No Collar, No Master

Working Papers Series #18
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

No Collar, No Master:
Workers and Animals in the Modernization of Rio de Janeiro 1903-19041

Nádia Farage
University of Campinas

© 2013 Nádia Farage
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BIO SKETCH
Nádia Farage is Senior Lecturer at the Department of Anthropology, Institute of Philosophy and Human Sciences, University of Campinas, Brazil. Her research interest has been in Ethnohistory and, in broad terms, in the interdisciplinary dialogues between anthropology, history and literary criticism. Her work on North-Amazonian ethnohistory in the early 1990’s resulted in a book – As muralhas dos sertões: os povos indígenas no rio Branco e a colonização, Paz e Terra/Anpocs, 1991 – and articles on the subject. Her fieldwork concerned social memory and rhetorical practices among the Wapishana (As flores da fala: práticas retóricas entre os Wapishana, unpublished PhD thesis, USP and other published articles). In recent years, she has been working on animal rights and alternative projects of nature in historical perspective.

ABSTRACT
This paper focuses the expulsion of animals from urban space during the process of modernization of the city of Rio de Janeiro, in the first years of the 20th century. On the one hand, following M.Foucault and G.Agambem, it explores the written sources of the period – the press, administrative reports and literary texts, notably by Brazilian writer Lima Barreto – in order to place the re-ordering of the relationships with domestic species within the larger frame of the modern State biopolitics, which consolidates the notions of pest and stray. On the other hand, the paper seeks to fill a historiographical lacuna and highlight the biopolitical popular resistance carried by anarchist workers, most notably affiliated to the naturist current, which brought alternative ideas on nature and inter-specific relationships to the scene of Brazilian urban workers’ struggles of the period.


At the beginning of January 1904, a note in the Rio de Janeiro newspaper A Nação reported that there had been gunfire at a city slaughterhouse and a circus.2 A laconic note that might have passed unnoticed were it not for the intriguing connection it establishes, at first sight, between disparate locations. The link between the two is the presence of animals and, from this perspective, the note is an invitation , which I take up here, to reflect upon the codification of the presence of animals in town and the consequent political conflicts during the urban reform of the Brazilian federal capital, Rio de Janeiro, in the first decade of the twentieth century.

Epidemic outbreaks of yellow fever and smallpox throughout the nineteenth century and the black plague at the start of the twentieth, ravaged the port of Rio de Janeiro, resulting in heavy losses to commerce, most notably to coffee exports. In addition to this, in the eyes of the intellectual elite, Rio de Janeiro—with its narrow streets, colonial houses and ridden with epidemics—epitomised the backwardness of the country.

Reacting to this, the newly established Republic aimed to reform the capital— following the model of Paris and, more closely, that of Buenos Aires—in order to make it attractive for foreign investment. To further this goal, the federal government designated engineer Francisco Pereira Passos as the mayor of the city and physician Oswaldo Cruz as Director of Hygiene, who had recently arrived from Paris, enthused with Pasteurian theory. Under the direction of both, the rebuilding of the central and port areas of the city was accompanied by sanitary measures to prevent epidemics. While the mayor ordered the old colonial town to be destroyed—an authoritarian process which the local population, the “cariocas,” captured in the expression “bota-abaixo” or “take it down”—hygiene officials entered the slums and fumigated or burned the few belongings of the poor. The whole set of measures – very problematic in terms of constitutional rights – was contemporaneously described as “sanitary despotism”.

In the last few decades, this process has been a topic of interest to historiography, which has emphasised the sanitisation of society.>3 However, this historiography tells very little about the impact of the sanitisation process on the animal population, which was also gravely affected. As microbes or bacteria entered the popular imaginary, so, conversely, cows, pigs, dogs and other species were, from that moment, expelled from urban space and rendered invisible to urban dwellers. The sanitary model, which came into being at the start of the twentieth century, would persist thereafter and, in its most aggressive form, would regulate the lives of animals, conceiving of them as commodities the surfeit of which would be disposable in the modern city. Intruders they would be, co-dwellers never more.

The rebuilding of Rio de Janeiro was thus a crucial moment in the establishment of a bio-politics and, for this reason, it constitutes a strategic locus by which the political and ontological disputes around the correlate definitions of animal and human in Brazilian modernity can be envisaged.

Animal co-dwellers: a sketch

K. Thomas’ classic study4 delineates the gradual movement in England, from the end of the nineteenth to the first decades of the twentieth century, which created the conditions for the subsequent industrial production of animals. Notably, it was due to the expulsion of stock-rearing farms and slaughterhouses to the outskirts of the cities, which veiled the suffering and death of animals from urban sensibilities.5 As C. Lévi-Strauss6 pointed out some time ago, social distance constitutes the symbolic operator by which the animal is transformed into an anonymous multiplicity, exactly describing the condition of animals in modern industrial societies, in sharp contrast to the domestic rearing of animals, which is based upon dense social relations between human and animal.

Such a transition can be detected in the context of the Rio de Janeiro of the beginning of the century. A brief examination of the press of those years presents a picture of a town populated by varied species of animals, mostly domestic ones: advertisements in the newspapers reveal houses with pastures in residential areas, coach houses, barns and widespread urban trade in milking cows and their calves, pigs, chicken, ducks or birds. This can be seen, for example, in the advertisements of the daily Correio da Manhã in the beginning of the year 1903:

For sale – a heifer, first pregnancy two months ago, very cheap. Contact at Catumby St, 5.
[...]
For sale – a small donkey, young and very tame. It is perfect. Price 140$000. Frei Caneca St, 200”7
Or,
For sale – excellent cows, Cerqueira Lima St, 24, Riachuelo station.
For sale – a beautiful dapple-grey horse, a young pacer. Contact at Dias da Cruz St, 35, Meyer.
For sale – a Zebu ox, to see and contact at Botafogo Beach, 170, hotel.”8

It is also necessary to mention dogs and donkeys, especially the latter, worked to complete exhaustion in public transport systems and constantly replaced.9 In addition, there were worn out cattle that crossed the town to die in the urban slaughterhouses, the cirques and even sporadic bullfighting10 in the residential area of Laranjeiras:

Tauromachy: It will be the last of the season, the bullfighting announced for tomorrow, in the bull ring at Larangeiras. The funds will be for the charity benefit of the Asylum of N. S. Auxiliadora. The public, for sure, will not leave an empty seat in the bull arena.”11

Large houses in residential areas were often advertised as including pasture for grazing, for example:

For sale [...] 22$000 a house with many rooms in the centre of a expansive property, just two minutes from the Engenho Novo station [...] On the property there are many fruit trees and pasture for three or four animals [...]”12

And, in order to get a plausible image of the presence of animals in town the sight of the “continuous flight of insects”13 on the meat exhibited for sale at the streets must also be mentioned.

When raising so-called farm animals in town was forbidden in January 1903, a significant number of accusations and complaints was presented to the Municipality targeting piggeries, barnyards, and coach houses in residential areas of the town.14 Although the complaints may have veiled existing quarrels between neighbours, they are still telling of the conspicuous presence of animals in town.

Indeed, besides the obvious exploitation of animal labor, which fed and moved the town, we can assume that the co-residence and social proximity of animals made it difficult to reduce them, in their condition and being, solely to commodities. This is manifest in the touching description of the suburbs of Rio de Janeiro by the Brazilian writer Lima Barreto in early 1900:

The most distant streets from the line of the Central Railway are full of patches of grass and weed, on which families place clothes to bleach under the sun. From morning to evening, the terrain is populated by all kinds of small domestic animals: hens, ducks, teals, goats, sheep and pigs, not to mention dogs which fraternise with all of them.

