on the Igarape de Itapici, another unknown band. Such, at
any rate, was the information which I was able to secure in 1938 from
the rubber-collectors who had been in the area since the time of
Rondoo s expedition. Rondon himself had given only fragmentary
information about the Tupi-Kawahib.

Talking to the civilized Tupi-Kawahib at the station of Pimenta
Bueno, I managed to get together some twenty names of dans. The
researches of Curt Nimuendaju, who was a man of learning as much as
a field-anthropologist, have likewise thrown some light on the past
history of the tribe. The term Kawahib* harks back to the name of an
ancient Tupi tribe, the Cabahiba, which is often quoted in documents
of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and was then located on the
upper and middle reaches of the Rio Tapajoz, It would seem to have
been progressivdy driven out of diat area by another Tupi tribe, the
Mtmduracu: and, on its way towards the west, to have broken up into
several groups, of which the only ones now known are the Parintintin
of the lower reaches of the Machado and the Tupi-Kawahib, farther to
the south. There is therefore every possibility that these Indians may
be the last descendants of the great Tupi populations of the middle and
lower reaches of the Amazon. These were rdated to the populations
along the coa$t who were known, at the time of their apogee, to the

Crusoe Country 329

European travellers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries whose
narratives laid the fuse for the anthropological studies of our own time;
for it was under their unknowing influence that the political and moral
philosophy of the Renaissance set out on the road which was to lead it
to the French Revolution. To be, as seemed very possible, the first man
to penetrate a still-intact Tupi-Kawahib village was to go back more
than four hundred years and join hands with Lery, with Staden, with
Soares de Souza, with Thevet, and even with Montaigne, who rumi
nates in one of his essays (the one on cannibals) on a conversation with
Tupi Indians whom he had met in Rouen. What a temptation!

At the moment when Rondon made contact with the Tupi-
Kawahib, the Takwatip, under the leadership of an ambitious and
energetic chief, were in the process of extending their hegemony over
a number of other bands. After spending months in die more or less
desert-like solitudes of the plateau, Rondon s companions were dazzled
by the mile upon mile (the language of the sertao lends itself readily
to exaggeration) of plantations which the people of Abaitara had
opened up in the humid forest or on the igapos> banks safe from
inundation. Thanks to these plantations the Abaitara were able to
revictual without any difficulty the explorers who had been until then
directly under the shadow of famine.

Two years after their first meeting, Rondon persuaded the Tupi-
Kawahib to transfer their village to the right bank of the Machado, at
the point still marked as aldeia dos indios, opposite the mouth of the
Rio Sao Pedro (n.5S. and 62.3W.) on the International Map of the
World on a scale of 1/1,000,000. This facilitated the work of victualling
and surveillance, and it also made it easier to get Indian canoeists: on
waters studded with rapids, fills, and narrow straits, the natives knew
just how to manoeuvre their light bark shells.

That new village had disappeared, but I could still get a description
of it. As Rondon had noted at the time of his visit to the forest village,
the huts were rectangular, had no walk, and consisted of a two-piece
palm-roof supported by minks planted firmly in the earth. About
twenty huts, measuring about four yards by six, were set out in a circle
some twenty yards in diameter, in the middle of which were two more
spacious habitations (eighteen yards by, fourteen). One of these latter
was occupied by Abaitara himself with his wives and young children,
and the other by his youngest married son. The two elder unmarried
sons lived like die rest of the population in the peripheral huts. Like
the other bachelors, they were fed in the chief s hut. Many chicken-runs

33Q The Tupi-Kawahib

were laid out in the area between the central huts and those of the
outer circle.

AH that was far removed from the vast Tupi dwellings described by
the travellers of the sixteenth century, but from the five to six hundred
inhabitants of Abaitara s time to the villages of today the distance is
greater still. In 1925 Abaitara was murdered. The death of this emperor
of die upper Machado initiated a period of violent happenings in a
village already reduced by the influenza epidemic of 1918-20 to twenty-
five men, twenty-two women, and twelve children. In that same year,
1925, four people, among them the murderer of Abaitara, were killed
in acts of vengeance, most of them sexual in origin. Shortly after this
the survivors decided to abandon the village and go back to the station
of Pimenta Bueno, two days journey upstream by canoe. In 1938 their
strength was down to five men, one woman, and one little girl. They
spoke a kind of rusticated Portuguese and appeared to have thrown in
their lot with the neo-Brazilian population of the post. It might have
seemed as if the history of die Tupt-Kawahib had come to an end at
any rate as regards the right bank of the Machado, and with the
exception of an irreducible group of Paranawat on the left bank, in the
village of die Rio Muqui.

And yet when I arrived at Pimenta Bueno in October 193 8 1 learned
that in 1935 an unknown group of Tupi-Kawahib had appeared on the
river; they had been seen again two years later and the last surviving
son of Abaitara (who bore his father s name and will be so designated
in this story) had gone to see them in their village, which was an
isolated point in the forest, two days* march from the Rio Machado
and with no path to point the way. He had persuaded the chief of the
little group to promise that he would come, with his people, and pay
him, Abaia Abaitara, a visit during the following year at about the
time, that is to say, at which we ourselves arrived at Pimenta Bueno.
This promise had a great importance for the native inhabitants of the
post. Themselves suffering from a shortage of womenfolk (one grown
woman to five men), they had been particularly attentive to young
Abaitara s description of how, in the unknown village, there were a
number of superfluous women. Himself a widower for some years
past, he expected that the establishment of friendly relations with his
savage kindred would allow him to procure himself a wife. These were
the circumstances in which, not without difficulty (for he feared that
the adventure might have bad consequences), I persuaded him to bring
about a meeting before the appointed time, and to act as my guide.

Crusoe Country 331

The point at which we had to plunge into the forest to get to the
Tupi-Kawahib was at the mouth of the Igarape do Porquinho, three
days downstream by canoe from the post of Kmenta Bueno. The
Igarape was a slender Htde stream that debouched into the Madhado.
Not far from there, we happened on a little natural clearing, which was
safe from floods since the banks at that point were several yards high.
There we disembarked our equipment: a few boxes of presents for the
natives and provisions of dried meat, beans, and rice. We set up a camp
rather more solid than usual, since it had to last until we got back to it.
A whole day was spent in this, and in the organization of our journey
a rather complex matter, this last. I had separated from part of my
troop, as I have already explained, and as bad luck would have it Jehan
Vellard, the expedition s doctor, had an attack of malaria and had had
to go on ahead to rest in a little rubber-collectors post, three days
upstream by boat and these distances have to be doubled or tripled
when it is a question of going upstream in such difficult waters. We
were thus reduced to Luis de Castro Faria, my Brazilian companion,
Abaitara, myself, and five men, two of whom would guard the camp
while the other three followed us into the forest. With such restricted
numbers, and as each of us was already loaded up with hammock,
blanket, mosquito-net, gun, and ammunition, it was out of the question
to take with us food other than a litde coffee, some dried meat, and some
farinha d agua. This form offarinha is made from manioc soaked in
the river (whence its name) and then fermented. It comes in the form
of small lumps, hard as stone, which, when suitably moistened, taste
deliriously of butter. For the rest we counted on the tocm Brazii-ntifcs
which abound in the area. One single ourifo, or hedgehog , of these
(a hard round dump of nuts which can kill a man if it fells on him from
a height of seventy or a hundred feet) can provide several people with a
meal of thirty to forty big triangular nuts apiece, each with a milky
and bluish meat to it, if the hedgehog* is held firm between one s feet
and suitably attacked with a terfado.

We left before dawn, traversing to begin with the lagtiros, areas
almost bare of vegetation, in which the rock of the plateau, shortly to
disappear beneath the alluvial soil, can still be seen in large disgarnished
patches. Next came fields ofsapezals, tall spear-shaped grasses: and, two
hours later, we were in the forest.

29 In the Forest

JCvER since my childhood, the sea has aroused
mixed feelings in me. The shore itself, and that marginal area ceded
from time to time by the reflux which prolongs it these I find
attractive by reason of the challenge which they offer to our under
takings, the unexpected universe which lies hidden within them, and
dbe possibilities which they offer of observations and discoveries most
flattering to the imagination. Like Benvenuto Cellini, whom I find
more sympathetic than the masters of the Quattrocento, I enjoy
walking on shores left bare by the receding tide, following, round some
steep slope, the itinerary which that tide has imposed upon me; picking
op stones with holes through the middle of them, shells whose
geometry has been reshaped by the motion of the waves, or spectral
fragments of sea-wrack, and making a private museum of these things:
a museum which, for a moment, seems quite the equal of those other
museums to which only masterpieces are admitted. Perhaps, after all,
those masterpieces derive from methods of work which, though rooted
in the mind rather than in die palpable world, may not be fundamen
tally different from those with which Nature amuses herself.

But as I am neither sailor nor fisherman, I fed myself diminished by
this mass of water which robs me of half my universe more than half,
indeed, since it makes its presence known some way inland, giving
the landscape, as often as not, a touch of austerity. It seems to me that
the sea destroys the normal variety of the earth. Enormous spaces and
supplementary colours it may offer to the eye but at the price of a
deadening monotony, a flat sameness, where never a hidden valley
keeps in reserve the surprises on which my imagination feeds.

And, what is more, the pleasures which the sea has to offer are now
no longer available to us. Like an animal whose carapace thickens with
age, forming an impenetrable crust through which the epidermis can

332

In the Forest 333

no longer breathe, thus hastening the onset of old age, most European
countries have allowed their coasts to become cluttered with villas,
hotels, and casinos. Whereas the littoral once gave a foretaste of the
ocean s great solitudes, it has become a kind of front line, where
mankind from time to time mobilizes all its forces for a fbllr-scale
attack on liberty: but the value of that liberty is marked down by the
very conditions in which we allow ourselves to grasp hold of it, A beach
was once a place where the sea yielded up the results of commotions
many thousands of years in the making, admitting us, in this way, to
an astonishing museum in which Nature always ranked herself with
the avant-garde; today that same beach is trodden by great crowds and
serves merely as a depository for their rubbish.

So I prefer the mountains to the sea; and for some years past this
preference has taken the form of a jealous passion. I hated all those who
shared my predilection, for they were a menace to the solitude I value
so highly; and I despised those others for whom mountains meant
merely physical exhaustion and a constricted horizon and who were,
for that reason, unable to share in my emotions. The only thing that
would have satisfied me would have been for the entire world to admit
to the superiority of mountains and grant me the monopoly of their
enjoyment. I must add that my feelings did not extend to high moun
tains: these had already disappointed me, because of the ambiguous
character of the delights and I do not deny them that they have to
offer; these delights are physical in the extreme organic, one might
say, in view of die efforts involved. But they have a formal, almost an
abstract quality in so much as one s attention, absorbed by problems of
a technical character, is often drawn away from the splendours of
Nature and entirely engrossed by preoccupations relating rather to
mechanics or geometry. What I liked best were pasture-mountains
and, above all, the zone between four thousand five hundred and six
thousand seven hundred and fifty feet: the heights are not great enough,
as yet, to impoverish the landscape, as is the case higher up, and while
they make it difficult to cultivate the land they seem, in other respects,
to urge Nature on to an activity more vivid, more sharply contrasted
than that found in the valley below. On these lofty balconies, and with
that undomesticated landscape before one, it is easy, though doubtless
erroneous, to imagine that Man in his beginnings was confronted with
just such a sight as meets one s eyes.

If the sea presents, in my opinion, a landscape many degrees below
proof, mountains offer, by contrast, a world in a state of intense

334 The Tupi-Kawakib

concentration. Concentrated it is, in fact, in the strict sense of the word,
in that the earth is pleated and folded in such a way as to offer the
amount of surface for a given area. A denser universe, it

keeps its promises longer: the instability of the climate and the differ
ences due to the height, the nature of the soil, and the fact of its exposure
to the air all favour a sharp and direct contrast between one season
and another, 2nd likewise between level ground and steep slopes.
Unlike so many people, I was not at all depressed by a sojourn in a
narrow valley where the slopes, so close to one another as to take on
the look of high walls, allowed one to glimpse only a small section of
the sky and to enjoy at most a few hours of sunlight. On the contrary,
I found an immense vitality in the upended landscape. Instead of
submitting passively to my gaze, like a picture that can be studied
without one s giving anything of oneself the mountain scene invited
me to a conversation, as it were, in which we both had to give of our
best. I made over to the mountains the physical effort that it cost me to
explore them, and in return their true nature was revealed to me. At
once rebellious and provocative, never revealing more than half of
itself at any one time, keeping the other half fresh and intact for those
complementary perspectives which would open up as I clambered up
or down its dopes, the mountain scene joined with me in a kind of
dance and a dance in which, I felt, I could move the more freely for
having so firm a grasp of the great truths which had inspired it.

And yet I have to admit that, although I do not feel that I myself
have changed, my love for the mountains is draining away from
me like a wave running backwards down the sand. My thoughts are
unchanged, but the mountains have taken leave of me. Their unchang
ing joys mean less and less to me, so long and so intently have I sought
them out. Surprise itself has become familiar to me as I follow my oft-
trodden routes. When I climb, it is not among bracken and rock-face,
but among the phantoms of my memories. Those memories have lost
their charm for me, on two separate counts: first, because long usage
has robbed them of all novelty; and second, because a pleasure which
grows a little less vivid with each repetition can only be had at the price
of an effort which grows greater and greater with the years. I am getting
older, but the only evidence of it is that the cutting edge of my
projects is growing steadily blunter. I can still carry them through, but
their fulfilment no longer brings me the satisfaction on which I could
so often and so undisappointedly count.

What attracts me now is the forest. It has the same magic as the

In the Forest 335

mountains, but in a more peaceable, more welcoming form. Having
to cross and. recross the desert-like savannahs of central Brazil has
taught me to appreciate anew the luxuriant Nature beloved of the
ancients: young grass, flowers, and the dewy freshness of brakes. No
longer could I look to the stony Cevennes with the intransigent
passion of old; and I realized that my generation s enthusiasm for
Provence was a ruse of which we were first the authors and later the
victims. In the interests of discovery that greatest of joys, and one of
which civilization was soon to deprive us we sacrificed to novelty
the objective which should justify it. We had neglected that depart
ment of Nature, while there were others for us to batten on. Now
that the finest was no longer available to us, we had to scale down
our ambitions to those which were still within our reach, and set our
selves to glorify what was dry and hard, since nothing else remained
to us.

But in that forced march we had forgotten die forest. As dense as
our cities, it was inhabited by other beings beings organized in a
society which, better than either the high peaks or the sun-baked
fladands, had known how to keep us at a distance: a collectivity of trees
and plants that covered our tracks as soon as we had passed. Often
difficult to penetrate, the forest demands of those who enter it con^
cessions every bit as weighty, if less spectacular, than those exac^d by
the mountains from the walker. Its horizon, less extensive than that of
the great mountain ranges, closes in on the traveller, isolating him
as completely, as any of the desert s empty perspectives. A world of
grasses, flowers, mushrooms, and insects leads there an independent
life of its own, to which patience and humility are our only passports.
A hundred yards from the edge of the forest, and the world outside is
abolished. One universe gives place to another less agreeable to look
at, but rich in rewards for senses nearer to the spirit: hearing, I mean,
and smell. Good things one had thought never to experience agpm are
restored to one: silence, coolness, peace. In our intimassf TO&.tbe
vegetable world, we enjoy those things which the sea fip&ao longer
give us and for which the mountains exact too high a plk&u*

For me to have been convinced of this, it may wdi lave been
indispensable that the forest should first appear to me in its most
virulent form, so that its universal traits were immediately evident. For
between the forest as we know it in Europe, and the forest into which I
plunged en route to the Tupi-Kawahibs, the distance is so great that I
do not know how best to express it.

336 The Tupi-Kawahib

Seen from outside, the Amazonian forest looks like a great heap of
stationary bubbles, a vertical accumulation of green blisters. It is as if
die river-marge had been visited, everywhere and at the same time,
by some pathological affliction. But once the film is broken, and the
traveler penetrates into the interior, all is changed: seen from within,
the confused mass becomes a monumental universe The forest is no
kmger a scene of terrestrial disorder and could rather be taken for a
new planetary world, which is as rich as our own and has taken its
place.

Once the eye has adjusted itself to the nearness of one plane to
another, and the mind has overcome its first sensation of being over
whelmed, a complicated system presents itself. Storeys superimposed
one on the other may be discerned, and for all the abrupt changes of
level and intermittent mulching which interfere with, their alignment,
these are all constructed in the same way. First comes the head-high
crest of plants and grasses. Next, the pale trunks of trees and liana, free
for a brief space to grow untrammelled by vegetation. Shortly, how
ever, these trunks vanish, masked by the foliage of bushes or the scarlet
flowers of the wild banana or pacova. The trunks re-emerge fleetingly,
only to disappear again among the palm-leaves, and make a third
appearance at the point where their first branches stand out hori
zontally. They are leafless; but, just as a ship has its rigging, so have
these branches an outcrop of epiphytal plants orchids or bromeliaceae.
And finally, almost out of sight, the forest-universe ends in huge
cupolas, some green, some shorn of their leaves; these latter are covered
with flowers white, yellow, orange, purple, or mauve in which a
European spectator is amazed to recognize the freshness of the
European spring, but on a scale so disproportionate that he can only
compare it with, if anything, the majestic and luxurious blaze of colour
which we associate with autumn.

To these aerial storeys others closely corresponding may be found
Beneath the traveller s feet. For it would be an illusion to suppose that
he is walking *on the ground . That ground is buried deep beneath
tangle upon tangle of roots, suckers, mosses, and tufts of grass. Let him
tread too heavily on unsteady ground, and he may find himself falling
disconcertingly far, at times. In my case, Luanda s presence added
a further complication.

Luanda was a little female monkey with a prehensile tail. Her skin
was mauve and her fur miniver. She was of the species Lag&ihrpc,
commonly called barrigudo, because of its characteristic big belly. I got

In the Forest 337

her, when she was a few weeks old, from a Nambikwara woman who
had taken pity on her and carried her, night and day, clamped to the
head-dress which represented for the little creature the furred backbone
of her mother. (Mother monkeys carry their young on their backs.) I
fed her on spoonfuls of condensed milk, and at night a drop or two of
whisky would send her into the soundest of sleeps, leaving me free. But
during the daytime I could get her to make, at most, a compromise:
that she would leave go of my hair and settle for my left boot instead.
And there she would ding, with all four paws, just above my toes,
from morning till night. On horse-back this was all very well, and it
was manageable when we were in our boats. But on foot it was quite
a different matter, for at every bramble, every hollow in the ground,
every low branch, she would give a loud cry. All my attempts to make
her move to my arm, my shoulder, and even to my hair, were in vain.
Only the left boot would do: it was her only protection, her sole point
of security in the forest. She was a native of that forest, and yet a
month or two in the company of human beings had made her as great
a stranger to it as if she had grown up among the refinements of
civilization. And so it was that, as I limped along with my left leg,
doing my best not to lose sight of Abaitara s back, my eardrums were
pierced by Luanda s cries of alarm. Abaitara forged ahead with a. short
and rapid step in the green half-light, working his way round trees
so thick that I would think for a moment that he had disappeared,
cutting a path through bushes and liana, and darting off to left or to
right on an itinerary which, though unintelligible to the rest of us, took
us ever deeper into the forest.

To forget my tiredness, I let my mind go free. Short poems formed
in my head to die rhythm of our march and I would run over them,
hour by hour, till they were like a mouthful of food so often chewed
as to have no longer any flavour, and yet so acceptable, for its modest
companionship, that one hesitates either to swallow it or to spit it out.
The aquarium-like environment of the forest prompted this quatrain:

Dans la foret cephalopode

gros coquillage chevdu

de vase, sur des rochers roses qu erode

le ventre des poissons-lune d Honolulu

Or else, no doubt for the sake of contrast, I summoned up the
dismal memory of a Parisian suburb:
Y

338 The Tupi-Kawahib

On a nettoye Iterbc paillasson
les paves luisent savonnes
sur 1 avenue les arbres sont
de grands balais abandonnes

And then this last one, which never seemed to me quite finished,
though it is complete in form. Even today it torments me when I go
for a long walk:

Amazone, chere Amazone
vous qui n avez pas de sein droit
vous nous en racontez de bonnes
mais vos chemins sont trop etroits

Towards the end of the morning we were working our way round
a big bush when we suddenly found ourselves face to face with two
natives who were travelling in the opposite direction. The older of the
two was about forty. Dressed in a tattered pair of pyjamas, he wore his
hak down to his shoulders. The other had his hair cut short and was
entirely naked, save for the little cornet of straw which covered his
penis. On his back, in a basket of green palm-leaves tied tightly round
die creature s body, was a large harpy-eagle. Trussed like a chicken, it
presented a lamentable appearance, despite its grey-and-white-striped
plumage and its head, with powerful yellow beak, and crown of
feathers standing on end. Each of die two natives carried a bow and
arrows.

From the conversation which followed between them and Abaitara
it emerged that they were, respectively, the chief of the village we were
hoping to get to, and his right-hand man. They had gone on ahead of
the other villagers, who were wandering somewhere in the forest. The
whole party was bound for the Machado with the object of paying
their visit, promised a year previously, to Pinienta Bueno. The eagle
was intended as a present for their hosts. All this did not really suit us,
for we wanted not only to meet them, but to meet them in their own
village. It was only after they had been promised a great many gifts
when they got to the Porqtrinho camp that they agreed, with -the
greatest reluctance, to turn in their tracks, inarch back with us, and
make us welcome in their village. This done, we would set off, all
together, by river. Once we had agreed on all this, the trussed eagle
was jettisoned without ceremony by the side of a stream, where it

In the Forest 339

seemed inevitable that it would very soon either die of hunger or be
eaten alive by ants. Nothing more was said about it during the next
fifteen days, except that a summary death certificate* was pronounced:
He s dead, that eagle/ The two Kawahib vanished into the forest to
tell their families of our arrival, and we continued on our way.

The incident of the eagle set me thinking. Several ancient authors
relate that the Tupi breed eagles, feed them on monkeys 5 flesh, and
periodically strip them of their feathers. Rondon had noted this among
the Tupi-Kawahib, and other observers reported it among certain
tribes of the Xingu and the Araguaya. It was not surprising, therefore,
that a Tupi-Kawahib group should have preserved the custom, nor that
the eagle, which they considered as their most precious property, should
be taken with them as a gift, if these natives had really made up their
minds (as I was beginning to suspect, and as I later verified) to leave
their village for good and throw in their lot with civilization. But that
only made more incomprehensible their decision to abandon the eagle
to its pitiable fate. Yet the history of colonization, whether in South
America or elsewhere, is marked by these radical renunciations of
traditional values and repudiations of a style of life, in which the loss of
certain elements at once causes all other elements to be marked down:
perhaps I had just witnessed a characteristic instance of this
phenomenon.

We made a scratch meal of a few strips of grilled and still-salted
xarque, enlivened with what we could get from the forest: some tocan
nuts; the fruit white-fleshed, acid in taste, foamy in texture of the
wild cocoa-plant; berries from the pama tree; fruit and seeds from the
caju of the woods. It rained all night on the palmrleaf awnings that
protected our hammocks. At dawn the forest, silent during the day,
was torn from end to end for several minutes by the cries of monkey
and parrot. And on we went, trying never to lose sight of the back of
the man immediately ahead of us, convinced that even a few yards *oflf
course* would put us out of earshot, with no hope of retrieving the
path. For one of the most striking characteristics of the forest is its "way
of seeming to merge into an element heavier than air: such light as
gets through is greenish and enfeebled, and the human voice does
not carry. The extraordinary silence which reigns as a consequence,
perhaps, of this condition would communicate its example to the
traveller if he were not already disinclined to speak, so intent is he upon
not losing his way. His moral situation combines with his physical state
to create an almost intolerable feeling of oppression.

340 The Tupi-Kawahib

From time to time our guide would lean over the edge of his
invisible track, deftly lift the corner of a leaf, and show us the sharp
point of a stick of bamboo that had been planted obliquely in the
ground to pierce the foot of any enemy who happened to come by.
These spikes are called min by the Tupi-Kawahib, who use them to
protect the outskirts of their villages: the Tupi of former times used
larger ones.

During the afternoon we reached a castanhal, or group of chestnut-
trees around which the natives (who exploit the forest systematically)
had opened up a little clearing, the better to collectsuch fruit as fell from

FIG. 51. Bamboo sticks guarding die approach-way
to the village

the trees. The whole strength of the village had camped out there, the
men naked save for the penis-cap which we had already encountered
on die chiefs lieutenant, and the women also naked, but for the slip of
woven cotton round their loins: originally this was dyed red with
urucu-dye, but with use it had faded to a russet colour.

There were in all six women and seven men, one of the men being
an adolescent, and three little girls who seemed to be aged one, two,
and three respectively. One could hardly conceive of a smaller group
holding out for at least thirteen years (since the disappearance of
Abaitara s village, that is to say), cut off from any contact with the outer
world* Among the company were two people paralysed from the
waist down: a young girl who supported herself on two sticks and a

In the Forest 341

man, also young, who dragged himself along the ground like a legless
cripple. His knees stood out above his fleshless legs, which were
swollen on their inner side and looked as if they were afflicted with
serosity. The toes of the left foot were paralysed, but those of the right
foot could still be moved. Yet these two cripples managed to cover
long distances in the forest with no apparent difficulty. Was it polio
myelitis, or some other virus, which had gone on ahead of any real
contact with civilization? When I was confronted with these unhappy
people, who had been left to their own devices in the midst of a Nature
as hostile as any that men have to face, it was heart-rending to thi-nlc
back to the page on which Thevet speaks with such admiration of the
Tupi whom he visited in die sixteenth century: A people, he says,
made of the same stuff as ourselves, who have never as yet been
afflicted with leprosy, or paralysis, or lethargy, or chancres, or other
bodily ailments which are apparent to the eye.* He had no idea that he
and his companions were the advance guard of these evils.

30 The Crickets Village

T

lo

. o WARDS the end of the afternoon we got to the
village, which stood in an artificial clearing immediately above the
narrow valley of a torrent, which I was able later to identify as the
Igarape do Leitao, a tributary of the right bank of the Machado, into
which it flows a mile or two downstream from the confluence of the
Madbado and the Muqui.

The village consisted of four more or less square houses that stood
in line parallel to the course of the torrent. Two of the houses the
largest were lived in: so much was evident from the hammocks, made
from cotton strings knotted together and strung up between stakes.
Hie two others, one of which stood between the two inhabited houses,
had not been occupied for a long time and looked rather like shelters
or store-houses. At first glance these houses looked to be identical with
the Brazilian dwelling-houses of the same region. But in reality they
were differently conceived, in that the lay-out of die stakes which
supported the high gabled roof of palmr-leaves was similar to that of
the wooden substructure of the roof itself, except that it was smaller,
so that the building had the profile of a square mushroom. And yet
this structure was not dear to the eye, because of the false walls which
encircled the house up to the level of the roof but were not joined on
to it These palisades for that is what they were consisted of palm-
trunks split down the middle, planted side by side, and tied one to the
other, with their convex side looking outwards. In the case of the
principal house that which stood between the two store-houses these
trunks were cut out to allow of the making of five-sided loopholes, and
their outer surface was covered with paintings roughly executed in red
and black with urucu and resin. These pictures represented, according
to one of the natives, successively a human being, some women, a
harpy-eagle, some children, an object in the shape of a loophole, a

342

343

The Crickets Village

toad, a dog, a large unidentified quadruped, two strips of zig-zag
shapes, two fish, a jaguar, and finally a symmetrical motif composed of
squares, crescents, and arches.

These houses were not at all like the native habitations of the
neighbouring tribes. It is probable, however, that their form is trad
itional. When Rondon discovered the Tupi-Kawahib, their houses
were already square or rectangular, with a gabled roo Nor does the
mushroom-like structure correspond to any Brazilian technique. The
existence of these high-roofed houses is, moreover, confirmed by

FIG. 52. Detail of the paintings on the outside of a hut

archaeological documents dating back to more than one pre-
Colombian civilization.

Another point of originality among the Tupi-Kawahib: like their
Parintintin cousins, they neither cultivate nor use tobacco. When he
saw us unpacking our stores of tobacco-rope, die chief of the village
said sarcastically: laneapit human droppings! The reports of the
Rondon Commission relate, moreover, that when they first made
contact with the Tupi-Kawahib, the Indians were so exasperated by
the presence of any smoker that they would snatch his cigar or cigarette
out of his mouth. And yet, unlike the Parintintin, the Tupi-Kawahib

344 The Tupi-Kawahib

have a word for tobacco: tabak, the same word as we have in French,
which derives from the ancient lingo of the natives of the Antilles and
may well be of Carib origin. There may be a link with the dialects of
the Guapor6, which have the same term, either because they have
borrowed it from the Spanish (the Portuguese say Junto) or because
the Goapore cultures represent the farthest point reached to the south
west by an ancient Caribbean civilization (and there is much to support
this hypothesis) which may in this way have left its traces in the lower
valley of the Xingu. I must add that the Nambikwara are inveterate
smokers, whereas the other neighbours of the Tupi-Kawahib, the
Munde and the Kepkiriwat, take their tobacco in powder form with
the aid of tubular inhalers. So that there is something enigmatic about
the presence in the middle of Brazil of a group of tobaccoless tribes
and all the more so if we consider the Tupi of ancient times were great
tobacco-users.

For lack of tobacco we were going to be received in the village by
what the French travellers of the sixteenth century called a cahouin
kaui is the Tupi-Kawahib word or, in other words, a drinking-party
at which would be served a chicha made from maize: several varieties of
maize were grown in patches of ground burnt dear for the purpose on
tibe outskirts of the village. Our ancient authors have described the great
pots, each as tall as a man, in which the liquid was prepared, and the
role assigned therein to the virgins of the tribe (each had to spit
copiously into the brew to make sure that it fermented). Perhaps die
Tupi-Kawahib pots were too small: perhaps the village was short of
virgins. The three little girls were summoned, at any rate, and made to
spit into the decoction of pounded seed. As the delicious drink, as
refreshing as it was reborative, was drunk that same evening its
fermentation can hardly be said to have been accelerated.

While visiting the gardens I noted, first, the big wooden cage in
which the eagle had been kept; it was still strewn with bones. There
were little plantations of ground-nuts, beans, peppers of various kinds,
little yams, sweet potatoes, manioc, and maize. The natives supple
mented these resources by the collection of whatever grew wild near
at hand. For this purpose they exploited the tall grasses of the forest,
tying the tops of several stalks together in such a way that the fallen
seeds collected in little heaps on the ground. These they heated on a
flat piece of pottery till they burst open like popcorn whose taste is
not dissimilar, by the way.

While the cahouin, enriched by various blendings and ebullitions,

The Crickets Village 345

was going from hand to hand, distributed by the women wilt ladles
made from the halves of a calabash, I took advantage of the last hours
of daylight to scrutinize the Indians.

Apart from their cotton loincloths, the women wore tight little
wrist- and ankle-bands, and necklaces made of tapirs* teeth, or carved
pieces of deer-bone. Their faces were tattooed with the blue-black juice
of the genipa: on their cheeks, a thick oblique line ran from the lobe of
the ear to the corner of the lips, which was marked with four little
vertical lines. On the chin were four horizontal lines, one above the
other, each ornamented on its underside with a fringe of vertical

FIG. 53. Another example of hut-paintings

stripes. The hair, usually short, was often combed with a large-toothed
comb, or with some more delicate instrument, made of thin sticks of
wood held in pkce with cotton.

The men wore nothing but the conical penis-cover which I have
already described. One native was making himself a new one at that
very moment. He took a fresh jwcoytf leaf, peeled off die two sides from
the central stalk, and relieved them of their tough outer edge. Then he
folded them in two, lengthwise. By making the two pieces overlap,
one over the other (they were about a foot long and three inches
broad), so that the two folds joined at right angles, he got a sort of
square, with two thicknesses of leaf on the sides and four at the top,
where the two bands crossed over one another. This square was then
folded back upon itself diagonally, and its two arms were cut off and

346 The Tupi-Kawahib

thrown away, leaving the craftsman with a little isosceles triangle made
up of eight thicknesses of leaf. This triangle he rounded on his thumb,
working from front to back, the points of the two sharper angles being
cut open and the sides sewn up with a wooden needle and some vege
table thread. The little object was ready: all that remained was to put
it in position, pulling back the foreskin across the opening so that it
would not 611 off, and so that the tension of the skin would keep the
member vertical. All the men wore an accessory of this sort and if any
of them were to lose his cap he would at once draw the pulled-back
extremity of his prepuce under the cord which he wore round his loins.

The houses were almost empty. I noticed hammocks made of cotton
thread: a few earthenware pots and a basin in which maize or manioc
pulp could be dried over the fire; some calabashes: a few wooden
pestles and mortars; some manioc-scrapers made of thorn-inlaid wood;
some wickerwork sieves; burins made of rodents teeth; a few spindles;
and some bows, about five feet in length. The arrows were of several
kinds; either with points and bamboo sharpened for hunting, saw-
edged for war or with multiple points; these last were used for fishing.
Lastly I noted some musical instruments; Pan-pipes with thirteen tubes,
and four-holed flageolets.

When night fell, the chief ceremoniously brought us the cahouin and
a rago&t of giant beans and peppers. Hot as these were to the palate,
they were a delight after six months among the Nambikwara, who
know nothing of either salt or pepper and whose palates are so delicate
that all food has to be drenched in water, and thus effectively cooled,
before they can begin to eat. The native salt came in a little calabash;
it was a brownish liquid so bitter that the chief, who contented himself
with watching us eat, insisted on tasting it in our presence to reassure
us that it was not a poison. This condiment is prepared with the ashes
of the toari bronco wood. Modest as the meal was, it was served with
a dignity which reminded me that the Tupi chiefs of old were in
honour bound, as one traveller put it, to "keep open house*.

A still more curious detail is that, after a night in one of the store
houses, I found that my leather belt had been half-eaten by crickets.
Never, in all the tribes whose existence I had shared, had I suffered such
an assault; neither among the Kaingang, nor the Caduveo, nor the
Bororo, nor the Paressi, nor the Nambikwara, nor the Munde. It was
among the Tupi that I was destined to re-live the misadventures familiar
four centuries earlier to Yves d Evreux and Jean de Lery : 1 must tell of
these little creatures, no bigger than our crickets, who make for the

The Crickets Village 347

camp-fire at night in great troops and bands, and eat into anything that
they can find. But above all things they make for the leather of shoes or
neckbands, eating away the whole of the outer cover, so that whm
those who own such things wake up in the morning they find them
white and flaky/ Unlike the termite, and many another destructive
insect, the cricket merely eats into the outer surface of the leather, so
that my belt was, in effect, white and flaky when I reached for it,
witnessing to a strange and exclusive association, many centuries did,
between a species of insect and a group of human beings.

As soon as the sun was up one of our men went into the forest to
shoot at the pigeons which were fluttering about in the clearing. After
a little while we heard a shot. No one paid any attention until a native
came running up, livid and in high excitement: he tried to explain what
had happened. Abaitara was not at hand to interpret, but we could hear
from the direction of the forest loud cries growing steadily nearer, and
soon a man came running across the plantations, holding Ibis right fore
arm in his left hand. From that fore-arm there was dangling a hand
reduced to bleeding ribbons. He had leaned on the barrel of his gun, and
the gun had gone off. Luis and I discussed what should be done. Three
fingers were blown practically off and the palm seemed to be more or
less in pieces. It looked as if the hand would have to be amputated. Yet
we ourselves did not quite dare to do this: to make a cripple, that is
to say, of Emydio, whom we had recruited, together with his
brother, in a little village on the outskirts of Cuiaba. His youth made us
feel particularly responsible for him, and he had shown peasant qualities
of loyalty and fine feeling which had made us very fond of him. His
job in life was to look after beasts of burden: and the proper loading
of mules and oxen calls for great manual skill. For him to lose a hand
would be a catastrophe. Not without apprehension, we decided to put
the fingers back in place, as best we could, dress and bandage the
wound with the means at our disposal, and start back at once. Once
back at our camp, Luis would take the wounded man, to Urupa, where
our doctor was, and if the natives were to agree to this scheme I would
stay and camp out with them on the river-bank, until the galiot came
back to fetch me fifteen days later (it would take three days to go
downriver and about a week for the return trip).