In the evening, from every gate sounds a “gathering call”: “Mimoso! An owner calls her goat. Sereia! It is a sow that a child beckons home, and so on. Sheep, goats, teals, hens, turkeys – all enter through the front door, cross the length of the house and retire to the backyard.15

Lima Barreto witnessed precisely the multifold process which initiated the forced decline of domestic animal rearing, expelling animals from Rio’s urban space, as well as the state-sponsored systematic extermination of undesirable animals. Following Foucault,16 it would be a truism to point out that the definition of undesirable was informed by linkages of the modern medical-sanitary project and the architectural plans for the city: as a necessary correlate, the new aesthetics had a new ethical codification, which aimed to create a “clean” social space.

The pest and the stray
At the outset was the battle against flies, which had been targeted as transmitters of yellow fever. In a chronicle of 1903, Lima Barreto17 satirized the campaign, by investing the fly with a narrative voice to describe its fatal encounter with a young dandy physician with thick black hair—a caricature of Oswaldo Cruz—who, tormented by a fly for one night, had sworn eternal revenge against the species. Indeed, the campaign against yellow fever was understood as a war, which was mirrored in the vocabulary used to refer to it: as mentioned before, anti-fly squads were organized to fumigate all the slums, pensions and dwellings of the poor in central areas of the city.

At the same time, due to the black plague, a program aimed at exterminating rats and mice was put in place. Oswaldo Cruz had previously tested his techniques to combat the plague in the port of Santos between 1899 and 1900. According to his own report, he adopted the same technique deployed by the Americans in Philippines, which encouraged the population to hunt rats and mice.18 The Hygiene Directory offered a small sum of money as an incentive for each animal delivered. The purchase of rats and mice by the State, although viewed with suspicion by the population,19 actively engaged the poor quarters of the city. However, this trade in rodents left space for private rearing and brokers: a broker from the nearby town of Niterói became sadly famous for charging the Municipality the then significant sum of 8,000 Réis for the delivery of a consignment of mice.20 As early as February 1903, critical references to the bio-medical combat against mice, and the corresponding experimental bacteriological research on the plague, appear in the carnival parade: in a masquerade ball hosted by Lucinda Theatre, a guinea pig and two rats were mixed in among the clowns and Adonis and Venus callipygia.21 The carnival of 1904 took up the topic again with its polka Rato-Rato (Rat-Rat), which was a big hit that year. A rough translation of the lyrics is as follows:

Rat, rat, rat
For what reason did you gnaw my kist?
You, insolent and malevolent rascal
Rat, rat, rat
I shall see your last day
Will the trap haunt you
And satisfy my want
Who conceived of you?
No other than the devil, you’d better believe it!
Who gave you life?
It was a mother-in-law at death’s door
Who created you?
It was revenge, I guess
Rat, rat, rat
Messenger of the Jew
When the trap is sprung
You, cowardly monster,
Do not come with your kikiki, please
Old, impudent gnawing rat
Old rat, you horrify me
I will show you I am wicked
I will never release you, no matter what.

The polka was apparently inspired by the jota de las ratas movement of the famous satiric zarzuela La Gran Via (1886, by the Spanish maestros Villaverde and Chuenca), which referred to the opening of an avenue in Madrid, displacing thieves, sailors and rats. Irreverent, with an offensive anti-Semitic reference, the polka Rato-Rato simultaneously mocked both the rats and the Government. The pipe and chorus parodied the peculiar sound of the animals as well as the call of the mice brokers in the streets. One may note that the polka does not make any reference to the disease brought by the rats, but only to the losses caused by mice as co-dwellers – “For what reason do you gnaw my kist?” The mice hunt is an act of counter-revenge, but the animal – the child of revenge, the malevolence of the mother-in-law and of the devil – — turns to be , at the same time, a commodity: “My pence is guaranteed, I will never release you, no matter what.”

No debate on the matter is allowed; useless would be the protest, the “kikiki” of the rat. Indeed, a pragmatic agreement appears to be established between the scientific and popular conceptions of the rat, settling upon a common meaning, although based on different motives, for the notion of a pest animal.

Furthermore, the State’s battle against flies or rats was triggered by a demographic calculus, as the priority target for sanitary control was the quantity of animals – further mediated by invisible legions of microbes or bacteria. The war waged against animals was constantly mocked in the press, as can be seen in the satirical newspaper Rio Nu22

Public Health, with the new regulations, will comprise a division consisting of three brigades: killing flies, killing mice and killing dogs, all of them commanded by Dr. O. Cruz in the post of general. The Ministry of War is astonished”

This scornful note makes a point, however, about the alignment of the animals targeted for elimination—it highlights the link established by demography. Indeed, it seems that it is the countless number of animals which equalises different species—and different inter-species relationships—in the same classificatory position of “pest.” This is the route through which the elimination or expulsion process reached the domestic animals , those socially closer species which D. Haraway has rather optimistically designated as “companion species.”24 The reality is that from 1903 on, the demographic control of animal population in the streets— be they rats, dogs or cows—was, significantly, the responsibility of the Public Cleansing Department.

The regulation of the presence of animals in urban space was not a unique initiative of the Republican period. Indeed, a municipal by-law of September 11, 1838,25 had already set up detailed laws on the movement of cattle, their slaughter and commerce in fresh meat, as well as the movement of horses and donkeys. The same by-law forbade the rearing of pigs and goats in yards, and dogs from wandering the streets. In 1892, the Municipality of Rio de Janeiro addressed the issue of dogs once more making their registration obligatory: unaccompanied dogs should be collected by the Municipality and sent to scientific laboratories for experiments.26 The very notion of the “stray,” as one can see, emerged from these rules and political practices. The law was never enforced, however, during the nineteenth century. It was the project of urban renewal, which consolidated the modern ethical project that created the conditions that led to the fulfillment of the legislation’s attempt.

New customs, old laughter

Nicknamed “the Perfect”—a good-humoured corruption of the Portuguese “prefeito” (“prefect”, or more correctly, mayor) —Pereira Passos passed legislation governing animals as one of his first acts of governance on January 6, 1903. There’s nothing like a Kings’ Day to start a career of a vice-king, opined a “lettre d’un missiu” to the mayor in intentionally broken French.27

The decree of 6th of January, 1903 included amendments to the Code of 1838 that prescribed the rearing, the transit and the commercialization of animals, dead or alive, in town. Thus, the movement of cows in urban areas, and door-to-door milking, which was a customary practice of the time, were forbidden:

“(…) I also abolished the rustic practice of milking cows in public streets, as the cows were covering the paths with their dejecta, scenes that certainly no one will judge proper to a civilized city (…)28

Furthermore, the new regulations controversially prescribed that Hygiene Officers inoculate cattle against tuberculosis and the inspection of livestock, be it for milk or slaughter.

In the case of milk, the regulations aimed to avoid its adulteration with water—a practice that the newspaper Rio Nu playfully said to be “homeopathic dynamisation.” This was also done to prevent commerce in milk from cows affected by tuberculosis, of which there were a considerable number at the time.

The obligatory sanitary inspection of slaughterhouses aimed to both control cattle diseases and to prevent the deterioration of meat sold by street vendors. The regulations which prescribed the inspection of live animals on government premises gave rise to long judicial disputes with private slaughterhouses. Nevertheless, the official statistics29 demonstrate that cattle failed to pass the inspections not so much to transmissible diseases, but due to malnutrition or traumas from long trips on foot or in closed train wagons with no food or water for days,30 as they often came from distant estates or even neighbouring Uruguay. Many were dead on arrival.