The Indians were terrified by the accident and seemed afraid that
it might make us less well disposed towards them. They accepted,
therefore, every suggestion that was made to diem; and while they
once again made ready to leave we plunged into the forest.

348 The Tupi-Kawahib

It was a nightmarish journey, and I remember very little about it.
The wounded man was delirious all the way, and walked so fast that
we couldn t keep up with. him. He took the lead, marching ahead even
of the guide, never showing the slightest hesitation about our route,
though no trace of it seemed to remain. At night we contrived to put
him to sleep with drugs, and as he luckily had no experience of
medicines our draughts took their full effect. When we got to our
camp cm the afternoon of the foEowing day we found that his hand
was full of worms* which were causing him intolerable pain. But when
we got him to the doctor three days later the wound was clear of
gangrene, the worms having eaten the bad flesh as and when it putre
fied. There was no longer any need to amputate, and after a month-
long series of small surgical operations (VeUard s skills as vivisector and
entomologist were very useful there) we got Emydio s hand back
into shape. Arriving at Madeira in December, I sent him back to
Cuiaba by air, to gather strength; he was then still convalescent. But
when I went to call on his parents in January, at a time when I was
revisiting all our troop, one by one, I found them full of reproaches:
not for their son s sufferings, which they regarded as an everyday
incident in sertao life, but for my barbaric action in exposing him, to the
dangers of the skies a diabolical situation, in their view, and one to
which they found it inconceivable that a Christian should be
submitted.

3 1 The Japim Bird Takes the Stage

NEW family was made up as follows: first of
all Taperahi, the chief of die village, and his four wives Maruabai,
the eldest; Kunhatsin, her daughter by a previous union; Takwame;
and lanopamoko, the young paralytic. This polygamous household was
bringing up five children: Kamini and Pwereza, two boys who looked
to be about seventeen and fifteen respectively, and three little girls:
Paerai, Topekea, and Kupekahi.

Potien, the chief s lieutenant, aged about twenty, was the son of an
earlier marriage of Maruabai s. There was also an old woman, Wira-
karu; her two adolescent sons, Takwari, and Karamua, of whom the
first was unmarried and the second was married to his barely nubile
niece; and, finally, their cousin, a young paralytic, Walera.

Unlike the Nambikwara, the Tupi-Kawahib do not make a mystery
of their names. And, as the sixteenth-century travellers noted, each
name has a meaning. "As we do with dogs and other animals, Lery
wrote, so do they deal out names from stock Sarigoy, for instance,
for a four-legged animal; Arignan, a hen; Arabouten, the Brazil-tree;
Pindo, a tall grass; and so on/

This was true of every case in which tie natives gave me an
explanation of their names. Taperahi was a little bird with black and
white feathers, and Kunhatsin a white or light-tinned woman;
Takwame and Takwari were names derived from takwara, a species of
bamboo; Potien was a freshwater shrimp; Wirakaru, a parasite that
attached itself to human beings (in Portuguese, a bicho depe); Karamua,
a plant; and Walera, another species of bamboo.

Staden, another sixteenth-century traveller, said that the women
usually take the names of birds, fish, or fruit*, and he added that
whenever the husband killed a prisoner he and his wife took a new
name. My companions did the same. Karamua, for instance, was also
called Janaku because, said my informant, he has already killed a man*.

349

350 The Tupi-Kawahib

The natives also acquired new names as they passed from childhood
to adolescence and from adolescence to manhood. Each had, therefore,
two, three, or four names, all of which he would readily communicate
to me. These names have a considerable interest, because the members
of each lineage prefer to take names that stem from kindred roots. These
names belong to the clan. Most of the inhabitants of my village
belonged to the Mialat, or Wild-boar dan, but this dan had been
formed by intermarriage with other dans, notably the Paranawat, or
River clan, and the Takwatip, or Bamboo clan. But all the members of
this last-named clan had names deriving from its eponym: Takwame,
Takwarume, Takwari, "Walera (a big bamboo), Topehi (a fruit of the
same family), and Karamua (also a plant, but an unidentified one).

The most striking characteristic of our Indians social organization
was the quad-monopoly enjoyed by the chief in respect of the women
of the group. Of the six women who had got beyond puberty, four
were his wives. Of the two others, one, Penhana, was his sister, and
therefore forbidden; the other, Wirakaru, was an old woman who no
longer interested anybody. It is dear, therefore, that Taperahi had
attached to himself the maximum possible number of women. In his
household it was Kunhatsin who took first place. She was also the
youngest, with tike exception of lanopamoko the paralytic, and native
opinion coincided with that of the anthropologist in finding her a great
beauty. From the hierarchical point of view Maruabai was a secondary
wife and her daughter took precedence over her.

The principal wife seemed to hdp her husband more directly than
the others, who were concerned with household chores, kitchen duties,
and the care of the children, who were all brought up together, passing
indifferently from one breast to another so much so, in fact, that I
could never quite decide which children belonged to which mother.
By contrast die principal wife accompanied her husband from place
to place, helped him to receive visitors, took care of presents received,
and kept the entire family under supervision. The situation is the
opposite of that which I had observed among the Nambikwara, where
it is the principal wife who stays at home and looks after the house,
while the young concubines take a full share in the men s activities.

The chiefs hold upon the women of the group seemed to derive
primarily from the notion that his was no ordinary nature. His tempera
ment was acknowledged to be quite exceptional. He was subject to
trances, during which he had sometimes to be held in check, lest he
should commit homicide (I shall later describe an instance of this). He

Thejapim Bird Takes the Stage 351

had the gift, among other things, of prophecy, and his sexual appetites
were held to be so powerful that he needed to have many wives in
order to satisfy them. During the two weeks in which I shared the life
of their camp, I was often struck by the abnormal behaviour abnormal
in relation to that of his companions of Taperahi, the chie He seemed
to be afflicted with ambulatory mania: three times a day at least he
would move his hammock and its protective awning of palm-leaves to
another part of the camp, accompanied in each instance by his wives,
Potien his lieutenant, and his babies. Every morning he disappeared
into the forest with his wives and children to make love , said the
natives. Half an hour or an hour kter they would troop back and move
house again.

The chief s privileged position, where polygamy is concerned, is to
some extent counterbalanced by the loan of his wives to his com
panions, and also to strangers. Potien is not merely his assistant: he also
takes part in the chief s family life, eats at his table , nurses the babies
from time to time, and enjoys other favours. As for the stranger from
the world outside, every sixteenth-century author has much to say
about the liberality with which he was received by die Tupinamba
chiefs. This hospitable duty operated in favour of Abaitara, as soon as I
arrived in the village, and he was lent lanopamoko. She was pregnant
at the time, but until the day I left she shared Abaitara s hammock and
was fed by him.

From what Abaitara told me privately, this generosity was not
disinterested. Taperahi was proposing to Abaitara that he should make
over the girl to him once and for all in exchange for his little daughter,
Topehi, who was then aged about eight: karijiraen taUko eta nipoka
the chief wants to marry my daughter . Abaitara was not very
enthusiastic, for lanopamofco, a cripple, could not be much of a
companion to him. She can t even go and fetch water from the river,
he said. It really was not a fair exchange: a grown-up, physically handi
capped, against a healthy and very promising little girl. Abaitara had
other ideas,, in any case: he would have liked to exchange Topehi for
the two-year-old Kupekahi the point being, he said, that die was the
daughter of Takwame who, like himself, was a member of the
Takwatip dan. He could therefore exert over her the privilege of a
uterine uncle. Takwame herself was to be made over, according to his
plan, to another native from the post of Pimenta Bueno. Matrimonial
equilibrium would be partly re-established thereby, in that Takwari
was, for his part, engaged to the Htde Kupekahi. Once all these

352 The Tupi-Kawahib

transactions were completed, Taperahi would have lost two of his four
wives, and gained a third one, in the person of Topehi.

I do not know what was the outcome of these discussions. But
dering the fifteen days of life in common, they led to great tension
among those immediately concerned; at times the situation was really
disquieting. Abaitara was absolutely set on having his two-year-old
fiancee* far, although he was himself thirty to thirty-five already, he
saw in her a wife after his own heart. He made her little presents, and
when she played on the river s edge he never tired of admiring, and
urging me to admire, her robust little body. How beautiful she would
be in ten or twelve years time! Although he had already been for some
years a widower, the long wait had no terrors for him. (Admittedly he
had lanopamoko to be going on with, meanwhile.) The tender feelings
which he cherished for the baby girl were mingled with innocent
erotic daydreams of what was to happen in years to come, with a
fatherly feeling of responsibility towards the little creature, and with the
affectionate camaraderie of an elder brother who had belatedly acquired
a baby sister.

Another factor which helped to balance the unequal distribution of
wives was the levirate, or inheritance of the wife by the brother. This
was how Abaitara had come to marry the widow of his dead brother.
He had not wanted to do it, but his father had insisted as had, indeed,
the widow herself who, he said, couldn t keep her hands off me . The
Tupi-Kawahib also practise fraternal polyandry, of which an example
was provided by the little Penhana, a skinny creature, barely at the
stage of puberty, who shared herself out between her husband
Karamua and her brothers-in-law Takwari and Walera. Walera was a
brother of the other two in terms of dbssrfication only: *He lends [his
wife] to his brother*, for *the brother is not jealous of the brother*.
Normally brothers- and sisters-in-law, without avoiding one another,
take up an attitude of mutual reserve. "When the wife has been lent, the
fact may be inferred from the familiarity with which she then treats
her brother-in4aw. They talk and laugh together and her brother-in-
law gives her her food. One day when Takwari had Arrowed
Penhana he was lunching next to me. As he began his meal he asked his
brother to get Penhana to come and eat*. Penhana was not hungry,
because she had already lunched with her husband. But she came,
accepted a mouthful, and wait away at once. In the same way,
Abaitara left my own hearth and took his meal over to lanopamoko so
that he could eat with her.

Thejapim Bird Takes the Stage 353

The Tupi-Kawahib combine, therefore, polygyny with polyandry
in order to resolve the problems set by the chief s prerogatives* A bare
week or two after taking leave of the Nambikwara, it was striking to
note to what a degree groups geographically very near to one another
can find different solutions for identical problems. For among the
Nambikwara also, as we have seen, the chief has a polygamous privi
lege, whence there results, once again, a disequilibrium between the
number of young men and the number of available unattached wives.
But instead of having recourse to polyandry, as the Tupi-Kawahib do,
the Nambikwara allow their adolescents to practise homosexuality. The
Tupi-Kawahib have strong words for such habits and are outwardly
much against them. But, as Lery remarked maliciously of thek
ancestors: From the fact that sometimes, in a quarrel, one will call the
other Tyvire (the Tupi-Kawahib have almost the same word: tewk-
uruwara), or bugjer, it could be conjectured, though I do not myself
affirm anything of the kind, that this abominable crime is committed
among them.

Among the Tupi-Kawahib, the hierarchy of power was the object
of a complex organization, to which our village remained attached in a
symbolical way, much as in our own former monarchies some faithfid.
subject is usually ready to act out the role of Lord High Chamberlain
and so save the dignity of the former sovereign. This, it seemed, was
Potien s role in relation to Taperahi. Such was his assiduity in serving
his master, such the respect that he showed him, and such the ddference
which he was shown, in return, by the other members of the group,
that one might sometimes have thought that Taperahi held sway, as
Abaitara had done in his time, over thousands of subjects or thanes. At
that time there were at least four grades of rank at the court: chief,
bodyguard, minor officers of state, and companions. The chief had the
right of life or death over his people. As in the sixteenth century,
execution was usually by drowning 2 duty accorded to the minor
officers of state. But the chief also took care of his people, and had
charge of negotiations with the outer world: these he conducted with
considerable presence of mind, as I was to see for mysel

I possessed a large aluminium basin, which we used for cooking
rice. One morning Taperahi, accompanied by Abaitara as his inter
preter, came and asked me for this basin, promising in exchange that
for as long as we were with him he would keep it constantly topped
up with cah&uin, for us to drink from as we pleased. I tried to explain
that the basin was indispensable to our culinary arrangements; and I

354 The Tupi-Kawahib

was amazed to see that while Abaitara was translating my remarks
Taperahi went on smiling all over his face, as if what Lhad to say was
exactly what he had most wanted to hear. And, sure enough, when
Abaitara completed his expose of the situation, Taperahi, still in the
best of spirits, seized hold of the basin and put it without more ado
among his own equipment. There was nothing for me to do but give
in. Taperahi kept his promise, moreover, and for a week on end I was
served with a cahouin At luxe, made up of a mixture of maize and tocari.
This I disposed of in enormous quantities quantities limited only,
indeed, by the necessity of not overtaxing the salivary glands of the
three babies. The incident reminded me of a passage in Yves d Evreux:
If any one among them wants something belonging to one of the
others, he tells him so, quite openly: and, unless the thing asked for is
very dear indeed to its owner, it will be handed over at once, with the
condition, however, that if the one who asks has among his own pos
sessions something that the giver would like to have, he will give, in
his turn, all that he is asked for/

Tie Tupi-Kawahib s conception of the role of the chief differs
radically from that current among the Nambikwara. When pressed for
an elucidation, they will say: The chief is always happy/ And the best
commegatary on that statement was the extraordinary dynamism which
Taperahi did, in effect, display at all times. Individual aptitudes could
not explain it altogether, since the chiefs of the Tupi-Kawahib, unlike
those of the Nambikwara, inherit in the masculine line. Pwereza would
succeed his father, but he looked younger than his brother Kamini,
and I noticed other indications that the younger of the two might turn
out to be the more important. In the past, one of the chief s duties
was to organize feasts, of which he was said to be the master or the
owner*. Men and women painted their bodies all over (notably with
die violet juice of an unidentified leaf which was also used in the
painting of pottery). There were dances, with singing and instrumental
music. The accompaniment to these was provided by four or five large
clarinets, made out of sections of bamboo about four feet in length, at
die top of which was a little bamboo pipe with a simple reed, cut open
at die side and held in place, in the interior of the pipe, with a fibre
balL The master of the fete* ordered the men to see who best could
carry a flute-flayer on his shoulders a competition which reminded
me of mariddo-tifaxig among the Bororo and the races which the Ge
ran among themselves, each bearing a log.

Invitations were sent out in advance, so that the participants would

Thejapim Bird Takes the Stage 355

have time to collect and cure the little animals rats, monkeys,
squirrels -that they would wear strung round their necks. The wheei-
game divided the village into two camps: Elder and Younger. Hie
teams would station themselves at the west end of a circular terrain
while two lancers, one from each camp, would take up their positions
at the north and south ends, respectively. Each group would then roll
towards the other a wheel-like section of tree-trunk. As this passed
in front of the lancers, they would try to shoot an arrow into it. Each
hit entitled the archer in question to take one of his adversary s arrows.
This game is strikingly similar to certain games found in North
America.

Next came target-practice, with a doll as the main target. This was
not without its risks: any archer whose arrow stuck into the post on
which the doll stood was destined for a bad end, magical in its origins
as was also, for that matter, anyone who dared to sculpt a wooden
doll in the likeness of a human being, instead of a straw doll or a
wooden monkey.

In this way, day after day, I would try to reconstruct from its last
fragments a culture which had fascinated Europe, and one which, on
the right bank of the upper Machado, might well disappear on the
very day of my departure. For on November 7th, 1938, as I stepped
aboard our galiot, then just back from Urupa, the natives headed fibr
Pimenta Bueno to join forces with the companions, and with the
family, of Abaitara.

It was a melancholy affair, this liquidation of the surviving elements
of a dying culture. And yet, towards the end of it, a surprise was in
store for me. It was at nightfall, when everyone was faking advantage
of the afterglow of the camp-fire to make ready for sleep. Taperahi,
the chief, was already stretched out in his hammock. He began to sing,
in a distant, hesitant tone which seemed hardly to belong to him.
Immediately two men, Walera and Kamfnt, came and crouched at his
feet, while a shiver of excitement ran throughout the Htde group.
Walera called out once or twice: the chiefs singing became more
exact in intonation, and his voice firmer. Suddenly I realized what was
going on: Taperahi was acting a play, or more exactly a musical
comedy, with a mingling of singing and speech. He was taking all the
parts -a dozen or so and for each he lid a special tone of voice:
piercing, high-pitched and squeaky, guttural, organ-like; and for each
he had a recurrent musical theme: a veritable leit-motif, in feet. The
tunes seemed astonishingly dose to Gregorian chant. After the Sacre du

35 <5 The Tupi-Kawahib

Prmtemps evoked by the NamHkwara flutes, I seemed to be listening to
an exotic version of Les Noces.

Abaitara was so fascinated by the performance that I had great
difficulty in persuading him to tell me what was going on; but
eventually I got enough out of him to piece together a vague idea of
die subject. We were listening to a farce. The hero was tkejapim bird
(an oriole, with black and yellow feathers and a song so modulated as
to soood almost human); die other characters were animals tortoise,
jaguar, falcon, ant-eater, tapir, lizard, and so on; utensils, like a stick,
OF a pestle; and finally spirits, like the supernatural being, Maira. Each
expressed himself in a style so* nicely adapted to its nature that I was
soon able to identify them without prompting. The story hinged on the
adventures oftkejapim which, at first menaced by the other animals,
managed to outwit them in one way or another and in the end got the
better of them all. Hie performance was held on two successive even
ings and lasted some four hours on each occasion. There were moments
when Taperahi seemed so carried away by inspiration that speech and
song would pour forth from him, while shouts of laughter rang out on
every side. At other times he seemed exhausted: his voice grew weak,
and Aoegji he tried one theme after another he seemed not to pursue
any to its conclusion. Tien one of the two chorus-men, or both in
unison, would come to his rescue, either by railing out again and again,
while the main actor took a short rest, or by suggesting to him some
musical theme, or by taking one or other of the roles for the time
being, so that a passage of dialogue, in our sense, would follow. And
then, firmly back in the saddle, Taperahi would proceed with a new
episode.