The same regulations stipulated that the slaughter of cattle could only take place in public butcheries which were then slowly moving to the periphery of the city, in order, it was maintained, to avoid the stampede of cattle in the streets, then a common occurrence, causing the city dwellers great alarm and perhaps some concern for the terrified animals, which often sought refuge in nearby houses and even churches.31

In this regard, referring to municipal prohibitions on the slaughter of cattle and meat commerce in Rio, the libertarian periodical Gazeta Operaria32 was the only voice to boldly state:

As a matter of ideas and sentiments, we are against those who eat corpses…”

This strong stance is detailed further below.

Yet, the banishment of dairy cows from urban spaces caused perplexed, if not indignant reactions in the press. On January 7, 1903, the newspaper commented that the “Supreme Intendant” had forbidden “the cow men to deliver milk door to door, claiming that some of the tamed cows they lead might be bitten by a wild one.” The comic aspect of the comment relied upon double entendres, as in the pornographic patois of the time, “unruly cows” – or in general, “cattle”—were coquettes or prostitutes. In the same vein, johns and pimps were “marchands,” the cattle merchants; brothels were the “slaughterhouses” and, in the continued metaphor, sexual intercourse was referred to as “slaughter.” Betrayed husbands were referred to as the “oxen.”33

Sparse notes in the press reveal that the population contested the prohibition. An article in Rio Nu reports:34

(…) A few days ago a young man led his aunt’s cow to pasture (…) when a Municipal Officer decided to imprison him and take the animal to the pound, despite the fact that the young man swore that he was not a milk dealer. The zealous municipal authority would have had his way, if, while many curious assistants debated the fact, the smart boy had not run, pulling the cow along with him, to take refuge in his grandmother’s pasture, few steps from the scene of the event (…)”

Popular reaction targeted not only cows. The use of horses and donkeys for transportation, on which public and cargo transporters depended, was then taxed at three thousand Réis per head. This was undoubtedly the main reason for a coachmen and carriers’ strike in January 1904, which made waves in the city’s political waters. I shall return to this point further below. For now, it is sufficient to note that the carriers claimed that the tax made their labor more vulnerable to exploitation, as most of them were employees. It did not pass unnoticed, as stated in the press, that the tax also led to a hyper-exploitation of animals, whose owners, in order to evade the tax and protect their interests, cut back on the number of animals used to carry out their operations and even reduced their feed—whips were the only abundance these animals knew, as the owners sought to extract more work from the fewer animals available.

Finally, it is necessary to mention the rabid—excuse the unavoidable pun—campaign Pereira Passos launched against dogs in the city. Municipal regulations required all dogs in the city to be registered, upon payment of a prescribed fee. In addition, a fine was levied on owners who allowed dogs to roam freely. Sheep dogs were the only exception, which, if properly registered could wander the streets by themselves. Thus, the rules imposed yet another tax on the population; and those who could not afford the tax ran the risk of having their dogs taken from them. The data shows that the tax on dog registrations culminated in revenue of 96,701 Réis in 1903, and declined in the subsequent years,35 indicating that the population either refused or simply could not afford to pay. Abandoned dogs—classified in official documentation as vagrant dogs—were hunted down and exterminated. According to the press, 13,000 dogs were exterminated between 1903 and 1904.36 Pereira Passos reported the following for the year 1904:

[…] I ordered the urgent capture and elimination of thousands of dogs that strayed near the city, giving to it the repugnant aspect of certain eastern cities and with grave loss to public security and morality […]”37

As one can well imagine, this moral argument for the elimination of dogs on account of their mating in public provided an endless source of pornographic satire. In a chronicle published by Rio Nu on February 14, 1903, the author, pretending to hold a political office, declared in his manifesto that:

No dog may play seesaw in the middle of the streets, without previous knowledge of the municipality officer (…).

The same newspaper sarcastically reported on January 13, 1904:

Yesterday, the police arrested a couple of dogs for being united in wedlock without license of the Municipality”

The tensions created by the bio-political practices of State began to culminate and led to a riot against obligatory smallpox vaccination in November 1904, but that will not be pursued here. Let us stick to the mordacious, rabellaisian laugh of the population during Carnival, which continued beyond the period of the ritual.

In 1904, the Carnival—the acme of cultural critique of the carioca population—would once more, and with renewed vigour, take regulating animal presence in urban areas as its theme: indeed, cows and dogs were not left out of the street parades and carnival balls. It is quite amusing that the masques, incorporating animals in the ritual event, challenged the municipal prohibition and allowed them to circulate at will during the nights of Carnival. In a malicious reference to the Town Council, the Fenians, a carnival association, paraded an allegory under the name “Rats of the Council” with an array of masked dogs, mice and mosquitoes representing “the three chased species.”38 Another association, the Democrats, opened the parade with nothing less than a clarion band of masked Stegomya fasciata, the feared mosquitoes; another allegory the Democrats presented under the title “The Hunting Down of Dogs” showed a parade “defending the liberty of dogs.39 This was probably the parade of “dogs” referred to by R.de Athayde (n.d:214), which, divided between those “registered” and “unregistered,” sang this good-humoured protest:

This beautiful cage
Which comes with no obstacles
Is the nicest invention
Of the genial Dr. Passos
From one extreme to the other of the streets
Climbing and descending mountains
Wherever it passes it gathers
Vagrant dogs
Always frenetic land
Unmatched in the whole world
Wonderful city
Long live Rio de Janeiro!

It is worth remembering the perfect symmetry between the municipal regulations that targeted animals and those targeting unemployed people or informal workers, as beggars, prostitutes, ruffians, gamblers, street vendors and slum dwellers were also arrested or removed from the central areas of the city. Therefore, it is no coincidence that the Head of Police when reporting on the street riots in November 1904, referred to “vagrants and ragged women” as coming out of “ burrows” to set the city awry. This symmetry, along with the political process of animalisation it reveals, was the object of a rather Swiftian irony in the pages of Rio Nu>40

Following what the Prefect has been doing to vagrant dogs, the Head of Police will order the caging of all minors without owners who wander the streets of the city. Well done.”

The extreme image of “bare lives,” as G. Agamben41 acutely describes it, are animal lives. Thus conceived, within the bio-political calculus that is under consideration here, “bare life” is alsoexcess life,”— the crowd in its uncontrollable numbers, whether they are human or animal.

However, from a popular point of view, bio-political symmetry seems to have produced solidarity as a counterpart: the banishment and elimination of animals invoked a range of responses, from cultural comment to popular reaction.

Freedom for piety

Indeed, not only cultural critics challenged the “sanitary despotism” of the time. Official documentation from the period reveals evidence of workers who took direct action to free captured animals. The complaints register of the Municipality for the year 1903 includes this entry:42

(…) Yesterday at about eleven o’clock, the dog collection cart arrived here, accompanied by a squad of Municipal Officers, who seized a large number of dogs, some belonging to workers in the textile factory. As they were leaving and passing the gates of the factory, the cart was attacked by the workers, who liberated all the encaged dogs. As a result of these events, the fiscal officer arrived at the place, looking for soldiers to arrest the workers, who already had returned to their work in the factory (…)

(…) At the gate of the factory, the officer insisted that the soldiers invade the factory to arrest the workers who had released the dogs and who were back at their work, which the soldiers refused to do, alleging they could not be ordered by a civilian authority.

Casern of the Sixth Policial Post in the 4th of October of 1903.