As tie night went on we could see that the effort of poetic creation
was accompanied by loss of consciousness. The characters were going
beyond die performer, as it were, and his different voices took on
so strong an individuality that it seemed unbelievable that they all
belonged to the same person. At the end of the second evening,
Taperahi suddenly got out of his hammock, still singing the while, and
began to meander round the camp, calling for cahouin. The spirits had
taken control of him. All of a sudden he grabbed a knife and pounced
upon Kunhtatsin, his principal wife, who had the greatest difficulty in
getting away from him and escaping into the forest, while the other
men held their chief down and forced him back into his hammock.
Once there, he immediately fell asleep and in the morning all was
back to normal.

32 Amazonia

WH

HEN I got to Urupa, where it becomes possible
to proceed by motor-boat, I found my companions installed in a
spacious hut made of straw, raised upon stakes, and partitioned off into
several little rooms. We had nothing to do but sell off the remains of
our equipment to the local population, barter for chickens, -milk, or
eggs for there were one or two cows about-4uxuriate in idleness and
get back our strength until the river, then swollen by die rains, would
allow die first motor-boat of the season to get upstream as far as
Urupa. This would take three weeks. Each morning, as we mixed our
reserves of chocolate into our milk, we would while away the break
fast-hour by watching Vellard taking a bonensplinter or two out of
Emydio s hand and putting that hand gradually back into its right
shape. The sight was both disgusting and fascinating, and it merged in
my mind with the look of the forest, with its multiplicity of threatening
shapes. I took my own left hand as a model and began to draw whok
landscapes made up of hands emerging from bodies as twisted and
convoluted as liana. The dozen or so sketches which I made in this way
disappeared during the occupation of Paris, and may for all I know be
lying forgotten in some German attic; but it soothed me to make diein
and before long I went back to the work of observation.

From Urupa to Rio Madeira the telegraph stations are tied to the
little hamlets where a group of rubber-tappers gives point to the
sporadic population of the river-bank. These stations have not that
element of absurdity which marks the stations on die plateau, and the
life of those marooned there is less of a nightmare. Or, rather, the
nightmare is less uniform. The resources of each particular area give it
a character of its own. Kitchenrgardens are full of water-melons,
whose melting flesh is the tropics* pinkish, half-warm substitute for
snow; and imprisoned in the yard behind the house are edible land-
tortoises which ensure that every family has the equivalent of a "Sunday

357

358 The Tupi-Kawahib

roast*. On special occasions the family may even enjoy a gallinha em
molho pardo (chicken in brown sauce), followed hy a bolo podre (literally
a rotten cake ), and a baba de mo fa ( maid s saliva*: a white cheese mixed
with honey). The poisonous juice of manioc, fermented for weeks on
end with peppers, provides a powerful, velvety sauce. A land of
plenty: Apti so falta o que nao tern The only thing we don t have is
what we haven t got.

All these dishes are spoken of as colossally delicious, for the
Amazonian loves his superlatives. Generally speaking a dessert, or a
remedy, are good or bad as the devil himself*. Every waterfall is
Vertiginous . Every piece of game is monstrously big . And every
exchange of views is rich in peasant deformations. The inversion of
phonemes, for instance: perdsa for precisa, prefeitamente for perfeita-
mente, Tribudo for Tiburdo. It is likely also to be marked by long
silences with only a solemn interjection or two to break into them:
Sim, Senhor! 9 or Disparate! These relate to thoughts as dark and
confused as the forest itself.

Just occasionally commercial travellers, regatao or mascate most of
them Syrians or Lebanese who travel by canoe arrive after a journey
of several weeks, bringing with them medicines and ancient news-
papery the one as subject as the other to deterioration from damp. Thus
it was that, in a rubber-tapper s hut, I came upon an old newspaper and
learnt, four months kte, that the Munich agreement had been followed
by general mobilization in France. The forest people have a richer im
aginative life than their counterparts on the savannah. There are poets
among them: in one family, for instance, the father and mother, who
wore called respectively Sandoval and Maria, made up all their child
ren s names from the six syllables comprised in their own. Thus their
daughters were Valma, Valmaria, and Valmarisa, and their sons
Sandomar and Marival. The grandsons were Valdomar and Valkimar.
Certain pedants christen their sons Aristotle and Newton and delight
in die medicines, popular throughout Amazonia, which are called
Precious Dye, Oriental Tonic, Gordona Specific, Bristol Pills, English
Water, and Heavenly Balm. Unless they take (with fatal results)
bichlorhydrate of quinine instead of sulphate of soda, they become so
used to their drugs that to quieten a toothache they need to take a
whole tube of aspirin at one swallow. In feet I noticed on die lower
reaches of the Machado a litde warehouse which seemed, in symbolical
style, to send two kinds of goods, and two only, upstream: cemetery
railings and enemas.

Amazonia 359

Side by side with these scientific* remedies there exists a corpus of
popular specifics. These consist of resguardos, prohibitions, and orafSes,
prayers. A pregnant woman, for instance, can eat whatever she likes.
After she has given birth, and for the eight days following, she can eat
the flesh of chicken and partridge. Up till the fortieth day after the
birth, she can also eat deer-meat and certain fish (paat, piava, sardinka).
From the forty-first day onwards she can resume sexual relations and
add to her diet wild boar and white fish. For a year, however, she may
not touch tapir, tortoise, red deer, mutum, or the so-called leather* fish:
jetaurama and curimata. And this is what our informants had to say on
the subject: Isso e mandamento da lei de Deu, isso e do inido do mundo, a

mulher so e purificada depois de cuarenta dias. Si nao faz, o Jim o triste ,

Depots do tempo da menstruafao, a mulher jica immunda, o hotnem que anda
com ellefica immundo tambem, e a lei de Deu para mulher* And, as a last
explanation: *E uma cousa muitajina, a mulher J Or, in other words: As
it is laid down by the law of God, which goes back to the beginning of
the world, the woman is made pure only after forty days. After men
struation the woman is unclean, and the man who goes with her
becomes unclean also. It s a very delicate thing, the woman/

And now, on the margins of black magic, here is the Ora(ao do sapo
secco, the Prayer of the Dried Toad, as it appears in a book hawked
from hut to hut, the Livro de Sao Cypriano. Take a big toad, a cuntru
or a sapo leiteiro y bury him up to its nock, on a Friday, and feed him with
the embers of a fire. He will swallow them all. Eight days later, go and
look for birn: he ll have disappeared. But at the spot where he had been
left there will be the beginnings of a three-branched and three-coloured
tree. The white branch stands for love, the red for despair, the Hack
for mourning. The name of the prayer derives from the fact that a
dead toad dries up to such a degree that even the carrion-birds will not
touch it. So the person concerned takes the branch that most corres
ponds to his purpose and keeps it hidden from everyone else: e amsa
muita occulta. The prayer is declaimed at the time of the toad s burial:

Eu te enterro com palma de chao la dentro

Eu te prende baixo de meus pes ate como for o possivel

Tern que me livras de tudo quanto e perigo

So soltarei voce quando terminar mmha missao

Abaixo de Sao Arnaro sera o meu protetor

As undas do mar serao meu livramento

Na polvora do sol sera meu descanso

Anjos da minha guarda sempre me accompanham

360 The Tupi-Kawahib

E o Satanez nao tera forsa me prender

Na hora chegada no pinga dc meio dia

Esta Ora^ao sera ouvida

Sao Amaro voce e supremes senhores dos animaes crueis

Sera o meu protetor Mariterra (?)

Amen.

I bury you one foot deep in the earth

I take you beneath my feet in so far as I can

You are to deliver me from all that is danger

I shall not release you till I have completed my mission

My protector will be under the invocation of St Amaro

The waves of the sea shall be my deliverance

In the dust of the earth shall be my rest

Accompany me always, my guardian angels,

And Satan will not be strong enough to seize hold of me

"When it is noon exactly this prayer will be heard

St Amaro, you and the supreme lords of cruel animals

shall be my protector Mariterra (?)

Amen

Hie people also resort to the Orafao dafava* the Prayer of tke Bean,
and the Orayw do morcego, the Prayer of the Bat.

Fanatics and inventors are to be found in these parts, where the
rivers can be navigated by small motor-boats and civilization, as
represented by Manaus, is no longer a three-jparts-obliterated memory,
but rather a reality to be experienced twice or even thrice in a lifetime,
For instance, one head of a station on the telegraph line used to lay out,
for himself, his wife, and his two children, plantations of enormous size
in the very middle of the forest. He also manufactured gramophones,
and eau-de-vie by the gallon. Fate was against him, however: every
night his horse was attacked by the so-called vampire-bats. When he
fitted out die horse with armour made of tent-canvas, the horse would
tear it to pieces on a branch. So he tried smearing the horse with
pepper-juice, and then with copper sulphate, but the bats wiped it all
away with their wings* and went on sucking the poor animal s blood.
The only effective method was to disguise the horse as a wild boar with
four skins, cut out and sewn together. His ever-fertile imagination
helped him to forget a great disappointment: the visit to Manaus,
where all his savings vanished into the hands of the doctors who
overcharged him, the hotel where he was starved, and his children,

Amazonia 361

who were encouraged by the shopkeepers to ransack every one of their
shelves.

I should like to say more of the ways in which these pitiable figures
from Amazonian life feed upon their own eccentricity and their own
despair. Among them are heroes or saints like Rondon and his
companions, who scattered across the unexplored parts of the map
names taken from the positivist calendar: some of them allowed
themselves to be massacred rather than open fire in reply to the Indians*
attacks. There were daredevils, too, who plunged deep into the forest
to keep strange rendezvous with tribes known to them alone: some
times they would loot the natives* humble harvest until an arrow put
an end to them. There were dreamers who built an ephemeral empire
in some unvisited valley. Maniacs who squandered in solitude the kind
of activity which leads others to a vice-regal throne. Victims, finally,
of the intoxication which swept away people more powerful than
themselves; of the bizarre fate of such people the adventurers to be
found on the Rio Machado, on the edge of the forests inhabited by the
Munde and the Tupi-Kawahib, are a living illustration.

One day I cut out of a newspaper a story which, though awkwardly
told, is not without a certain grandeur. Here it is:

Extract from A Pew Evmgelka (1938):

In 1920 the price of rubber fell and the big chief (Colonel
Raymundo Pereira Brasil) abandoned the seringaes on the edge of
the Igarape Sao Thome, so that they remained more or less virgin.
Time passed. Ever since I left the Colonel s territories, my
adolescent soul had preserved an indelible memory of those fertile
forests. I roused myself from the apathy into which I had been
thrown by the sudden fell in the price of rubber and, already well
trained in, and used to, the Bertholletia Excdsa, I suddenly
remembered the castanhaes which I used to see at S Thome.

At the Grand Hotel in Belem-do-Para, I met one day my former
chief, Colonel Brasil. He still had signs of his former great wealth.
I asked him for permission to go and work his chestnut forests.
He was kind enough to accord me this permission. He spoke to me,
saying: All that has been abandoned. It is a long way off, and the
only people still there are those who never managed to get away. I
don t know how they live, and I don t care. You can go there if
you want to.

I got a few slender resources together, asked for credit from

362 The Tupi-Kawahib

Messis J. Adonias, Addino G. Bastos, and Geneves Pereira & Co.,
took a ticket on one of the Amazon River steam-boats, and headed
for Tapajoz, At Itaituba we joined forces: Rufino Monte Palma,
Mdeatino Tdles de Mendonga, and myself. Each of us had fifty
men. We banded together, and we won through. Soon we reached
the mouth of the Igarape Sao Thome. There we found an entire
population foundering in abandonment and despair: old men fit
for nothing, women more or less naked, children stunted and
fearful When shelters had been built and everything was ready I
assembled all my men and their families and said to them: Here is
everyone s beta cartridges, salt, flour. In my hut there is neither
dock nor calendar. Work will begin when we can see the outlines
of our calloused hands, and the hour of rest will come with the night
that God has given us. Those who do not accept this will be given
nothing to eat. They will have to be content with palm-nut pap
and salt made from the buds of die big-headed anaja (the buds of
this palmr-tree yield, after boiling, a bitter and salty residue). We
have provisions for sixty days, and we must make the most of them.
Not one hour of this precious time can be lost. My associates
followed my example and sixty days later we had 1420 barrels (a
barrel held about 130 litres) of chestnuts. We loaded our boats
and travelled, with the men we had recruited, to Itaituba. I stayed
on with Rufino Monte Palma and the rest of our troop to take the
motorboat Santelmo, which kept us waiting a good fifteen days.
When we got to the port of Pimental we embarked, complete
with chestnuts and everything, on the gaiola Serttmejo, and at Belem
we sold our chestnuts for 47 milreis 500 ($2.30) the hectolitre.
Unluckily four men died on tie journey. We never went back
there. But today, with prices as high as 220 milreis the hectolitre
higher than ever before, according to documents in my possession
this chestnut-work has solid and positive advantages, unlike the
underground diamond, where so much is for ever unknown. And
that, my friends in Cuiaba, is how people get Para chestnuts in the
State of Mato-Grosso.

At least the narrator and his friends earned for their one hundred and
fifty or one hundred and seventy men a total, in sixty days, of some
thing like three thousand five hundred dollars. But what are we to say
of the rubber-tappers whose last agonies I was able to witness during
the final weeks of my stay?

33 Seringal

T

IHE principal species of the latex-tree, the kevea
and the castilloa, are called in local parlance respectively seringa and
caucha. The first is the more important of the two: it grows only near
river-banks, where the marge itself constitutes an imperfectly defined
zone, made over by a vague form of governmental authorization not
to landowners but to patrons, as they called: these patties de seringal
are tenants of food-and-mixed-provision shops. If not, as occasionally
happens, e in business on their own , they hold a concession from an
entrepreneur or from the little river-transport company which has the
monopoly of navigation on the mainstream of the river and on its
tributaries. The rubber-seeker is designated in the first place as a "client*
and is called zfreguez Le. a client of the shop in the zone where he
carries on his activities: he binds himself to make at that particular shop
all his purchases, including the aviagao (which has nothing to do with
aviation), and also to sell it his entire harvest In return he gets his
working tools and a season s provision of victuals. These are debited to
his account. He also gets the concession of an area called the collocayw:
this consists of a series of paths, each of which leads from the hot on the
river-bank to the principal rubber-producing trees in the forest nearby.
These trees will have been picked out in advance by others of dhe
patrons employees: the matteiro and the ajudante*

Early each morning (for it is believed to be a good thing to set to
work in the dark) the seringueiro will set off along one of his paths,
armed with \usfaca (a curved knife) and his cormga (a lamp that he
wears attached to his hat, like a miner). When he makes his incisions in
the seringas, a considerable delicacy is required: both the types of cut
in question (the flag and the fishbone are their names) need to be
employed correctly if the tree is neither to remain dry nor to exhaust
its supplies prematurely.

By ten in the morning, between one hundred and fifty and one

363

364 The Tupi-Kawahib

hundred and eighty trees will have been cut. After breakfasting,
the seringueiro goes back along the same path and collects the latex,
which will have been flowing since early morning into small zinc
cups attached to the trunk. The contents of these are then poured
into a bag, which he makes for himself, of coarse cotton material
impregnated with rubber. When he gets back to his hut towards
five in the evening, the next phase begins: the fattening , that
is to say, of the ball-shaped piece of rubber that is in process of
formation. The milk is slowly incorporated into the ball, which has
been skewered horizontally on a stick of wood and hung over a fire.
The smoke coagulates it, in one thin layer after another, and these are
evened out by turning the ball slowly on its axis. The ball is considered
to be finished when it reaches the standard weight: that weight varies,
according to the region concerned, between sixty and a hundred and
forty pounds. When the trees are becoming exhausted it may take
several weeks to complete a ball. These balls are of many kinds,
dependent on the quality of the ktex and die method of their con
struction. Wlien ready, they are taken along the river-bank, where the
patron comes once a year to collect them. He thai takes them to his own
warehouse and has them flattened down into pelks de borracha, or
rubber skins*; these he strings together to form rafts which are then
launched downstream. At each successive set of rapids the rafts come to
pieces, and have to be patiently put together again until at last they get
to Manaus or Belem.

And so (I am here simplifying what is often a complicated situation)
the seringueiro is subject to the patron , and the patron* in his turn, to the
navigation company which controls the main rivers. This system results
from the collapse in the price of rubber which dates from the year
1910, when rubber from plantations in Asia began to compete with
Brazilian rubber. Only a man who was really in need would now work
at the extraction of rubber, but the transportation of that rubber
downriver remained lucrative all the more so as goods fetch about
four times the price, on the seringal, that is paid for them initially. Those
who were in a position to do so gave up the direct handling of rubber
and concentrated on its transport. In this way they had all the
advantages of the system and ran none of its risks; the patrao was
doubly at the mercy of the transporter, in that the latter could either
raise his tariffs at will or refuse to victual his client. A patron whose shop
is empty will lose his clients: either they get away without paying their
debts or they die of hunger where they are.

Seringal 365

The patron is in the hands of the transporter, therefore, and the
client in those of the patron. In 1938 rubber sold at two per cent of the
price it commanded at the climax of the great boom. And althotigh
things improved for a time during the Second World War they are not
much better today. A collector working on the banks of the Machado
can count on getting between two hundred and one thousand two
hundred kilos of rubber a year, according to the fluctuations of the
season. At the very best, in 1938, this would enable him to buy half the
goods he really needed: rice, black beans, dried meat, salt, ammunition,
paraffin, and cotton doth. He could not have kept going at all without:
these things. The difference was made up either by hunting or by
running into ever greater debt: a collector s debts began when he first
set up house* and very often they went on increasing rill the day
he died.