(signed) Pedro Manoel de Souza, Commander”

The coachmen and carriers’ strike in January 1904, mentioned above, is undoubtedly another exemplary instance of worker solidarity with animals. “Vira a joça” (“Dump the trash”) was the call of the strikers and the picketers as they proceeded to overturn and immobilize carts and trolleys around the city. However, it is quite significant that when the strike errupted, the first target was a dog collection cart, which was broken into to free the animals.43 It seems that the actionwas supported by the population, as the press also reported another dog collection cart being dumped and the dogs released in a different sector of the town on the same day.44

Based on the documentary evidence of the time, the practice of releasing dogs was indeed a recurrent event in those turbulent years. Even the Prefect acknowledged this, reporting that he had to order a police escort “in order to prevent the populace from destroying the carts collecting vagrant dogs.45 This case is diametrically opposed to those of the classical studies of E. P. Thompson and R. Darnton,46 where animals appear as a sign of bourgeois power in class struggle. British historiography, from the 1980’s on, had already formed strong counter examples to Darnton’s bourgeois cats, pointing out that the first actions against bull-baiting came from workers in the manufacturing city of Birmingham, and that during the nineteenth century the British humanitarian movement’s multifold struggle against cruelty to animals was deeply rooted in workers’ associations. Regrettably, British historians tended to read the humanitarian movement as a surrogate for class struggle rather than an ideology in its own right.47

In the first years of the twentieth century in Rio de Janeiro, as elsewhere, workers may have seen their own destitute lives mirrored in the persecution of animals. However, I suggest that the acknowledgment of similitude was not confined to this, but overflowed and brought about active resistance in defence of the existence of animals tout court. In other words, if bio-power symbolically equated animals with poor men, the workers’ reaction was not to negate the equation, but to creatively turn it into a struggle for life.

I argue that to a certain extent the intelligibility of such resistance relied on naturist ideas present in the workers’ circles of Brazil at the time. Naturism had its origins in French anarchism at the end of the nineteenth century and spread via international anarchist links to South America, mainly through periodicals published in Catalunya. So the very idea of interspecies solidarity was not alien to Brazilian libertarianism, as it was a pervasive assumption in all currents that, between the end of the nineteenth to the first decades of the twentieth centuries, claimed human freedom would only be attained by putting an end to production and returning to nature.

In broad terms, libertarian naturism affirmed that capitalism had corrupted the human condition by taking it so far from nature. Hence the struggle against capitalism demanded the eschewal of all technologies, generally speaking, of the artificial. Human beings, it was asserted, should go back to nature, to live side by side with other living beings. This general principle became a primary mark of difference, separating naturists from communists and even anarchists, because the concept of revolution of the latter two still retained the line of production, raising the objection from the naturists that production would always produce slaves. Returning to nature was apparent in a variety of practices such as vegetarianism (or a kind of veganism avant la lettre, refusing the consumption of all animal by-products), crudivorism, nudism, and in gathering fruits instead of agriculture.

Two periodicals in Rio de Janeiro spread libertarian naturist ideas: Gazeta Operária, published in the years 1900-1903 and 1906, and A Vida, published in the years 1914-1915. They appeared alongside the pamphleteering work of anarchist Eugenio George and writer Lima Barreto, the latter of whom was strongly influenced by Tolstoi and Kropotkin.

Peter Kropotkin’s Mutual Aid, published in London in 1902, provided a sound theoretical basis for the idea of solidarity among species, for solidarity was a factor of evolution in his argument. Far from Darwin’s idea of the predator as the most fit, Kropotkin argued that the most fit were bands of beings who helped each other against a hostile environment, an argument he held to be valid in relation to humans (be they primitive or peasant communities, or anarchist collectivities) as well as animals. The concept of solidarity in Kropotkin, as the author acknowledges, is equivalent to the notion of piety in Rousseau—a natural feeling which is present in all living and sentient beings. Inverting the poles of social darwinism, which extends nature to social categories, Kropotkin reads the relationship among species as a field of intense sociality, a solidarity network against nature, a concept he confined to climatic or geological phenomena. In this line, the author praised the small, anonymous lives based on solidarity, of animals or workers who give their lives for the sake of others.

It seems that the Kropotkian idea of a solidary network of sentient life, when transposed to the industrial and urban ambiance, found its crucial anchorage in domestic species, the ones man “encages for fun, kills for pleasure and subdues to forced labour and torture.48 In this vein we can understand one of Lima Barreto’s melancholic passages in defence of animals: “(…) it is over their suffering, it is over their own lives that we erect ours 49

From a naturist point of view, the hyper-exploitation of animal work and life was the ultimate form of slavery that still needed to be abolished. Animal slavery was also human slavery: only in the company of men, “reduced to misery, undernourished, compelled to agglomeration and dirt” do animals live a degraded existence, because human life is degraded by capitalism.50 On the eve of the war in 1914, the periodical La Vie Anarchiste reiterated that human slavery sprang from animal slavery, with the advice : “if you understand that (…) your children will not be prison-fodder.51 The expression “prison-fodder” eloquently manifests naturist reasoning of a homologous fate of animals and workers in the context of capitalist production.

In this frame, workers’ resistance to the expulsion and killing of animals in Rio de Janeiro gains full meaning as a struggle against the commoditisation of life. Alas, “piety was held prisoner in the dungeons of repression, as the Gazeta Operária remonstrates in 1906, protesting against indifference to the brutal violence towards animals and entreating: “may all living beings emancipate themselves.52

It is true that “sanitary despotism” persisted in the control of animal lives in urban space, in the imposition of more miserable conditions on their lives and the strict regulation of their death. It is also true that dogs have not freed themselves of collars, nor have workers freed themselves of masters

Nevertheless, the struggle for solidarity at the beginning of the twentieth century would endure in popular memory, as we can see in the samba by Alberto Ribeiro, a hit sung by Carmen Miranda during the Vargas dictatorship in 1937:

I like very much a vagrant dog
Which walks alone in the world
With no collar and no master

The samba points out the burden of class even for animals, while some have lunch and dinner, others have not a bone to chew. But, together with a shared class condition, an echo of past struggles can be heard: a human voice expresses affection and empathy with a vagrant dog, and the vagrant dog in the song—the dog with “no collar and no master”— pays a canine homage to the anarchist slogan “no country and no master.”

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Chalhoub, Sidney. Cidade Febril: cortiços e epidemias no Rio de Janeiro Imperial. São Paulo: Cia das Letras, 1999.

Código de Posturas, Leis, Decretos e Editaes da Intendência Municipal do Distrito Federal. Rio de Janeiro: Papelaria e Typographia Mont’Alverne, 1894.

Correio da Manhã, January 3-4, 1903; January 8, 1903; February 18, 1904. Rio de Janeiro.

Cruz, Oswaldo G. Relatorio acerca da Molestia Reinante em Santos, apresentado pelo Dr Oswaldo Gonçalves Cruz a S.Ex. o Sr Ministro da Justiça e Negócios Interiores. Opera Omnia, 323-372. Rio de Janeiro: Imp. Brasileira, 1972.

Darnton, Robert. O grande massacre de gatos e outros episódios da história cultural francesa. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1986.

Farage, Nádia. “De ratos e outros homens: resistência biopolítica no Brasil moderno.” In Manuela Carneiro da Cunha: o lugar da cultura e o papel da antropologia. Edited by Lépine, Claude et al, 279-309. Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Beco do Azougue, 2011.

Fontenay, Elisabeth, de. Le silence de bêtes: la philosophie à l’epreuve de l’animalité. Paris: Fayard, 1998.

Foucault, Michel. Vigiar e Punir: nascimento da prisão. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1987.

Gazeta Operária. February 8, 1903; December 12, 1906. Rio de Janeiro.