It may be worth while to set down here the monthly budget of a
family of four people, as it was in ,193 8. Fluctuations in the price of rice
make it possible for anyone who wishes to do so to work out the
equivalent figures in gold:

Unit-price in mikeis global price

Two kilos of cooking fat . . . 10-500 42-000

Five kilos of sugar .... 4*500 22-500

Three kilos of coffee . . . . 5-000 15-000

One litre of paraffin .... 5*000 5-000

Four bars of soap .... 3-000 12*000

Three kilos of salt (for salting game) . 3-000 9*000

Twenty bullets, caL -44 . . . 1-200 24-000

Four pounds of tobacco . . . 8-000 34-000

Five packets of cigarette-paper . . 1-200 6*000

Ten boxes of matches . ... 0-500 5-000

Two knobs of garlic .... 1-500 3-000

A hundred grammes of pepper (for curing) 3-000 3-000

Four cans of condensed milk . . 5*000 20-000

Five kilos of rice .... 3*500 17*500

Thirty litres of manioc flour* . . 2-500 75-000

Six kilos of xarque (dried meat) . . 8-000 48-000

Total 65.400 341.000

To the annual budget there must also be added cotton doth, of
which in 1938 a length was worth from thirty to one hundred and

366 The Tupi-Kawahib

twenty mikeis: shoes at from forty to sixty a pair; a hat, at from fifty
to sixty; and needles, buttons, thread, and medicines, which last they
consumed in flabbergasting quantity. For instance one tablet of
quinine (and each member of each family would use a whole tube a
day) or of aspirin would cost one milreis. And we must remember at
this point that a really good season on the Machado (harvest-time for
rubber is from April to September, since the forest cannot be walked
in during the rainy season) a really good season would bring in
two thousand four hundred mikeis. (Afina fetched in Manaus, in 1936,
around four mikeis the kilo, of which the producer received half.) Even
if the seringudro has no young children, eats nothing but what he gets
for himself out hunting and the manioc flour which he grows and
manufactures himself, over and above the rest of his work his bills for
a bare minimum of food will more than cover his income from even
an exceptionally good season.

Whether he is or is not in business on his own, the patron lives in
terror of bankruptcy. And bankruptcy is never far away if his clients
disappear without having repaid his advances. So he employs an armed
foreman to keep watch on the river. A few days after I left the Tupi-
Kawahib I had a strange encounter on the river, which remained with
me as the very image of life on the seringal. This is what I wrote in my
diary on December 3rd, 1938:

Towards ten o clock the weather was grey and soggy. Suddenly
we met a little montaria, drawn by a thin man, with his wife, a fat
mulatto woman with crinkly hair, and a child of about ten. They
were exhausted and the woman finished every sentence in tears.
They were on their way back from an expedition on the Macha-
cHnho eleven cachoeiras (falls), and one of them Jaburu with a
varagao por terra, where they had to take everything out of the boat
and carry it overland. They had been looking for one of their
Jreguezes who had run away with his girt-friend, taking with them
a boat and all his belongings, after stocking up with aviafao and
leaving a note to say that a mercadoria e muito cara e nao tern coragem
pagar a conta (everything was too dear and he hadn t the courage
to pay his bill). The people we met were employees of the Com-
padre Gaetano. Appalled at their responsibility, they had gone
after the fugitive, meaning to capture him and bring him back to
their patron. They had a rifle with them.

Seringal 367

The rifle, as they called it, was a carbine,, . usually a Westminster,
calibre .44, which served for hunting and, if need be, for other pur
poses also.

A few weeks kter I noted down the wording of this poster, at the
door of the Calama Limitada shop which stood at the confluence of
the Machado and the Madeira:

LUXURY GOODS OF VERY SPECIAL QUALITY

comprising fat, butter and milk

will be sold on credit only

on the orders of the patron.

Where no such order has been given

they will be sold only in return for

immediate payment in money
or in exchange for some equivalent article.

Immediately beneath this was another poster:

YOU TOO CAN HAVE SMOOTH HAIR!

Even if you are a person of colour!
However wavy or crinkly your hair may be

it will become smooth and glossy if you
make regular use of the newest preparation

ALISANTE

On sale at The Big Bottle*
rue Uruguayana, Manaus.

So used are the seringueiros to sickness and poverty that their life is
not always as grim as it sounds. Doubtless the time is far distant when
the high price of rubber allowed them to build saloons made from
wooden planks at points whore two rivers met. These turned into
rowdy gambling-hells whence the seringotiws, having lost in a night
the fortunes that they had taken years to build up, would set off in the
morning to get their aviagao on credit from a sympathetic patron and
begin the whole process all over again. I saw the ruins of one such
saloon, the Vatican as it was called: even the name spoke for its
vanished splendours. On Sunday the rubber-tappers would arrive there

3<S8 The Tupi-Kawahib

in pyjamas of striped silk, soft hat, and varnished shoes, and listen to
virtuosi who played tunes by firing off revolvers of varying sounds
and calibres. Silk pyjamas are no longer to be got in the seringaL But life
there is still given an equivocal charm by the young women who lead
a precarious existence as concubines of the seringueiros. This con
cubinage is known as casar na igreja verde getting married in the green
church*. Sometimes the mulherada, or womenfolk , will band together
and organize a dance. Each will give five milreis, or some coffee, or
some sugar, or the loan of a hut rather larger than the others, with a
lantern well filled for the night. They arrive in flimsy dresses, made-up,
and with their hair specially dressed, with a kiss of the hand on arrival
for the host and hostess. They use make-up to give themselves the
illusion not so much of beauty as of health. Rouge and powder conceal
the effects of smallpox, tuberculosis, and malaria. For the rest of the
year each lives, unkempt and in rags, with her man in his barrafao: for
this one night they arrive, vivid and well got-up, in high-heeled shoes.
Even so, they have had to walk a mile or more along muddy forest
paths in their ball-dresses. And before dressing they have washed in
squalid rivulets and dressed by night: it will have rained all day. There
is a terrifying contrast between these fragile attempts at civilization and
the monstrous reality which waits for them at the door.

The bodies shown off by their badly cut dresses are character
istically Indian, with the very high breasts lodged almost under the
armpits and squeezed tight by the material that has to hold in place the
protruding belly. The arms are small, the legs thin and prettily made;
hands, wrists, ankles, and feet are all very delicate. The men, in white
linen trousers, heavy shoes, and pyjama-tops, will ask their partners for
a dance. (As I have already said, these women are not married. They
are companheiras sometimes amaziada$ 9 or fixed up*, sometimes
desoccupadas, free, available .) Each leads the lady of his choice to the
middle of the pl&nqaue of babassu straw, where the scene is lit by a
murmurous paraffin-lamp, otpharoL For a few moments they wait for
the downbeat, which will be given by the caracacha, a box of nails
shaken by a dancer not, for the moment, on the floor; and then off
they go: one, two-three, one, two-three, and so on, with their feet
dragging noisily on a plank floor mounted on stakes.

The dances are those of an earlier day. Above all, the desfeitera,
made up of endless repetitions, between which the music of the
accordion (to the accompaniment at times of the violfio and the
cavaquinho) stops to allow all the dancers to improvise, each in turn, a

Seringa! 369

distich charged with overtones of passion, or teasing. To these the ladies
must, in turn, reply in similar style. This is not easy for them, for they
feel shy, com vergonha: some run away and hide their blushes, others ratde
off an unintelligible couplet, like schoolgirls who have learnt some
thing by heart. Here is the distich which was improvised about
ourselves, one evening at Urupa:

Um e medico, outro professor, outro fiscal do Museu,
Escolhe entr es tres qual e o seu.

(One is a doctor, the other a professor, the other an Inspector from tie
Museum: choose which of the three shall be yours.)

Luckily the poor girl to whom this was addressed had no idea what
to say in reply.

When the ball goes on for several days, as it sometimes does, the
women put on a fresh dress each evening.

If the Nambikwara had taken me back to the stone age, and the
Tupi-Kawahib to the sixteenth century, I now felt myself by contrast,
in the eighteenth century, such as it might have been in some small
Caribbean harbour or along the coast of the mainland. I had crossed a
whole continent. But the now-imminent end of my travels was first
made manifest in this return-journey from the depths of time.

2A

PART IX

The Return

34 The Apotheosis of Augustus

a

NE stage in the journey had been particularly
discouraging: Campos Novos. Separated from my companions by the
epidemic which was immobilizing them some fifty-odd miles farther
back, I could do nothing but wait on the far edge of the station whore
a handful of people were dying of malaria, hookworm disease, and,
above all, hunger. The Paressi woman whom I had engaged to do my
washing insisted that she be given not merely soap, but a meal, before
she would get down to work; without it, she explained, she would be
too weak to do anything. And she was right: these people had lost all
aptitude for life. Too weak and too ill to struggle, they aimed merely
to do less and need less; what they sought was that state of torpor
which would demand from them a minimum of physical effort and at
the same time make them less conscious of their wretchedness.

The Indians contributed in quite another way to this dismal state of
affairs. I was by no means popular with either of the two bands which
had met up at Campos Novos and were constantly on the point of
leaping at each other s throats. I had to be continually on the watch, and
it was practically impossible to carry on with my work. Rekt-work is
taxing enough even in normal conditions: the anthropologist must get
up at first light and remain alert until the last of the natives has gone
to sleep (even then he sometimes has to watch over their slumber). He
must try to pass unnoticed, and yet always be at hand. He must see
everything, remember everything, take note of everything. He must
be ready to make the most of a humiliating indiscretion, to go to some
snotty-nosed urchin and beg for information, and keep himself ever
in readiness to profit by a moment of complaisance or free-and-easiness.
Or, it may well be, for days together a fit of ill humour among the
natives will compel him to shut down on his curiosity and simulate
a sombre reserve. The investigator eats his heart out in the exercise of

373

374 The Return

his profession: he has abandoned, after ail, his environment, his friends,
and his habits, spent a considerable amount of money and time, and
compromised his health. And the only apparent result is that his
presence is forgiven by a handful of wretched people who will soon,
in any case, be extinct; whose main occupations are sleeping and
picking their lice; and whose whim can decide the success or the failure
of his whole enterprise. When the natives are frankly hostile, as they
were at Campos Novos, the situation deteriorates: the Indians, un
willing even to be looked at, will disappear without warning for
days on end, hunting or collecting. The investigator still hopes to
resume the neighbourly relations for which he has paid so dearly, and
so he hangs about endlessly, marks time, turns aimlessly round and
round, rereading his old notes, making a fair copy of them, attempting
an interpretation*. Or else he sets himself some pointless and minutely
detailed task, a caricature of his professional activity; measuring, for
instance, the distance between one fire-ate and the next, or count
ing, one by one, the branches which make up the now-deserted
shelters.

It is a time, above all, of self-interrogation. Why did he come to
such a place? With what hopes? And to what end? What {5, in point of
feet, an anthropological investigation? Is it the exercise of a profession
like any other, differentiated only by the fact that home and office-
kboratory are several thousand miles apart? Or does it follow upon
some more radical decision one that calls in question the system
within which one was born and has come to manhood? In my case I
had been almost five years away from France. I had given up my
academic career. The more astute among my classmates were climbing
their ladders, rung after rung. Those whose leanings were towards
politics, as my own had once been, were already Members of Parlia
ment and would soon be Ministers, whereas I was roaming the desert,
hunting down the outcasts of humanity. Who or what had provoked
me to blow sky-high the normal progressions of my life? Was it all
a ruse, a welt-judged detour which would allow me eventually to
resume my career with certain extra advantages of which due note
would be taken? Or did my decision bespeak a profound incapacity to
live on good terms with my own social group? Was I destined, in fact,
to live in ever greater isolation from my fellows? The strange paradox
was that, so far from making me free of a new world*, my life of
adventure tended rather to thrust me back into my old one, while the
world to which I had laid claim slipped through my fingers. No

The Apotheosis of Augustus 375

sooner had I mastered the men and the landscapes which I had travelled
so far to see than they lost the meaning which I had hoped to find in
them; and in the place of these disappointing, though immediately
present, images I found myself haunted by others which had remained
in reserve from my past. Never, when they were a part of the reality
around me, had I set any value upon them. But when I was travelling
in areas which few had set eyes upon, and sharing the existence of
peoples whose wretchedness was the price paid by them, of course
of my investigation into the distant past, I found that neither people nor
landscape stood in the foreground of my mind. This was occupied,
rather, by fugitive visions of the French countryside from which I had
cut myself off, or fragments of music and poetry which were the
perfectly conventional expression of a civilization against which I had
taken my stand: such, at any rate, was how I must interpret my actions,
if my life were to retain any sense of purpose. For weeks on end, on
that plateau of the western Mato Grosso, I was obsessed not by my
surroundings, which I should never see again, but by a hackneyed tune
that my memory deformed still further: the third of Chopin s Etudes,
op. 10, which seemed to me and I well knew how bitter was the irony
of it to summarize all that I had left behind me.

Why Chopin, to whom I had never been especially drawn?
Brought up to admire Wagner above all things, I had only lately
discovered Debussy even after I had been persuaded by the
second or third performance of Les Noces that the world of
Stravinsky was more real and more valid than die savannah of central
Brazil: had swept away, in feet, my previous notion of music. Bet at
the moment when I left France it was Pelleas that gave me die spiritual
nourishment which I needed; so why was it diat Chopin, and the most
banal of his works, should have had such a hold upon me in die desert?
More concerned with this problem than with the observations which
would have given point to my existence, I told myself that the progress
implicit in passing from Chopin to Debussy might well be amplified
when the passage was made in the opposite direction. I ^as now
experiencing in Chopin the marvels which had made me prefer
Debussy: in Chopin they were implicit merely, and uncertain, and so
discreet that I, not at first discerning them, had hurried rather towards
the music in which they were plainly manifest. I was advancing on
both fronts: deeper knowledge of the older composer had led me to
recogoize beauties destined to remain hidden from those who had not
first come to know Debussy, Some people love Chopin because they

376 The Return

know nothing of tie subsequent evolution of music; but where they
love by default, I loved by excess. There was also the fact that, when I
wished to encourage the apparition of certain emotions within myself,
I no longer needed an explicit stimulus; a hint, an allusion, a
premonition of certain forms, and I was well away.

For mile after mile the same melodic phrase rose up in my memory.
I simply couldn t get free of it. Each time it had a new fascination for
me. Initially imprecise in outline, it seemed to become more and more
intricately woven, as if to conceal from the listener how eventually it
would end. This weaving and re-weaving became so complicated that
one wondered how it could possibly be unravelled; and then suddenly
one note would resolve the whole problem, and the solution would
seem yet more audacious than the procedures which had preceded,
called for, and made possible its arrival; when it was heard, all that had
gone before took on a new meaning, and the quest, which had seemed
arbitrary, was se^n to have prepared the way for this undreamed-of
solution. Was that what travel meant? An exploration of the deserts of
memory, rather than of those around me? One afternoon, when the
overwhelming heat sent a hush of sleep over the encampment, I was
squatting in my hammock, protected from the pests , as they are called
over there, by the mosquito-net whose narrow weave made it even
more difficult to breathe. Suddenly I realized that the problems which
tormented me would make a good subject for a play. I imagined it as
clearly as if it had already been written. The Indians had disappeared;
for six days I wrote from morning till night on the backs of sheets
covered with lists of words, and sketches, and genealogies. After which
my inspiration left me in the very middle of my work. It has never
returned, and when I reread what I had scribbled down I don t think
it was much to be sorry about.

My play was called The Apotheosis of Augustus and was, in effect,
a new version of Corneille s Cinna. In it I put on the stage two men
who had been friends in childhood and re-met at a moment of crisis in
both their very different careers. The one had opted, as he thought,
against civilization, only to find that he was heading back towards it
by a very complicated route and had destroyed, in so doing, the sense
and the value of the alternative which he had supposed to be his
concern. The other had been marked out from birth for the world and
its honours, only to find that all his efforts had tended towards the
abolition of that world and those honours. Each sought, therefore, to

The Apotheosis of Augustus 377

destroy the other, and in so doing to save, even at the price of his own
death, the significance of what had gone before.

The action began at the moment when the Senate, wishing to confer
on Augustus a rank higher even than that of Emperor, voted for his
apotheosis and made ready to admit him, in his own lifetime, to the
ranks of the gods. In the palace gardens two guards talV over the day s
news and try to foresee how it will affect them. Surely the policeman
will become a thing of the past? How could they protect a god whose
privilege it is to turn himself into an insect, or even to become invisible
and paralyse whomever he pleases? They ought to strike, perhaps; in
any case they deserve a rise in pay.

The chief of police appears and explains their mistake. The mission
of the police does not mark them off from those whom they serve. Ends
are not their concern: the police force is indistinguishable from the
person and the interests of its master; they shine with his glory. When
the Head of the State becomes a god, his police have a share in die
godhead. For them, as for him, all things become possible. The force
fulfils its true nature and could take as its device the motto of the
private detective agencies: itself unseen, it sees and hears all.

The stage then fills with people who have come from the meeting
of the Senate and have much to say of what has gone on there. Many
and various are the interpretations of Augustus* passage from manhood
to divinity. Those with great interests in their charge see in it new
ways of making money, while Augustus, Emperor to his fingers* ends,
thinks only of the confirmation of his own power and, as a conse
quence, of his new immunity from plotting and intrigue. His wife
Livia sees the apotheosis as the natural summit of his career: No one
could have deserved it more the Academic Pran^aise, in fact. . . .
Camille, Augustus young sister, is in love with Cinna, and she brings
Augustus the news that Cinna is bade in Rome after ten years* adven
turous absence. She hopes that Augustus will receive Cinna and that
Cinna, capricious and poetical as ever, will perhaps dissuade the
Emperor from going over irrevocably to the Establishment. livk
dislikes the idea: Cinna the madcap, only been happy among savages,
has always brought an element of disorder into Augustus* career.
Augustus is tempted to take her part, but successive delegations of
priests, painters, and poets begin to make him hesitate. All conceive the
divinity of Augustus as an essentially other-worldly measure. The
priests, for instance, take it for granted that the temporal power will
pass into their hands, since they are the authorized mediators between

378 The Return

gods and men. The artists want Augustus to be seen henceforward as
an idea, rather than as a person, thereby outraging the Imperial couple;
instead of what they had in mind marble statues, larger than life and
substantially more beautiful Augustus and Livia find themselves
being presented, in the likeness of whirlwinds or polyhedra. And the
con&sion grows all the greater when a troupe of light women Leda,
Europa, Alkrnene, and Diana offer to share with the Emperor their
experience of commerce with divinity.