George, Eugênio Loucuras da Medicina. Rio de Janeiro: Pap. Moderna, 1927 a.

George, Eugênio. O perigo das vacinas. Rio de Janeiro, Pap.Moderna, 1927 b.

Gomes Dias, J. V. O rigor da morte: abate humanitário e produção industrial de animais no Brasil contemporâneo. Dissertação de mestrado inédita, IFCH-UNICAMP, 2009.

Haraway, Donna. The companion species manifesto: dogs, people and significant otherness. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2003.

Jornal do Commercio. August 25, 1892. Rio de Janeiro.

Kropotkin, Peter. Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution. London: William Heineman, 1902.

Lansbury, Coral. The old brown dog: women, workers and vivisection in Edwardian England. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985.

Lévi-Strauss, Claude. O Pensamento Selvagem. São Paulo: Cia Ed.Nacional, 1976.

Lima Barreto, A. H. “Memórias de um stegomya fasciata.” (1903) In Toda Crônica. Edited by Beatriz Resende & Rachel Valença, vol. I:64-65. Rio de Janeiro: Agir, 2004.

Lima Barreto, A.H. Clara dos Anjos, Prosa Seleta. (1904) Rio de Janeiro: Nova Aguilar, 2001.

Lima Barreto, A.H. Contos e histórias e de animais. (1919) Coisas do Reino do Jambom. Prosa Seleta. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Aguilar, 2001.

Livro de Queixas e Reclamações da Municipalidade do Rio de Janeiro. ms. Arquivo da Cidade do Rio de Janeiro, 1903.

Pereira Passos, Francisco. Mensagens do Prefeito lidas na Sessão do Conselho Municipal. Rio de Janeiro:Typographia da Gazeta de Notícias, 1903-1907.

Perkins, David. Romanticism and Animal Rights. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

Rio Nu. January, 7, 17 and 25,1903; February, 14, 1903; January, 6, 9 and 13,1904. Rio de Janeiro.

Rosseló, Josep M. (Editor) Viva la naturaleza! Escritos libertarios contra la civilización, el progreso y la ciencia (1894-1930). Barcelona: Virus Editorial, 2008.

Sevcenko, Nicolau. A revolta da vacina: mentes insanas em corpos rebeldes. São Paulo: Cosac Naify, 2010.

Thomas, Keith. O homem e o mundo natural: mudanças de atitude em relação às plantas e os animais, 1500-1800. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1988.

Thompson, Edward Paul. Senhores e Caçadores: a origem da Lei Negra. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1997.

Turner, James, Reckoning with the beast: Animals, Pain and Humanity in Victorian Mind. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1980.

Notes

1 This paper is part of a work in progress, on libertarian naturism and anti-vivisection ideas in modern Brazil, granted by FAPESP, the Research Foundation of the State of São Paulo. I thank my students and my colleagues, Sidney Chalhoub and Mauro Almeida, for their useful comments. My special thanks to Derek Matyszak for assistance in the English version.

2 A Nação, January 10, 1904

3 Benchimol, Jaime L. Pereira Passos, um Haussmann tropical: a renovação urbana da cidade do Rio de Janeiro no inicio do seculo XX. Rio de Janeiro: Departamento Geral de Documentação e Informação Cultural, 1992; Chalhoub, Sidney. Cidade Febril: cortiços e epidemias no Rio de Janeiro Imperial. São Paulo: Cia das Letras, 1999; Bahia Lopes, Myriam. O Rio em movimento: quadros médicos e(m) história, 1890-1920. Rio de Janeiro: Fiocruz, 2000; Sevcenko, Nicolau. A revolta da vacina: mentes insanas em corpos rebeldes. São Paulo: Cosac Naify, 2010.

4 Thomas, Keith. O homem e o mundo natural: mudanças de atitude em relação às plantas e os animais, 1500-1800. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1988

5 See also Lansbury, Coral. The old brown dog: women, workers and vivisection in Edwardian England. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985.

6 Lévi-Strauss, Claude. O Pensamento Selvagem. São Paulo: Cia Ed.Nacional, 1976; see also Fontenay, Elisabeth, de. Le silence de bêtes: la philosophie à l’epreuve de l’animalité. Paris: Fayard, 1998.

7 Correio da manhã, January 3, 1903.

8 Correio da manh

9 Pereira Passos, Francisco Pereira Passos, Francisco. Mensagens do Prefeito lidas na Sessão do Conselho Municipal. Rio de Janeiro:Typographia da Gazeta de Notícias,1903-1907.

10 Bullfighting and other animal fights for public entertainment were forbidden in Brazil by Federal Decree n.16.590, in 1924.

11 Correio da manhã, January 3-4, 1903.

12 Correio da manhã, January 8, 1903.

13 Pereira Passos, Francisco. Mensagens do Prefeito lidas na Sessão do Conselho Municipal. Rio de Janeiro, Typographia da Gazeta de Notícias, 1903,7.

14 Livro de Queixas e Reclamações da Municipalidade do Rio de Janeiro, ms Arquivo da Cidade do Rio de Janeiro, 1903.

15 Lima Barreto, A.H. Clara dos Anjos, Prosa Seleta. (1904) Rio de Janeiro: Nova Aguilar, 2001, 691-692.

16 Foucault, Michel. Vigiar e Punir: nascimento da prisão. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1987

17 Lima Barreto, A. H. “Memórias de um stegomya fasciata.” (1903) In Toda Crônica. Edited by Beatriz Resende & Rachel Valença, vol. I:64-65. Rio de Janeiro: Agir, 2004, 64-65.

18 Cruz, Oswaldo G. Relatorio acerca da Molestia Reinante em Santos, apresentado pelo Dr Oswaldo Gonçalves Cruz a S.Ex. o Sr Ministro da Justiça e Negócios Interiores. Opera Omnia, 323-372. Rio de Janeiro: Imp. Brasileira, 1972

19 Farage, Nádia. “De ratos e outros homens: resistência biopolítica no Brasil moderno.” In Manuela Carneiro da Cunha: o lugar da cultura e o papel da antropologia. Edited by Lépine, Claude et al, 279-309. Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Beco do Azougue, 2011.

20 Alencar, Edigar de. O carnaval carioca através da música. Rio de Janeiro: Livraria Freitas Bastos, 1965, 77.

21 Rio Nu. February 25, 1903

22 Rio Nu. January 9, 1904.

23 Rio Nu. January 9, 1904.

24 Haraway, Donna. The companion species manifesto: dogs, people and significant otherness. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2003.

25 In Código de Posturas, Leis, Decretos e Editaes da Intendência Municipal do Distrito Federal, 1894. Rio de Janeiro, Papelaria e Typographia Mont’Alverne.

26 Jornal do Commercio. August 25, 1892.

27 Rio Nu. January 7, 1903

28 Pereira Passos, Francisco. Mensagens do Prefeito lidas na Sessão do Conselho Municipal. Rio de Janeiro, Typographia da Gazeta de Notícias, 1903,7.

29 Pereira Passos, Francisco. Mensagens do Prefeito lidas na Sessão do Conselho Municipal. Rio de Janeiro: Typographia da Gazeta de Notícias, 1903-1907.

30 For an analysis of cattle slaughter, see Gomes Dias, J. V. O rigor da morte: abate humanitário e produção industrial de animais no Brasil contemporâneo. Dissertação de mestrado inédita, IFCH-UNICAMP, 2009.

31 For the analogous case of London, in the same period, see Lansbury, Coral. The old brown dog: women, workers and vivisection in Edwardian England. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985.