Augustus, left alone on die stage, finds himself faced with an eagle:
not the conventional eagle, divinity *s attribute, but a wild creature,
evil-smelling and lukewarm to the touch. It is, none the less, Jupiter s
eagle; the same who carried off Ganymede after a bloody combat in
which the boy struggled in vain. Augustus can hardly believe his ears
when the bird explains to him that his divinity will consist simply in
immunity to the feeling of repulsion which overcomes him, as a man,
when the eagle draws near. He will know that he is a god not because
of any sensation of inner radiance or any capacity to work miracles,
bat because lie will endure without disgust the nearness of a wild
creature which will smell disgustingly and cover him with its drop
pings. Carrion, decay, and cloacal secretions will come to seem his
natural aox>mpaniment: "Butterflies will copulate on the nape of your
neek. Any patch of ground will seem to you good enough to lie on:
you will not think of it, as you do now, as prickly, swarming with
insects, and certainly infectious. , . /

In the second act we find that the eagle has made Augustus ponder
the problem of the relation between Nature and Society. He decides to
see Cinna; Cinna who once chose Nature, as against Society, while
Augustus, by opting for Society against Nature, set out on the path
that led to the throne. It is a discouraged Cinna who answers his
summons. During his ten adventurous years away the thought of
Camille had dominated all others. Camille was the sister of his boyhood
friend, and had lie wanted to marry her he liad only to ask. Augustus
would have given her to him gkdly. But he could not have borne to
win her within Society s rules; he wanted to bear her off in the teeth
of its disapproval. Whence his quest for an unorthodox prestige that
would enable him to force Society s hand and wrest from it what, in
point of fact, it was only too ready to give.

Cinna had returned home loaded with marvels. Every hostess in
Rome had put htm at the top of her list. Only he knew, meanwhile,
that the celebrity he had paid for so dearly was based on a lie. The

The Apotheosis of Augustus 379

experiences with which he was credited were a myth; the journey a
deception; but all seemed true enough to those who had seen only its
shadow. Cinna, jealous of Augustus destiny, had coveted an ever
greater Empire: *I said to myself that no one in the world, not even
Plato himself, can imagine the infinite diversity of leaves and flowers
that are to be found in the world. I would be the first to count those
leaves and those flowers, one by one. I would learn in my own body the
meaning of fear and cold and hunger and exhaustion things beyond
the imagining of you who live in comfortable houses with a well-filled
granary to hand. I ve lived on lizards and snakes and grasshoppers
things of which the very idea would turn your stomach and I ate
them with the ardour of a neophyte, convinced that I was forging a
new bond between myself and the universe. But Cinna s efforts were
all in vain: *I lost everything, he said. Even what was most human
became inhuman to me. To while away the interminable days I took to
reciting lines from Aeschylus and Sophocles; and I so soaked myself in
some of them that now when I hear them in the theatre their beauty
means nothing to me. Every phrase reminds me of powdering foot
paths, and burnt grass, and eyes reddened by the sands/

In the later scenes of the second act Augustus, Cinna, and Camille
stand revealed in the full extent of their predicaments. Camille has eyes
only for her explorer, who tries in vain to make her see how false are
his stories. 1 did my best to explain the emptiness and futility of all
that had happened, but no sooner were these transformed as "a travel
ler s tale" than she was dazzled and all adream. Yet there was nothing
to it: the earth was like any other earth, and the tufts of grass like that
meadow over there/ Finally Camille revolted against his attitude, for
she knew that she was not exempt from her lover s general loss of
interest in life. It was not as a person that he loved her, but as a symbol
of the only possible remaining link between himself and Society. As
for Augustus he recognized with horror that Cinna was speaking with
the eagle s voice. But he could not turn back. Too many political
interests were involved in his apotheosis, and he rebelled, above all,
against the idea that there was not, for the man of action, a point at
which he would find at once his rest and his reward.

The third act opens in an atmosphere of crisis. On the eve of the
ceremony of apotheosis, all Rome is invaded by divinity. The Imperial
palace cracks open and animals and plants run wild inside it. The city
returns to a state of Nature, as if a cataclysm had overwhelmed it.
Camille has broken with Cinna, and the break gives him the final proof

380 The Return

that he has reached a point of total frustration. Augustus becomes the
Tr>ftin object of his rancour. The relaxed ways of Nature now seem to
him quite pointless beside the organized delights of humane society;
but he clings to his uniqueness, none the less: It s nothing, I know, but
a nothing that is still dear to me, because I chose it* He cannot bear to
think that both Nature and Society have been granted to Augustus,
and that instead of winning Nature at the cost of a great renunciation
Augustus had acquired it over and above Society as a kind of bonus,
He will kill Augustus, thus proving that choice is, after all, ineluctable.

At this moment Augustus calk on Cinna to help him. He is no
longer in control of events. How can he, without stepping out of
character, resubmit them to his will? In a moment of high excitement
they agree that the solution is for Cinna to carry out his plan and
murder Augustus. Each then would gain the immortality he had
dreamed of: Augustus official immortality as the historian, the sculptor,
and the priest conceive it; and Cinna the dark immortality of the
regicide, which would allow him to rejoin Society and yet continue
to deny it.

f m not really quite sure how it all ended. (The last scenes remained
unfinished*) I iancy that Camille involuntarily brought things to a dose:
reverting to her original sentiments she persuaded Augustus that he had
misread the situation and that Cinna, rather than the eagle, was the
emissary of the gods. Augustus then devised a political solution. If he
could manage to hoodwink Cinna he would also hoodwink the gods.
He and Cinna had agreed that he would dismiss his bodyguard and
offer no defence to Cinna s dagger; but when the time actually came
he would double die guard and make sure that Cinna never got near
him. Their respective careers would remain perfectly in character:
Augustus would bring off the last of his great ventures; he would be a
god, but a god among men, and he would pardon Cinna; for Cinna it
would be just one more Mure.

3 5 ^4 Little Glass of Rum

T

In

. HE foregoing fable has only one excuse: that it
illustrates the disordered state of mind into which one is plunged by
the prolonged abnormality of the traveller s way of life. But die
problem has still to be solved: how can the anthropologist get free of
the contradiction implicit in the circumstances of his choice? Under his
very nose, and at his disposition, he has a society: his own. Why does
he decide to disdain it, reserving for societies distant and different from
his own the patience and devotion which he has deliberately withheld
from his fellow-citizens? It is not by chance that the anthropologist is
rarely on terms of neutrality with his own social group. Where he is a
missionary or an administrator, he can be presumed to have identified
himself so entirely with a certain order that all his energies are now
given to its propagation. And when his professional activity takes place
on the scientific or higher academic level, objective factors in his past
can very probably be adduced to prove that he is ill- or unstated to
the society into which he was born. He has, in fact, become an anthro
pologist for one of two reasons: either he finds it a practical method of
reconciling his membership of a group with his severely qualified
acceptance of it or, more amply, he wishes to turn to advantage an
initial attitude of detachment which has already brought him, as we say,
half-way to meet 5 societies unlike his own.

But if he tries to think straight, he will have to ask himself whether
he is really justified in setting such great store by exotic societies (and
the more exotic they are, the more he will prize them), Is this not
rather a function of the disdain, not to say the hostility, which he feels
for the customs of his own milieu? At home, the anthropologist may be
a natural subversive, a convinced opponent of traditional usage: but no
sooner has he in focus a society different from his own than he becomes
respectful of even the most conservative practices. Nor is this mere
perversity: I have known anthropologists who were also conformists,

38i

382 The Return

But their rofifomsism is derived retrospectively and at second hand, as
a result of their having already assimilated their own society into the
societies they were investigating. It is to the latter that they owe
allegiance, and, if they have thought better of their initial revolt against
their own society, it is because they have made an additional concession
to tiie otfaors: that of treating their own society as they would wish all
others to be treated. The dilemma is inescapable: either the anthro
pologist clings to die norms of his own group, in which case the others
can only inspire in him an ephemeral curiosity in which there is always
an dement of disapproval; or he makes himself over completely to the
objects of his studies, in which case he can never be perfectly objective,
because in giving himself to all societies he cannot but refuse himself,
wittingly or not, to one among them. He commits, that is to say, the
sin with which he reproaches those who question the privileged status
of his vocation.

I first began to worry seriously about this at the time of the enforced
sojourn in the Antilles which I have described in my opening chapters.
In Martinique I went over certain rusticated, half-abandoned rum-
distilleries where neither methods nor apparatus had been changed
since the eighteenth century. In Porto Rico, by contrast, the factories
of the company which enjoys a quasi-monopoly of canersugar were
agleam with white-enamelled tanks andchromimit-pkted faucets. And
yet in Martinique, where the ancient wooden barrels are silted up with
sediment, the rum was like velvet on the palate and had a delicious
scent: in Porto Rico it was brutal and vulgar. Can it be that the finesse
of the Martiniquais nims was due to impurities which archaic methods
of manufacture do nothing to disturb? The contrast illustrated, to my
way of thinking, the paradox of civilization: we know that its magic
derives from the presence within it of certain impurities, and yet we
can never resist the impulse to dean up precisely those elements which
give it its charm. We are doubly right but that very tightness proves us
wrong. For we are right to wish to increase our production and cut
manufacturing costs. But we are also right when we treasure some of
the imperfections which we are doing our best to eliminate. Society
sets itselC in short, to destroy precisely those things which give it most
flavour. This contradiction does not seem to apply so directly to
societies unlike our own. For as we are ourselves implicated in the
evolution of our own society, we are to some extent in the dock with
the accused. Our situation compels us to take certain courses of action
towards certain ends, and there is nothing we can do to prevent this.

A Little Glass of Ram 3^3

But when another society comes under scrutiny, all is changed: object
ivity, out of the question before, is ours for die asking. Where we had
been agents in the transformations in progress, we become mere
spectators, all the more able to estimate the situation in that the balance
of future and past, which had been present to us as a moral dilemma,
can now be a pretext for aesthetic contemplation and disinterested
meditation.

In thus thinking the matter out, I may have shown just where the
contradiction lies. I may have shown where it began, and how we
managed to come to terms with it. But I have certainly not put an end
to it. Must we therefore conclude that it is with us for ever? People
have sometimes said so, and inferred from this that our work was quite
pointless. Our vocation expressed itself, they said, in a liking for
societies and cultures very different from our own. It caused us, in fact,
to overestimate the one at the expense of the other. Surely this pointed
to a basic inconsistency? How could we announce that these societies
were important*, if our judgment were not based on the values of the
society which inspired us to begin our researches? We ourselves were
the products of certain inescapable norms; and if we claimed to be able
to estimate one form of society in its relation to another we were
merely rl aiming., in a shamefaced and roundabout way, that our
society was superior to all the others.

Behind the arguments of these worthy spokesmen there was
nothing but an execrable pky upon words: they pretended that mysti
fication (which they themselves so often practise) is the contrary of
mysticism (with which they, quite wrongly, reproach us). Hie enr-
qtriries of archaeology and anthropology show that certain civilizations
some of them now vanished, others still with us have known quite
well how best to solve problems with, which we are still straggling. To
take one instance only: it is now only a few years since we discovered the
physical and physiological principles on which are based the Bskimoes*
costume and manner of life. If they can exist in these conditions, it is
not from long conditioning, or from an exceptional physical constir-
tution, but from their discovery of scientific principles of which we had
until lately no idea at all. So true was this that it also exploded the
pretensions of those explorers who had claimed to have improved
upon* Eskimo costume: the results were the opposite of those that had
been hoped for. The Eskimoes had already arrived at the perfect
solution: all that we needed, to be convinced of this, was to grasp the
theory which lay beneath it.

3 84 The Return

The difficulty does not lie there. Certain social groups must be
adjudged superior to ourselves, if the comparison rests upon their
success in reaching objectives comparable to our own; but, in the same
instant, we earn the right to pass judgment upon them, and therefore
to condemn all those other objectives which do not coincide with our
own. Implicitly we claim for our own society, for its customs, and for
its norms, a position of privilege, since an observer from a different
social group would pass different verdicts upon those same examples.
This being so, how can we claim for our studies the rank of a
science? If we are to get back to a position of objectivity, we should
abstain from all judgments of this sort. We have to admit that human
societies can choose among a gamut of possibilities. These choices
cannot be compared with each other: one is as good as another. But
then there arises a new problem; for if, in the first instance, we are
threatened by obscurantism, in the form of a blind rejection of anything
that is not our own, there is also an alternative danger: that of an
eclecticism which bids us reject nothing at all, when faced with an
alien culture. Even if that society should itself protest against the cruelty,
the injustice, and the poverty which characterize it, we must not pass
judgment. But as these abuses also exist among ourselves, how shall
we have the right to fight them at home if, when they appear elsewhere,
we make no move to protest?

The anthropologist who is critic at home and conformist elsewhere
is therefore in a contradictory position. But beneath this contradiction
is another, from which it is even less easy to escape. If he wishes to
contribute to the improvement of his own social system he cannot but
condemn, wherever he comes upon them, conditions analogous to
those which he deplores at home. He loses, in so doing, all claim to be
objective and impartial. Conversely the detachment enjoined upon him
by moral scruples, and by the rigorous methods of science, will prevent
him from finding fault with his own society, once it is taken for granted
that his business is to know, not to pass judgment. The man who takes
action in his own country cannot hope to understand the world outside:
the man who takes all knowledge for his ambition must give up the
idea of ever changing anything at home.

If the contradiction were insurmountable the anthropologist would
be wrong to hesitate over the alternatives which are open to him. He is
what he has chosen to be: an anthropologist; therefore he must accept
the mutilated condition which is the price of his vocation. He has
chosen and must accept the consequences of his choice: his place lies

A Little Glass of Rum 385

with the others , and his role is to understand them. Never can he act
in their name, for their very otherness prevents him from thinking or
willing in their place: to do so would be tantamount to identifying
himself with them. He must also resign himself to taking no action in
his own society, for fear of adopting a partisan s position in respect of
values which may recur in other societies: such a position could not
but then prejudice his judgment. His initial choice alone will remain,
and he will make no attempt to justify that choice. It is a pure, a
motiveless act: or, if motivated at all, will derive from external
considerations, borrowed from the history or the character of each one
of us.

Luckily we have not yet reached that point. We are on the edge of
the abyss, and we have peeped into it, but we can still look for a way
out. And get out we can, provided that we are not too extreme in our
judgments and are willing to phase the difficulty in two stages.

No society is perfect. Each has within itself, by nature, an impurity
incompatible with the norms to which it kys claim: this impurity finds
outlet in elements of injustice, cruelty, and insensitivity. How are we
to evaluate those elements? Anthropological enquiry can provide the
answer. For while the comparison of a small number of societies will
make them seem very different from one another, these differences will
seem smaller and smaller as the field of investigation is enlarged. It will
eventually become plain that no human society is fundamentally good:
but neither is any of them fundamentally bad; all offer their members
certain advantages, though we must bear in mind a residue of iniquity,
apparently more or less constant in its importance, which may corres
pond to a specific inertia which offers resistance, on the level of social
Hfe, to all attempts at organization.

This may surprise the habitual reader of travel-books, who delights
in hearing of the barbarous 5 customs of this people or that. But these
superficial reactions are soon put in their place, once the facts have been
correctly interpreted and re-established in a wider perspective. Take
the case of cannibalism, which is of all savage practices the one we find
the most horrible and disgusting. We must set aside those cases in
which people eat one another for lack of any other meat as was the
case in certain parts of Polynesia. No society is proof, morally speaking,
against the demands of hunger. In times of starvation men will eat
literally anything, as we lately saw in the Nazi extermination-camps.

There remain to be considered what we may call the positive
forms of cannibalism those whose origins are mystical, magical, or

2B

386 The Return

religious. By eating part of the body of an ancestor, or a fragment of an
enemy corpse, the cannibal hoped to acquire the virtues, or perhaps to
neutralize the power, of the dead man. Such rites were often observed
with great discretion, the vital mouthful being made up of a small
quantity of pulverized organic matter mixed, on occasion, with other
forms of food. And even when the element of cannibalism was more
openly avowed, we must acknowledge that to condemn such customs
on moral grounds implies either belief in a bodily resurrection, which
would be compromised by the material destruction of the corpse, or
the affirmation of a link between body and spirit, and of the resulting
dualism. These convictions are of the same nature as those in the name
of which ritual cannibalism is practised, and we have no good reason
for preferring the one to the other all the more so as the disregard for
the sanctity of death, with which we reproach the cannibal, is certainly
no greater, and indeed arguably much less, than that which we tolerate
in our European anatomy lessons .

But above all we must realize that certain of our own usages, if
investigated by an observer from a different society, would seem to
him similar in kind to the cannibalism which we consider uncivilized*.
I am thinking here of our judicial and penitentiary customs. If we were
to look at them from outside it would be tempting to distinguish two
opposing types of society: those which practise cannibalism who
believe, that is to say, that the only way to neutralize people who are
the repositories of certain redoubtable powers, and even to turn them
to one s own advantage, is to absorb them into one s own body*
Second would come those which, like our own, adopt what might be
called anthropoemia (from the Greek emein, to vomit). Faced with the
same problem, they have chosen the opposite solution. They expel
these formidable beings from the body public by isolating them for a
time, or for ever, denying them all contact with humanity, in establish
ments devised for that express purpose. In most of the societies which
we would call primitive this custom would inspire the profoundest
horror: we should seem to them barbarian in the same degree as we
impute to them on the ground of their no-more-than-symmetrical
customs.

Societies which seem to us ferocious may turn out, when examined
from another point of view, to have their humane and benevolent
sides. Take the Plains Indians of North America: they are doubly
significant first because some of them practised a moderated form of
cannibalism, and second because they are one of the few primitive

A Little Glass of Rum 387

peoples who were endowed with an organized police force. This force,
which also had to mete out justice, would never have imagined that
the punishments accorded to the guilty could take the form of a
severance of social links. An Indian who broke the laws of his tribe
would be sentenced to the destruction of all his belongings his tent
and his horses. But at the same time the police became indebted to him
and were required, in fact, to compensate him for the harm he had been
made to suffer. This restitution put the criminal, once again, in debt to
the group, and he was obliged to acknowledge this by a series of gifts
which the entire community including the police would help him
to get together. These reciprocities continued, by way of gifts and
counter-gifts, until the initial disorder created by the crime and its
punishment had been completely smoothed over and order was once
again complete. Not only are such customs more humane than our
own, but they are more coherent, even if we are to formulate the
problem in terms of modern psychology. It would seem logical that
in return for the infantilization of the guilty man which is implied in
the notion of punishment, we should also acknowledge that he is
entitled to a gratification of some sort. If this is not done, the initial
step loses its effectiveness and may even bring about results directly
contrary to those hoped for in the first place. The summit of absurdity
in this context is to do as we do and treat the guilty simultaneously as
children, in that they are meet for punishment, and as grown-ups, in
that we refuse them all subsequent consolation. It is grotesque to believe
that we have made a great spiritual advance simply because, instead
of eating our fellow human beings, we prefer to mutilate them, both
physically and morally.

If analyses of this sort are sincerely and methodically conducted
they have two results. First, they encourage us to take a level-headed
and unbiassed view of customs and ways of life remote from our own
without, however, attributing to them absolute merits such as no
society can claim to possess. Second, they dissuade us from taking for
granted the rightness or naturalness of our own customs, as can easily
be the case if we know of no others, or know of them only partly
and with bias. Anthropological analysis tends, admittedly, to enhance
the prestige of other societies and diminish that of our own: in that
respect its action is contradictory. But reflection will show, I think,
that this contradiction is more apparent than real.

It has sometimes been said that only in western society have anthro
pologists been produced. Therein, it was said, lay its greatness;

2B*

388 The Return

anthropology might question all its other merits, but here at least was
one before which we could not but bow our heads, since, but for that,
we ourselves would not exist. But the contrary argument could also
be sustained: that if the West has produced anthropologists, it is because
it was so tormented by remorse that it had to compare its own image
with that of other societies, in the hope that they would either display
the same shortcomings or help the West to explain how these defects
could have come into being. But even if it is true that the comparison
of our own society with all others, present or past, will lead to the
collapse of the foundations on which it rests even so, others will meet
the same fate. The general average of which I spoke earlier throws into
relief the existence of a few sociological ogres, among whom we
ourselves must be numbered. Nor is this an accident: if it were not that
we deserved, and for that matter still deserve, first prize in this grim
competition, anthropology would never have come into being; we
should have felt no need of it. If anthropology cannot take a detached
view of our civilization, or declare itself not responsible for that
civilization s evils, it is because its very existence is unintelligible unless
we regard it as an attempt to redeem it. Yet other societies have shared
in the same original sin, though they are doubtless few in number, and
fewer still as we descend the ladder of progress. I need cite one instance
only: that open wound on the flank of Americanism, the Aztecs. Their
maniacal obsession with blood and torture is a universal trait, but
comparison allows us to define it in their case as excessive, even if it
can be explained in terms of the necessity of taming the fear of death.
That obsession puts them on a par with ourselves; for, if they were not
alone in their iniquity, they nevertheless stand, as we ourselves stand in
other respects, on the side of immoderation.

And yet this self-inflicted self-condemnation does not mean that we
award a first prize for excellence to this or that society, present or past,
localized at a determinable point in space or time. That would be a
great injustice: for we should be failing to, realize that if we had been
members of that prize-winning society we might have found it
intolerable and condemned it, just as we condemn die one to which we
belong today. Is it then the case that anthropology tends to condemn
all forms of social order, whatever they may be, and to glorify a
condition of Nature which can only be corrupted by the establishment
of social order? Don t trust the man who comes to put things in order,
said Diderot, whose position has just been stated. For him the history
of our race could be summed up as follows: Once there was natural

A Little Glass of Rum 389

Man. Within that natural Man, an artificial Man was later introduced.
Between the two, war broke out, and will go on raging till life comes
to an end. This conception is absurd. Whoever says Man 5 , says
Language , and whoever says Language , says Society . The Poly
nesians visited by Bougainville (and it was in the Supplement to
Bougainville s travels that Diderot put forward his theory) lived in
society every bit as much as we do. Anyone who questions this is
moving counter to the direction in which anthropological analysis
would have us go.

Turning over these problems in my mind, I become convinced
that Rousseau s is the only answer to them. Rousseau is much decried
these days; never has his work been so little known; and he has to face,
above all, the absurd accusation that he glorified the state of Nature
for its own sake. (That may have been Diderot s error, but it was never
Rousseau s.) What Rousseau said was the exact contrary; and he
remains the only man who shows us how to get clear of the con
tradictions into which his adversaries have led us. Rousseau, of all the
philosophes, came nearest to being an anthropologist. He never travelled
in distant countries, certainly; but his documentation was as complete
as it could be at that time and, unlike Voltaire, he brought his know
ledge alive by the keenness of his interest in peasant customs and
popular thought. Rousseau is our master and our. brother, great as has
been our ingratitude towards him; and every page of this book could
have been dedicated to him, had the object thus proffered not been
unworthy of his great memory. For there is only one way in which
we can escape the contradiction inherent in the notion of position of the
anthropologist, and that is by reformulating, on our own account, the
intellectual procedures which allowed Rousseau to move forward from
the ruins left by the Discours sur rOrigine de Tlnegalite to the ample
design of the Social Contract, of which Emile reveals the secret. He it is
who showed us how, after we have destroyed every existing order, we
can still discover the principles which allow us to erect a new order in
their stead.

Never did Rousseau make Diderot s mistake that of exalting the
natural Man . There is no risk of his confusing the state of Nature with
the state of Society; he knows that the latter is inherent in mankind,
but that it brings evils with it, and that the question to be solved is
whether or not these evils are themselves inherent in that state. We must
go beyond the evidence of the injustices of abuses to which the social
order gives rise and discover the unshakable basis of human society.

390 The Return

There are two ways in which anthropology contributes to this quest.
It shows that that base cannot be found in our own civilization: of all
the societies we can examine ours is indeed perhaps the one furthest
from it. Secondly, by enabling vis to distinguish the characteristics
common to the majority of human societies, it helps us to constitute a
model, to which no society corresponds exactly, but which defines
closely the direction in which our investigations should be oriented.
Rousseau thought that the image nearest to it, for experimental
purposes, was what we now call the neolithic age. I am inclined to
think that he was right. In the neolithic age, Man had already made most
of the inventions which are indispensable to his security. We have seen
why writing need not be included among these; to say that writing is
a double-edged weapon is not a mark of primitivism ; the cyber-
neticians of our own day have rediscovered that truth. During the
neolithic age, Man put himself beyond the reach of cold and hunger; he
acquired leisure to think; and although he was more or less at the
mercy of disease it is not certain that our advances in the field of
hygiene have done more than transfer to other mechanisms the
responsibility of maintaining a certain measure of demographic
equilibrium: the epidemics which contributed to that equilibrium were
no more dreadful than the famines and wars of extermination which
later took their place.

In that myth-minded age, Man was no more free than he is today;
but it was his humanness alone which kept him enslaved. As he had only
a very restricted control over Nature, he was protected, and to a certain
degree emancipated, by the protective cushion of his dreams. As and
when these dreams turned into knowledge, so did Man s power in
crease; this gave us, if I may so put it, the upper hand over the
universe, and we still take an immense pride in it. But what is it, in
reality, if not the subjective awareness that humanity is being pro
gressively more and more sundered from the physical universe? The
great determining factors in that universe are no longer acting upon
us as redoubtable strangers; rather is their operation not now through
the intermediacy of thought, as they colonize us in the interests of the
silent world whose agents we have now become?

Rousseau was probably right when he held that it would have been
better for our happiness if humanity had kept to the middle ground
between the indolence of the primitive state and the questing activity
to which we are prompted by our amour-propre 9 . That middle state
was, he said, the best for Man ; and only some ill-boding turn of

A Little Glass of Rum

events could have caused us to leave it. That turn of events was found
in the development of mechanical civilizations a phenomenon doubly
exceptional in that it was first, unique, and second, belated. And yet it
remains clear that the middle state of which Rousseau wrote is in no
way a primitive condition. It presupposes and tolerates a certain degree
of progress; and although no society as yet described corresponds to its
privileged image, even if the example of the savages, who have almost
always been found at this point of development, seems to confirm that
mankind was designed to remain at it for ever .

The study of these savages does not reveal a Utopian state of
Nature; nor does it make us aware of a perfect society hidden deep in
the forests. It helps us to construct a theoretical model of a society which
corresponds to none that can be observed in reality, but will help us to
disentangle what in the present nature of Man is original, and what is
artificial . It also helps us to know closely a state which no longer
exists, which may never have existed, which probably never will exist,
and of which we must, none the less, have an exact notion if we are to
judge our present situation correctly . I have already quoted this in
order to bring out the significance of my observations among the
Nambikwara; for Rousseau s thought, ever in advance of his time, does
not dissociate theoretical sociology from those researches in the
laboratory, or in the field, which he knew to be necessary. Natural
Man does not pre-date Society; nor is he outside it. Our task is to re
discover the natural Man in his relation to the social state outside of
which our human condition cannot be imagined; the anthropologist
must draw up, therefore, the programme of the experiments which are
necessary if we are to understand natural Man ; and he must determine
the best way of making these experiments within Society itself .

But this model and here lies Rousseau s solution is eternal and
universal. Other societies may not be better than our own; even if we
believe them to be so we have no way of proving it. But knowing
them better does none the less help us to detach ourselves from our own
society. It is not that our society is absolutely evil, or that others, are
not evil also; but merely that ours is the only society from which
we have to disentangle ourselves. In doing so, we put ourselves in a
position to attempt the second phase of our undertaking: that in which,
while not clinging to elements from any one particular society, we
make use of one and all of them in order to distinguish those principles
of social life which may be applied to the reform of our own customs,
and not of those of societies foreign to our own. In relation to our

392 The Return

own society, that is to say, we stand in a position of privilege which
is exactly contrary to that which I have just described; for our own
society is the only one which we can transform and yet not destroy,
since the changes which we should introduce would come from within.
There is a risk, certainly, in placing beyond space and time the
model from which we take our inspiration: the risk of underestimating
the reality of progress. Our argument is, in brief, that men have always
and everywhere undertaken the same task, and assigned to themselves
the same object; all that has differed is the means employed. I must own
that this attitude does not at all disturb me; it seems the closest to the
facts, as they are revealed to us by history and anthropology; and above
all it seems to me to yield results. The zealots of progress run the risk
of underestimating, and thus of knowing too little about, the immense
riches which our race has accumulated to one side and the other of the
narrow furrow on which they keep their eyes fixed. By overvaluing
the importance of what has been done in the past, they depreciate what
still remains to be done. If our race has concentrated on one task, and
one alone that of building a society in which Man can live then
the sources of strength on which our remote ancestors drew are present
also in ourselves. All the stakes are still on the board, and we can take
them up at any time we please. Whatever was done, and done badly,
can be begun all over again: The golden age which blind superstition
situated behind or ahead of us is in us. 9 Human brotherhood acquires
a palpable significance when we find our image of it confirmed in the
poorest of tribes, and when that tribe offers us an experience which,
when joined with many hundreds of others, has a lesson to teach us.
That lesson may even come to us with a milleniary freshness; for,
knowing as we do that for thousands of years past mankind has done
nothing but repeat itself, we shall attain that noble cast of thought
which, transcending all that has been done and redone, assigns as the
starting-point of our reflections that indefinable grandeur which is the
mark of true beginnings. To be a man means, for each of us, member
ship of a class, a society, a country, a continent, and a civilization. For
those of us who are earth-bound Europeans, our adventurings into the
heart of the New World have a lesson to teach us: that the New World
was not ours to destroy, and yet we destroyed it; and that no other will
be vouchsafed to us. In grasping these truths we come face to face with
ourselves. Let us, at any rate, set them out as they first appeared to us,
in that place, and at that moment in time, when our world lost the
chance that was still open to it: that of choosing between its missions.

36 Conclusion

IT WAS in Asia, many years later, that for myself, at
any rate the problems suggested by this book were to find their
solution. In September 1950 1 was in a Mogh village in the Chittagong
hill tracts. For some days I had been watching the women as they went
each morning to the temple with food for the bonzes. During the
siesta hours I listened to the strokes on the gong which punctuated the
prayers, and to the children s voices softly intoning the Burmese
alphabet. The kyong stood at the edge of the village on the top of a
little wooded hillock like those with which Tibetan painters like to
garnish their far distances. At its foot was the jedi, or pagoda. In that
poor village it was no more than a circular earthen construction which
rose from the ground in seven concentric stages, rising step by step, in a
square enclosure trellised with bamboo. We took off our shoes before
climbing up, and the moistened surface of the clay was very agreeable
to the feet. Here and there on the steep little slope we could see the
stalks of pineapples that had been wrenched off the day before by
people from the village who felt it to be improper that their priests,
whose needs were looked to by the ky population, should also allow
themselves to grow fruit. The top of the hillock looked hie a tiny
town-square surrounded on three sides by straw hangars, beneath
which were sheltering large objects made of bamboo and hung with
many-coloured paper. These kite-like creations were made for use in
local processions. On the fourth side stood the temple itself; it stood on
stakes like the houses of the village, and differed from them only in that
it was bigger and that a thatch-roofed square feature dominated the
main part of the building. After our upward scramble tkough the mud,
the ritual ablutions came quite naturally and seemed to have no
religious significance. We went into the temple. There was no light
but that which came down from the top of the lantern formed by the
hollow cage in the centre, just above where the altar was bedecked with

393

The Return

standards of rag or matting. Certain glimmers also penetrated the
thatch of the walls. About fifty brass statues stood about on the altar
and beside it was hung a gong. On the walls we could see one or two
pious chromolithographs and the skull of a stag. The floor was made
up of large sections of bamboo, split down the middle and plaited
together. Shiny from the continual movement of bare feet, it yielded
to the touch as softly as any carpet. A peaceful barn-like atmosphere
prevailed and there was a smell of hay. The simple, spacious room
might have been an abandoned hay-loft; and when combined with the
courtesy of the two bonzes, erect, with their two straw pallets on
bedsteads, and with the touching care and devotion which had been
lavished on the assemblage or manufacture of all the accessories of
worship, all this brought me nearer than ever before to having some
idea of the meaning of a sanctuary. You need not do as I do, said my
companion as he prostrated himself four times before the altar: and I,
respecting his opinion, remained motionless. This was rather from
discretion than from amour-propre: he knew that I did not subscribe to
his faith, and I should have been afraid of abusing the ritual gestures
had I given him to believe that I thought them no more than con
ventions. And yet, for once, I should have felt no embarrassment had I
followed his example. Between that form of worship and myself there
was no misunderstanding to get in the way. It was not a question of
bowing down to idols, or of adoring a supposedly supernatural order
of things, but simply of paying homage to decisive reflections which
had been formed twenty-five centuries earlier by a thinker, or by the
society which created his legend. To those reflections my civilization
could contribute only by confirming them.

For what, after all, have I learnt from the masters I have listened to,
the philosophers I have read, the societies I have investigated, and that
very Science in which the West takes such a pride? Simply a fragmentary
lesson or two which, if laid end to end, would reconstitute the
meditations of the Sage at the foot of his tree. When we make an
effort to understand, we destroy the object of our attachment, substi
tuting another whose nature is quite different. That other object re
quires of us another effort, which in its turn destroys the second object
and substitutes a third and so on until we reach the only enduring
Presence, which is that in which all distinction between meaning and
the absence of meaning disappears: and it is from that Presence that we
started in the first place. It is now two thousand five hundred years
since men discovered and formulated these truths. Since then we have

Conclusion 395

discovered nothing new unless it be that whenever we investigated
what seemed to be a way out, we met with a further proof of the
conclusions from which we had tried to escape.

Of course I am also aware of the dangers of a state of resignation
that has been arrived at too hastily. This great religion of not-knowing-
ness is not based upon our incapacity to understand. It bears witness,
rather, to our natural gifts, raising us to the point at which we discover
truth in the guise of the mutual exclusiveness of being and knowing.
And, by a further audacity, it has achieved something that, elsewhere,
only Marxism has brought off: it has reconciled the problem of meta
physics with the problem of human behaviour. Its schism appeared on
the sociological level, in that the fundamental point of difference
between the Great and the Little Vehicles is whether or not we should
believe that the salvation of any one individual depends on the
salvation of humanity as a whole.