32 Gazeta Operária. February 8, 1903.

33 Rio Nu. February 25 and 28, 1903.

34 Rio Nu. January 17, 1903.

35 Pereira Passos, Francisco. Mensagens do Prefeito lidas na Sessão do Conselho Municipal. Rio de Janeiro, Typographia da Gazeta de Notícias, 1903:21; 1903-1906)

36 (A Nação, February,14.,1904)

37 Questões Municipais, 1905, in Benchimol, Jaime L. Pereira Passos, um Haussmann tropical: a renovação urbana da cidade do Rio de Janeiro no inicio do seculo XX. Rio de Janeiro: Departamento Geral de Documentação e Informação Cultural, 1992.

38 Correio da Manhã, February 18, 1904.

39 Correio da Manhã, February 18, 1904.

40 Rio Nu. January 6,1904.

41 Agamben, Giorgio. The open: Man and Animal. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004.

42 Livro de Queixas e Reclamações da Municipalidade do Rio de Janeiro. ms Arquivo da Cidade do Rio de Janeiro, 1903, 89-90.

43 A Nação, January 10, 1904.

44 Correio da Manhã, January 10, 1904.

45 Questões Municipais, 1905, in Benchimol, Jaime L. Pereira Passos, um Haussmann tropical: a renovação urbana da cidade do Rio de Janeiro no inicio do seculo XX. Rio de Janeiro: Departamento Geral de Documentação e Informação Cultural, 1992.

46 Thompson, E.P. Senhores e Caçadores: a origem da Lei Negra. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1997; Darnton, Robert. O grande massacre de gatos e outros episódios da história cultural francesa. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1986.

47 Turner, James, C. Reckoning with the beast: Animals, Pain and Humanity in Victorian Mind. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1980; Perkins, David. Romanticism and Animal Rights. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

48 George, Eugênio. Loucuras da Medicina. Rio de Janeiro: Pap.Moderna, 1927 a,11.

49 Lima Barreto, A.H. Contos e histórias e de animais. (1919) Coisas do Reino do Jambom. Prosa Seleta. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Aguilar, 2001, 1020

50 George, Eugênio. 1927 b O perigo das vacinas. Rio de Janeiro, Pap.Moderna.

51 In Rosseló, J. (Editor). Viva la naturaleza! Escritos libertarios contra la civilización, el progreso y la ciencia (1894-1930). Barcelona: Virus Editorial, 2008, 68-71.

52 Gazeta Operária. December 12, 1906.

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Lance Armstrong

Working Papers Series #17
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

Lance Armstrong:
The Reality Show (A Cultural Analysis)

Lee Drummond
Center for Peripheral Studies

© 2013 Lee Drummond
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

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BIO SKETCH

My quixotic career as a cultural anthropologist (anthropological semiotician) was launched when I was seven years old. Until that time I had lived with my mother and grandmother in the countryside of northern Georgia. My mother then married a Montana rancher and we moved to his ranch in a valley on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains. My transformation from cracker to cowboy was accomplished in a few short, rather traumatic months (I learned to drop my r’s with a vengeance). The experience gave me a deep and lasting appreciation for the contingency of every social arrangement and, I think, predisposed me to a career in anthropology. I sometimes wonder if my experience may be applied in a general way to others who wind up in cultural anthropology: Have they, too, undergone wrenching changes, disruptions, rejections at an early age which set them to reflecting, not on the naturalness of things, but on how unlikely is any particular form of human existence? We find ourselves belonging to a wildly paradoxical group: a “community” of outsiders (I develop this thought in a brief essay, “Who Wants To Be An Anthropologist?”).

As an undergraduate at a small liberal arts college in Portland, Oregon, I cobbled together a rather improbable “interdivisional major” in anthropology and philosophy. At the University of Chicago I conducted fairly traditional fieldwork in Arawak and Carib villages of Guyana, where I found people who lived with their own agonizing version of the cracker / cowboy identity crisis, only for them it consisted in an ever-shifting social and cultural process of fashioning a tribal or ethnic identity in a new, rapidly changing nation.

I was later to do somewhat less traditional fieldwork in various islands of the Caribbean (Puerto Rico, Martinique, Barbados) and what many would consider downright wacky fieldwork at the San Diego Zoo and Sea World.

After more than a decade at McGill University, I resigned my tenured post and eventually wound up as a sub-tropical man in the American sub-tropics (well, actually, barren desert wasteland) of Palm Springs, California. There I launched the Center for Peripheral Studies, still stalking the tortuous contours of that borderland separating cracker and cowboy. The Center’s mission statement and a number of essay and books may be found at www.peripheralstudies.org.

ABSTRACT

Victor Turner and others (including Arnold Van Gennep, Mary Douglas, Erving Goffman, Harold Garfinkel) have suggested that the analyst can best get to know a particular society / culture by focusing his attention on events that challenge or disrupt the normal arrangement and flow of social life. Rather than describe in meticulous detail the intricate way in which social things fit together (in tidy four-ply Parsonian boxes), one takes a close, dispassionate look at how things fall apart, at how, sometimes just for a moment, sometimes for an extended period, sometimes, in the case of revolution, forever, the fabric of society is torn and thereby reveals the separate threads of its composition. I think this approach is particularly well-suited to the cultural analysis of contemporary American society, for its 24/7 cable news networks have the nearly magical power to single out an isolated event and magnify it instantly to national or even global proportions.

It is this orientation, a predisposition to attend to the edges or boundaries of social phenomena, that fired my interest in the spectacular event of Lance Armstrong’s confession on a January 2012 airing of The Oprah Winfrey Show. Armstrong admitted the truth of long-standing allegations that he had used “performance enhancing drugs” during multiple Tour de France races. That confession, made before the millions who watch Oprah, triggered an avalanche of commentary, almost all of which was in the vein of hand-wringing, soul-searching despair and outrage: We, the great American public, had been lied to, deceived by a son of the soil whom we had elevated to the status of hero. A small army of lawyers and government agents rushed in to redress the grievous wrong with lawsuits, penalties, revocation of awards. Surveiller et punir; monitor and punish.

My essay argues that the public outcry should be regarded as a lens through which the dispassionate observer may identify and explore the basic values of American society that underlie the outpouring of righteous indignation. In the course of that cultural analysis, those values are found to be shot full of contradiction and ambivalence. Seen in this light the Lance Armstrong affair exposes deep, and largely irreparable fault lines in American society. Particular loci of those fault lines are spectator sports and the recent phenomenon of reality television.


SEVEN successive Tour de France victories, anointed four times as Sportsman of the Year by the United States Olympic Committee, countless other awards, a mound of books, magazine exposés, and newspaper articles accusing and defending Lance Armstrong of wrongdoing, a small army of lawyers launching suits and counter-suits, multimillion-dollar endorsement deals, and it all came crashing down around him that fateful day in January 2013 when he walked out and took his seat on the set of the most sacred shrine of the American conscience: The Oprah Winfrey Show.

The show is America’s Confessional, and Oprah the Grand Inquisitor. In front of millions, under the blazing studio lights, she can extract confessions of sins concealed for years by the most distinguished among us. From best-selling authors of bogus books to repentant celebrities, Oprah has them in tears, telling all between car-giveaways and painkiller commercials. The CIA could have saved all the expense and bad press over its secret prisons and waterboarding – just trundle Khalid Sheikh Mohammed out on stage and Oprah would have had him singing like a canary in time for top-of-the-hour cable news.

And what about the audience for Lance’s confession, those couch potato voyeurs who experience life as a bizarre combination of talk shows, reality TV, cable news breaking stories, sitcoms, and HBO/Showtime movies, that is to say, what about us – the great American public?

With her dramatic unveiling of Lance’s charade, Oprah bestowed the ultimate gift on that audience, better even than those fabled car-giveaways. For a few brief moments, before we had to return to our troubled, occluded lives, she allowed us to experience a true, pure feeling, hot as a poker, bright as a laser: the righteous indignation that wells up inside the American breast when we encounter a fundamental betrayal of trust, a scam far worse than Bernie Madoff’s (who merely stole from the rich), a con that subverts the balance of the way things are and are supposed to be. Lance was our ultimate athlete-hero, and in many ways our ultimate American Hero of recent times, far more impressive and sponge-worthy than a Super Bowl quarterback (for all the weeks of hype, really just a flash-in-the-pan, forgotten until next season), a muscle-bound home-run slugger, or an unlikely sort-of-black president with a lawyer’s golden tongue. Day after day, year after year, mile after torturous mile, Lance wore that yellow jersey, the leader’s emblem of the Tour de France. And – the sweetest treat of all – this gaunt, determined young Texan from the outskirts of Dallas wore it proudly through throngs of spectators right there in that citadel of anti- American snobbishness: France.

Lance’s betrayal of the public trust was especially painful because he was the ultimate underdog, the hero-image we Americans somehow manage to embrace while riding roughshod over the rest of the world. It was a modern miracle that he should have been on that bicycle seat at all, that he should even have been alive. At twenty-five, with his reputation as a top cycling competitor already established, he was diagnosed with advanced testicular cancer, a cancer that had already spread to his brain and lungs. Following surgery and chemotherapy he was given less than a 50-50 chance to live. Survival, let alone a return to sports, seemed a remote possibility. Yet with excellent physicians and an innovative regimen of chemotherapy, he not only survived but three years after his surgeries won the first of his Tour de France victories. His is a remarkable story, perhaps the most impressive come-from-behind living legend of American history. And, cruelest of ironies, all made possible by that fount of life-giving, life-extending wonders, the pharmaceutical industry, which was later to strike him down.

Lance Armstrong was an athletic prodigy, endowed with remarkable stamina from childhood and, quite probably, from birth. While still in junior high school he became attracted to endurance sports – swimming, running, bicycling – and, seeing a poster for an “Iron Kids Triathlon,” entered the competition. He won. He was thirteen years old. Two years later he was ranked first in the under-19 category of the U. S. Triathlon. At sixteen, he became a professional triathlete. In 1988 and 1989, aged 18 and 19, he held the title of national sprint-course triathlon champion. Two years later he became a professional in the world of international cycling competition, and put together an impressive series of victories which culminated in his first Tour de France win in 1999. The scandal that erupted around him in later years should not detract from the remarkable gifts of a truly exceptional human being. Rather, it adds to the tragedy: that one so gifted should feel he needed an edge to remain on top.

But . . . It is precisely at this point, when our moral compass seems fixed on a steady bearing, that it is necessary to question the basis of our certitude, to question whether we inhabit a neatly partitioned social world in which some deeds and people are good, some evil, and in which we know for a certain fact when someone – Lance Armstrong in this case – crosses the line, goes over to the Dark Side. Oprah, with her enormous audience of other right-thinking Americans, does not question the premise that good and evil are clear to all, necessary anchors to secure us in a rapidly changing, often bewildering world. Nor does anyone in her parade of penitents appear to question that premise; they know the secret wrongs they have done and, under the blazing studio lights and Oprah’s doe-eyed gaze, confess all to the Grand Inquisitor. It is necessary to ask, in short, whether Lance Armstrong’s deeds violated all that is good and decent in human life or whether, just possibly, those deeds actually cast their own inquisitorial light on our basic values. In the very midst of the public firestorm of outrage, it is necessary to ask whether Lance is so awfully bad. [Do you perhaps recall the old joke circulating during the trial of Lyle and Erik Menendez, two enterprising teenagers who took a drastic shortcut to their inheritance by doing away with their parents in their Beverly Hills mansion: “So we shot-gunned Mom and Dad – was that so awfully bad?”]

When one begins to turn the Inquisition back on itself, to consider what the Lance Armstrong affair reveals about our basic values, it is at once apparent that Americans have quite specific expectations of their athletes. By far the most important, and general, of these is that the star athlete displays his God-given physical talent: he performs feats of natural prowess before the stadium throngs, the crowds lining the race course, the multitudes of those couch potatoes slumped in front of their giant flat screen HD sets. Not to get too Lévi-strauss on a readership that has mostly turned its back on the master, Americans believe in a fundamental division between Nature and Culture. And the star athlete is the embodiment of The Natural (as played by Robert Redford). His body is his temple, and anything he does to defile that temple is dealt with harshly by bureaucratic agencies established to identify any violation of that ideal. [And by high school football coaches who forbid beer – and even sex – for their Friday-night wonders] Drug tests have become the norm in professional sports: the football or basketball player who tests positive for cocaine or other mind-altering drugs faces suspension. Gone are the days when Mickey Mantle could walk up to the plate drunk as a skunk and swing for the bleachers. But far worse than these debilitating drugs is the use of drugs intended to improve performance: steroids and blood-doping chemicals of all sorts are part of a growing pharmacopeia of the Great Satan of professional athletics, the dreaded and despised performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals. These evils subvert the Natural Order of things.

The Lance Armstrong affair has put one little bureaucracy in particular in the spotlight: the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency. Created in 2000 to enforce strictures on drug use by Olympic athletes, its lab-coated inquisitors conduct their studies under the Agency’s slogan, “Inspiring True Sport.” Examining their goals in some detail is at least as revealing of American values as reading those fanciful documents, The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, drafted by a small group of wealthy white slave-owners in the late-eighteenth century:

To be the guardian of the values and life lessons learned through true sport. We hold the public trust to:

Preserve the Integrity of Competition — we preserve the value and integrity of athletic competition through just initiatives that prevent, deter and detect violations of true sport.
Inspire True Sport — we inspire present and future generations of U.S. athletes through initiatives that impart the core principles of true sport — fair play, respect for one’s competitor and respect for the fundamental fairness of competition.
Protect the Rights of U.S. Athletes — we protect the right of U.S. Olympic and Paralympic athletes to compete healthy and clean — to achieve their own personal victories as a result of unwavering commitment and hard work — to be celebrated as true heroes. (www.usada.org)

“. . . to compete healthy and clean . . .” The self-righteous obtuseness of the mediocrities who formulated these goals does justice to Ward Cleaver, that all-knowing disciplinarian who dispensed his sage advice every week to keep The Beaver in line.

What is wrong, misled, or, frankly, stupid about the pretentious goals of the U. S. Anti-Doping Agency? Why should we not look to them as an admirable statement of a fundamental morality that all the world, particularly the world of professional athletics, should embrace?

The principal problem with those goals is that they fail to recognize that the dichotomy Nature / Culture embraced by Americans is in fact an elaborate cultural construct, a contrivance which owes little to the joint physical and social endowments of a human being. The crucial fact the lab coats ignore is that there has never been a “natural” man or woman “to compete healthy and clean” in anything. Our bodies are the product of some three million years of an evolutionary process which mixed – and often mangled – discrete physical abilities, technical expertise, and social skills. If it possesses any distinguishing feature at all – and that is quite debatable – what we choose to call “humanity” is a loose and ever-shifting assemblage of biology and culture. For a few technocrats to stroll into this rats nest and begin to dispense ill-formed opinions in the guise of scientific findings is laughable, and terribly sad.