And yet the historical solutions of Buddhist morality lead to a
chilling alternative: either Man must answer Yes to the question I have
just outlined, in which case he must enter a monastery; or he thinks
differently and gets off lightly with the practice of a virtuous egoism.
But injustice, poverty, and suffering exist: and, by existing, provide
an intermediary solution. We are not alone, and it is not within our
control either to remain deaf and blind to the rest of mankind, or to
plead guilty, in ourselves, for all humanity. Buddhism can remain
perfectly coherent and, at the same time, respond to appeals from
without. Perhaps even, in a vast section of the world, it has found the
missing link in the chain. For if the last moment in the dialectical
process which leads to enlightenment is of value, so also are all those
moments which precede and are similar to it. The absolute No to
meaning is the last of a series of stages which leads from a lesser to a
greater meaning. The last step needs, and at the same time validates,
all those which went before it. In its own way, and on its own level,
each of them corresponds to a truth. Between Marxist criticism which
sets Man free from his first chains, and Buddhist criticism, which
completes that liberation, there is neither opposition nor contradiction.
(The Marxist teaches that the apparent significance of Man s condition
will vanish the moment he agrees to enlarge the object that he has under
consideration.) Marxism and Buddhism are doing the same thing, but
at different levels. The passage between the two extremes is guaranteed
by all those advances in knowledge that our race has accomplished in
the last two thousand years, thanks to an indissoluble movement ot

The Return

thought which runs from East to West and, perhaps only to confirm its
origin, lias removed from one to the other. Just as beliefs and super
stitions dissolve when we try to fix clearly in our minds the truth about
human relations, so does morality give way to history, and fluid forms
give way to constructions, and creation give way to nothingness. We
have only to turn the initial move back upon itself to discover its
symmetry; its parts can be superimposed one upon the other, and the
stages through which we have already passed are not cancelled, but
rather confirmed, by those which succeed them.

As he moves forward within his environment, Man takes with him
all the positions that he has occupied in the past, and all those that he
will occupy in the future. He is everywhere at the same time, a crowd
which, in die act of moving forward, yet recapitulates at every instant
every step that it has ever taken in the past. For we live in several
worlds, each more true than the one within it, and each false in relation
to that within which it is itself enveloped. Some of these worlds may
be apprehended in action, others exist because we have them in our
thoughts: but the apparent contradictoriness of their co-existence is
resolved by the fact that we are constrained to accord meaning to those
worlds which are nearer to us, and to refuse it to those more distant.
Truth lies rather in the progressive expansion of meaning: but an
expansion conducted inwards from without and pushed home to
explosion-point.

As an anthropologist I am no longer, therefore, the only person to
suffer from a contradiction which is proper to humanity as a whole
and bears within itself the reason for its existence. Only when I isolate
the two extremes does the contradiction still persist: for what is the use
of action, if the thinking which guides that action leads to the discovery
of meaninglessness? But that discovery cannot be made immediately:
it must be thought, and I cannot think it all at once. There may be
twelve stages, as in the Boddhi; but whether they are fewer, or more
numerous, they exist as a single whole, and if I am to get to the end of
them, I shall be called upon continually to live through situations, each
of which demands something of me: I owe myself to mankind, just as
much as to knowledge. History, politics, the social and economic
universe, the physical world, even the sky all surround me in
concentric circles, and I can only escape from those circles in thought if
I concede to each of them some part of my being. Like the pebble
which marks the surface of the wave with circles as it passes through it,
I must throw myself into the water if I am to plumb the depths.

Conclusion 397

The world began without the human race and it will end without
it. The institutions, manners, and customs which I shall have spent my
life in cataloguing and trying to understand are an ephemeral efflores
cence of a creative process in relation to which they are meaningless,
unless it be that they allow humanity to play its destined role. That role
does not, however, assign to our race a position of independence. Nor,
even if Man himself is condemned, are his vain efforts directed towards
the arresting of a universal process of decline. Far from it: his role is
itself a machine, brought perhaps to a greater point of perfection than
any other, whose activity hastens the disintegration of an initial order
and precipitates a powerfully organized Matter towards a condition of
inertia which grows ever greater and will one day prove definitive.
From the day when he first learned how to breathe and how to keep
himself alive, through the discovery of fire and right up to the in
vention of the atomic and thermonuclear devices of the present day,
Man has never save only when he reproduces himself done other
than cheerfully dismantle million upon million of structures and reduce
their elements to a state in which they can no longer be reintegrated.
No doubt he has built cities and brought the soil to fruition; but if we
examine these activities closely we shall find that they also are inertia-
producing machines, whose scale and speed of action are infinitely
greater than the amount of organization implied in them. As for the
creations of the human mind, they are meaningful only in relation to
that mind and will fall into nothingness as soon as it ceases to exist.
Taken as a whole, therefore, civilization can be described as a pro
digiously complicated mechanism: tempting v as it would be to regard
it as our universe s best hope of survival, its true function is to produce
what physicists call entropy: inertia, that is to say. Every scrap of
conversation, every line set up in type, establishes a communication
between two interlocutors, levelling what had previously existed on
two different planes and had had, for that reason, a greater degree of
organization. Entropology , not anthropology, should be the word for
the discipline that devotes itself to the study of this process of disinte
gration in its most highly evolved forms.

And yet I exist. Not in any way, admittedly, as an individual: for
what am I, in that respect, but a constantly renewed stake in the struggle
between the society, formed by the several million nerve-cells which
take shelter in the anthill of the brain, and my body, which serves that
society as a robot? Neither psychology, nor metaphysics, nor art can
provide me with a refuge; for one and all are myths subject, within

The Return

and without, to that new kind of sociology which will arise one day
and treat them as severely as has our earlier one. Not merely is the first
person singular detestable: there is no room for it between ourselves
and nothing . And if, in the end, I opt for ourselves , although it is no
more than an appearance, it is because unless I destroy myself an act
which would wipe out the conditions of the decision I have to make
there is really only one choice to be made: between that appearance and
nothing. But no sooner have I chosen than, by that very choice, I take
on myself, unreservedly, my condition as a man. Thus liberated from
an intellectual pride whose futility is only equalled by that of its object,
I also agree to subordinate its claims to the objective will-to-emancipa
tion of that multitude of human beings who are still denied the means
of choosing their own destiny.

Man is not alone in the universe, any more than the individual is
alone in the group, or any one society alone among other societies.
Even if the rainbow of human cultures should go down for ever into
the abyss which we are so insanely creating, there will still remain open
to us provided we are alive and the world is in existence a precarious
arch that points towards the inaccessible. The road which it indicates
to us is one that leads directly away from our present serfdom: and
even if we cannot set off along it, merely to contemplate it will procure
us the only grace that we know how to deserve. The grace to call a
halt, that is to say: to check the impulse which prompts Man always to
block up, one after another, such fissures as may be open in the blank
wall of necessity and to round off his achievement by slamming shut
the doors of his own prison. This is the grace for which every society
longs, irrespective of its beliefs, its political regime, its level of
civilization. It stands, in every case, for leisure, and recreation, and
freedom, and peace of body and mind. On this opportunity, this chance
of for once detaching oneself from the implacable process, life itself
depends. Farewell to savages, then, farewell to journeying! And
instead, during the brief intervals in which humanity can bear to
interrupt its hive-like labours, let us grasp the essence of what our
species has been and still is, beyond thought and beneath society: an
essence that may be vouchsafed to us in a mineral more beautiful than
any work of Man; in the scent, more subtly evolved than our books,
that lingers in the heart of a lily; or in the wink of an eye, heavy with
patience, serenity, and mutual forgiveness, that sometimes, through an
involuntary understanding, one can exchange with a cat.

Bibliography

Handbook of South American Indians, ed. by J. Stewart, Smithsonian

Institution, Washington,, D.C., 6 vok, 1946-50.
p, GAFFAREL, Histoire du Brtsilfran$ais au i6 e siecle, Paris, 1878.
j. DE LERY, Histoire fun voyage faict en la terre du Bresil new edition (by P.

Gaffarel), Paris, 1880, 2 vols.
A. THEVET, Le Br6sil et les Bresiliens , in Les classiques de la colonization, 2\

selected and annotated by Suzanne Lussagnet, Paris, *953- ^
Y. D VREUX, Voyage dans le Nord du Brtsilfait durant les anrites 1613-14,

Leipzig and Paris, 1864.

L. A. DE BOUGAINVILLE, Voyage autour du monde, Paris, 1771,
p. MONBEIG, Pionniers et planteurs de Sao Paulo, Paris, 1952.
j. SANCHEZ-LABRADOR, El Paraguay Catolico, 3 vols. Buenos Aires, 1910-17.
G. BOGGIANI, Viaggi d un artista neW America Meridionale, Rome, 1895.

D. RIBEIRO, A arte dos indios KaAiulu, Rio de Janeiro, undated (195)
K. VON DEN STEINEN, (a) Durch Zentral-Brasilien, Leipzig, 1886.

(b) Unter den Naturvolkern Zentral-Brasiliens, Berlin, 1894.
A. COLBACCHINI, 1 Borows orientali 9 Turin, 1925.
c. dvi-STRAUSS, Contribution I Tetude de Torganization sociale des Indiens

Bororo , Journal de la Sodlti des Americanistes, new series, vol. 28, 1936.
c. LEVI-STRAUSS, La Viefamiliale et sociale des Indiens Nambikwara, Societe des

Am6ricanistes, Paris, 1948.
c. livwtRAUSS, Le syncretisme religieux d un village mogh du territoire de

Chittagong (Pakistan) , Revue de l y Histoire des religions, 1952.
c. NIMUENDAJU (a) The Apinayt, Anthropological Series, Catholic University

of America, No. 8, 1939. (&) The Serente, Los Angeles, 1942.

E. ROQUETTE-PINTO, Rondonia, Rio de Janeiro, 1912.

c. M. DA SILVA RONDON, Lectures Delivered by, Publications of the Rondon

Commission, No. 43, Rio de Janeiro, 1916.

THEODORE ROOSEVELT, Through the Brazilian Wilderness, New York, 1914-
K. OBERG, Indian Tribes of Northern Mato Grosso, Brazil, Smithsonian
" Institution, Institute of Social Anthropology, Publication, No. 15,

Washington, D.C, 1953. ^ , r ,

JULIO c. TELLO: (a) Wira Kocha, Inca , vol. I, 1923; (6) Discovery of the
Chavin culture in Peru , American Antiquity, vol. 9, 194-3-

399

Index

A accessories of dress, 210; baitemcm-
nageo, function of, 214 ff; attitude

Ailly, Pierre d , 80 tothedead,2i8ff,228ff;sorcerers,

Amazonian forest, character of, 336, role of among, 220 ff.; evening

33> roll-call, 225; Tugare clans, dances

Amazonian forest-peoples, imagin- of, 226 ff.;

ative qualities of, 358; magical and Bougainville, Louis Antoine de, 44,

medical devices, 358-9, chestnut- 94 ff- 39

workings, 361 Bougie, Celestin, 49 ff- *

America, first penetration of, 240 ff. Brazil, author s first notion of, 49J

American hybrid, sub-species of, 246 character of interior, 123

Anthropology, role of adventure in, Breton, Andre, 26

17; ambiguities of, 58 ff; self- Buddhism, morality of, 395 ff

interrogatory aspect of, 374; fun
damental dilemma of, 382 ff;

contradictions involved in, 384; C

a by-product of remorse?, 388; and

bases of society, 389-90; and Caduveo, 141 ff, 149 ff; capital of

progress, 392 P "^ ^J 7 A

Arawaks, the, 239 *atf ttes among, I55ff; face- and

Aztecs, the, 388 body-paintings of, 161 ff, 173 ft-5

hierarchical structure of, 179
Campos Novos, 373 ff
B Cellini, Benvenuto, 332

Chapadao, the, 191

BaraodeMel g a90,sojoumat )3 i5-i6- Chittagong hill tracts the, 393 ff
Barra dos Bugres, bonesetter at, 257 Chopin, FreMenc author and, 375
Bernier, Fran 5 ois, 44 Cities westward drive in, 125 ff

Boas, Franz, 63 Co omahsm, early character of, 79 ff

Boggiani, Guido, ! 3 5 Columbus, 77 ff, 80 ff

Bororo, ! 9 8-2 3 i passim; hierarchical Corneille, author s version of, 37-
structure of, 178 ff; lay-out of 80
villages, 203 ff; moieties, function Corumba, 183 ft.
of, among, 205 ff ; clan structure, Courtin, Rene, 121
206; material equipment of, 210; Cousin, Jean, 86

401

4O2

Cresson, Andre, 57
Cuiaba, 187 ff., 249 ff.
Curitiba, 128

Index

J

Juruena, Jesuit fathers at, 264-5
Juruena, Protestant Mission at, 251

D

Dead, attitudes to, 216, 218 ff., 228 ff.
Diamonds, hunters for, 192 ff.
Diderot, Denis, 388
Dumas, Georges, 19 ff, 50

K

Kaingang, activities of, 199
Kejara, 199 ff.
Kroeber, A. L., 63

Evreux, Yves d , 346

Fire Island, N.Y., 143 ff
Founder-fathers of America, origins

of, 242

France, role of, abroad, 105
Frazer, Sir James, 56

Ge tribes, 134 ff., 239
Goiania, 129 ff.
Goyaz, 128

H

Haiti and San Domingo, 79
Handwriting, significance of inven
tion of, 291
Hopewell culture, the, 246

Lahore, 43 ff.

Laugier, Henri, 235

LeryJ.de, 44, 85 ff, 344 353

Levi-Strauss, Claude: earliest lec
tures, 18; journey to America in
1941, 24 ff; sojourn on Martin
ique, 27-35; in Porto Rico, 36-37;
begins career, 49 ff; origins of
vocation, 54 ff ; period at Lycee
de Mont-de-Marsan, 56; and
Freud, 60; and Marx, 61 ff,
395 ff; links with Anglo-Saxon
colleagues and thought, 63 ff;
first journey to America, 65 ff;
on sunsets, 66 ff ; and Columbus,
77 ff; New World, first experi
ence of, 82; and Rio de Janeiro,
83; and Provence, 96 ff; and
grandfather, 215; attitude to sea,
mountains, and forest, 332ff; and
Chopin, 375; version of Corneille s
Cinna, 376-80; and Rousseau,
389 ff.

Lowie, Robert H., 24, 63

Index

403

M,

Manucci, Nicolas, 44.
Margueritte, Victor, 50-3
Martyr, Peter, 80
Mat6, ritual drinking of, 14? ff
Maugiie*, Jean, 121
Mbaya-Guaicuru, social structure of,

i6off.

Metraux, Alfred, 24
Mexican civilization, predecessors of,

241

Montaigne, Michel de, 302-3
Morbeck, Engineer, 193

O

Oberg, K., quoted, 284
Order of St. Jerome, monks, scru
pulosity of in 1517, 79

Parana, beauty of, 133

Peruvian civilization, predecessors

of, 241

Porto Esperan9a, 143 ff.
Power, origin and function of, 308

N

Nalike, the Caduveo capital, 151 ff.
Nambikwara: in general, 237 ff.;
gardens of, 265; material poverty,
266; veto on use of proper names,
270; dialects, 270-1; programme
of the day, 272; family affections,
273 ff.; household pets, 276;
erotic preoccupations, 277; func
tion of the couple, 278; relations
between the sexes, 279 ff; flute-
music, 281; missionaries, massacre
of, 282; K. Oberg on, 284;
Sabane" and Turunde, union of,
298; political power, succession of,
302; leadership, 303 ffi homo
sexuality among, 307; leaders,
emergence of, 310; leader s
privileges, 395

Natural Man, the, 389

New World, the lesson of, 39^

Nimuendaju, Curt, 328

Norte-Parana, expeditions in, 123 ff

R

Readers, modern, cannibal-instincts

of, 43

Rio de Janeiro, inaesthetic propor
tions of, 83; early history of, 85;
author explores, 88 ff

Rodrigues, Gustave, 54

Rondon, C. M. da Silva, 250, 327,

3^9, 339, 343. 3<5i
Rondon Commission, 237
Rondon Line, the, life on, 262 ff.
Roosevelt, Theodore, 237
Roquette-Pinto, E., 237
Rosario O&te, 256-7
RousseauJ.J., 308, 310, 389ff
Rubber-tappers, festivities among,

3 6 ? r -

Rubber-trader, economy of, 363 ft.

Salesian Fathers, the, 199
Sao Jeronymo, village and reserve,
134, 136 ff.

404

Sao Paulo: character of, 100 ff.; social
elite of, pre-1939, 104 ff.; port of
(Santos), 95 ff.; foreign colonies,
iiiff.; State of, 116 ff.; Jesuits and
planters in, 116 ff.

Serge, Victor, 26

Serra do Norte, inhospitable nature
of, 250

Sertao, the, character of, 143

Souza-Dantos, Luis de, 24, 51

Index

Tupi-Kawahib: first encounter with,
324; physical aspect of, 3 2 4">
language, 325; author s sojourn
with the Mund6, 325; clan-
names, 328; past history of, 328;
diminishing numbers of, 330;
village architecture, 342; con
tempt for tobacco, 344; tradition
of hospitality, 346; names, 349-
50; chief s sexual privileges, 350;
hierarchy of power, 353; role of
chief, 354; play-acting among,
355-<5

Tanguy, Yves, 262

Tavernier, Jean Baptiste, 44

Thevet, A., 44, 341

Time, and the traveller, 44 46

Tombador, camp at, 258 ff.

Travel, changed nature of, 38 ff;

triple character of, 89 ff.
Travellers tales, derisory character

of, 40 ff.
Tupi-Guarani, original dispositions,

238 ff.

U

Universities, Brazilian, expansion of,

106

Unkel, Kurt, 238
Urupa, 357

Vfflard, J. A., 33
Villegaignon, 85 ff.

Continued from front flap

From his rich experience with ouicr
cultures, M. Levi-Strauss sets these
tribes in a world context, and draw?
fascinating comparisons and parallels
which enhance his work and lend it an
importance equal, perhaps, to that of
Margaret Mead s studies of the Pacific
peoples, and Doughty s Arabia Deserta.

*M. L6vi-Strauss s reputation is already well
established among his fellow anthropologists.
"Tristes Tropiques" initiates a dialogue beyond
this narrow circle . . . M. Le"vi-Strauss writes
anthropology, history and philosophy with
poetic insight and imagination.

The Times Literary Supplement {London)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Claude Levi-Strauss enjoys a world
wide reputation as an anthropologist
, " - Hter Returning to France, after
u uLiimL jnd lecturing extensively in the
U.S. for a number of years, he became
r^f? *^ of Primitive Religion at the
Ecole Prdtique des Hautes Etudes a*,
the Sorbonne and then, in 1959, wa&
appointed to the specially created Chaif
of Social Anthropology, the first of thfe
denomination, at the College de France,

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