But even if we set aside these big-picture considerations drawn from paleoanthropology and cultural anthropology, the antics over at the U. S. Anti-Doping Agency appear quite limited in scope. Let us begin by granting their premise that professional athletes should be required, under penalty of exclusion from their sport, to refrain from tampering with their “natural” abilities through “unnatural” performance-enhancing measures. This proves to be a slippery slope.

For starters, how do the lab coats identify precisely which chemicals are to be placed on their Index of forbidden drugs? The American pharmaceutical industry is a multibillion-dollar enterprise devoted to creating more and more new drugs (which they tout as being far more effective than their earlier products, whose patents soon expire and fall prey to cheap generic replacements). In tandem with America’s official “war on drugs” (and we all know how well that’s going), the FDA and other bureaucracies like the Anti-Doping Agency face the impossible task of keeping up with, let alone regulating the flood of new drugs hitting the market every year. Where the general public is concerned (the trodden masses without its own army of lobbyists in the Gucci Gulch corridors of Congressional office buildings), the best these agencies can do is require the giant pharmaceutical corporations to issue disclaimers and warnings when they showcase their products in commercial spots on Oprah and the evening news: “Feeling depressed? Take our new anti-depression pill! It’ll make you feel great! . . . Well, actually, it may make you want to kill yourself. But, hey, your doctor will prescribe it!”

Closely related to the challenge posed by new pharmaceutical drugs is the burgeoning group of vitamins, minerals, and other “nutritional supplements” which, because they are deemed “natural,” fall outside the purview of the FDA and similar agencies. When Mother June sent The Beaver down to the corner grocery store to pick up a few things for supper, her shopping list didn’t include items such as acai, ginkgo, kava, bilberry, satvia, or senna. There are thousands of these substances, whose effects on the human body are known only vaguely. And when used in their purified or processed form and in an enormous variety of combinations, it is anyone’s guess what their short or long-term effects may be. Suppose that Lance and other professional athletes, rather than raiding the medicine chest, paid a visit to the local herbalist, who gave them a god-awful tasting brew compounded of berries from the New Guinea highlands, roots from the Amazonian forest, leaves from the Manchurian steppe. After a few weeks of hooking down this stuff, they went out and did amazing things on the race course or playing field. Would our little band of inquisitors at the USADA hastily revise their regulations and go forth to strip medals, return prize money, and generally insure that athletes “compete healthy and clean”? We are a little further down that slippery slope, and picking up speed (but hopefully without any “unnatural” lubricants!).

And here’s another curve ball – no shit spit: Suppose Lance et al decide to frustrate the lab coats who routinely sample their urine and blood for tell-tale traces of proscribed substances. Instead, they find a few medical technicians of their own, physicians and therapists at the vanguard of an established and expanding field: ultrasound treatment. Long used to reduce inflammation, relieve osteoarthritis, and promote post-surgery healing, innovative ultrasound treatment is found by these pioneers to strengthen muscle growth and significantly improve stamina. A few weeks of regular treatment have all the performance-enhancing effects of steroidal and blood-doping chemicals, but without the unpleasant side effects (you can still get it up!). Natural? Unnatural? Permissible? Proscribed? If the officials decide such treatments confer an unfair advantage, what will they say about deep-tissue massage? Whirlpool baths? The slope grows steeper.

On a not altogether whimsical note, we may extend this inquiry to a quite different scenario. Rather than take a risk with any physical means of improving their games, suppose that “Slammin” Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, and Barry Bonds discovered a remarkable sports hypnotist. Under deep hypnosis, they were told over and over, “You are a very good long-ball hitter. You will hit many home runs. You may now wake up and head for the ball park. But first, that will be five hundred dollars.” They then proceeded to hit record numbers of home runs and garner an impressive list of rewards until the whiskey-bloated lawyers in Congress, finding it unfashionable to hunt Communists, hauled them in for forced testimony that forever tarnished their outstanding careers.

Taken together these examples seriously undermine the moral certitude exuded by USADA bureaucrats, Oprah, her vast audience, and the “wrongdoers” themselves. Still, we are just coming to what is by far the slipperiest part of our downward rush, as represented by the equipment and facilities which are integral to athletic competition. Virtually every athletic event (perhaps excepting only nekked female mud-wrassling, which has not yet been designated an Olympic event, tant pis) involves the use of complex, manufactured artifacts in a specialized, often fantastically expensive setting such as the ball park or Olympic stadium. Kevin Costner’s Field of Dreams is built on a tract of bulldozed urban blight rather than an Iowa cornfield, and only after the city fat cats have stuffed a whopping bond issue down the throats of the rube citizens.

Even a seemingly simple mano-a-máquina arrangement like a man on a bicycle is hedged around by a host of technical and financial matters. The bicycle itself is not two centuries old; before that the particular combination of physical ability and mental toughness required to win a Tour de France was likely expended harvesting crops in a seigniorial manor. Today’s racing bicycle is a piece of cutting-edge technology, the product of advanced metallurgy, engineering, and aerodynamic tests conducted in a wind tunnel. Lance Armstrong’s bicycle (rather, bicycles since he required a stable of them for a single Tour de France) was a $10,000 machine with incredible lightness and tensile strength. That machine was essential to his victories. Its importance cannot be overstated. Suppose that somewhere in Bulgaria, Romania, or Something-or-other-istan there lives a strapping farm lad with the metabolism of a Galapagos turtle and a dream of himself in the yellow jersey leading the pack through the tortuous course of the Tour. The only bicycles available to him, however, weigh twenty-five pounds and have tires that would fit a light truck. Unless some wheeler-dealer promoter spots the lad and plucks him out of his rural oblivion, he will grow old picking beets and riding his two-wheeled clunker around the town square.

Even when an athlete’s equipment is minimal, as, say, with a Speedo suit worn by an Olympic diver or swimmer (but not too minimal – none of those scandalous Riviera codpieces for our Natural Man), the facilities required for the sport are monumental. Greg Louganis, the Olympic diving sensation of the 1980s, grew up in southern California around swimming pools, trampolines, and diving coaches (he was later to become yet another star penitent on The Oprah Winfrey Show). The Olympic diving pool for the ten-meter platform and three-meter springboard where Louganis launched his remarkable aerial displays is at least sixteen feet deep, not exactly Mom and Dad’s backyard above-ground Target special. Had Greg grown up in Bayou country as one of the Swamp People, learning how to dive off the dock of granddaddy’s crawfish hole, he is unlikely to have perfected his signature reverse 2½ pike.

These examples could be compounded endlessly, and all underscore the crucial fact ignored by the narrow-minded lab coats of the USADA that their so-called “true sport” involves the seamless meshing of physical ability and technical expertise. It is almost certainly true that these technocrats are kept too busy compiling lab reports and giving legal testimony to keep up with the vastly more interesting scientific discoveries in the field of paleoanthropology. Tool use has long been thought to be a distinctive feature of the human species: long before language evolved to anything like its present state early hominids were feeding and protecting themselves with the help of stone tools. The human body and nervous system (including the brain) evolved to promote tool use; such is our Natural Man. Moreover, it now appears that, contrary to previous anthropology textbook wisdom, stone tool use actually preceded the appearance of the entire Homo genus. The earliest stone tool users (and possibly makers) were not humans at all, but an australopithecine lineage that flourished over three million years ago. The most famous member of that lineage (whose claim to natural-ness might now be challenged by the USADA!) is Lucy (in the sky with diamonds). Her conspecifics, Australopithecus afarensis, were using stone tools to butcher carcasses some half-million years before the appearance of the Homo line. Human evolution was in large part a consequence of tool use, not the reverse.

…………………………………………

Hurtling down this slippery slope, we at last plunge over the edge of a vast precipice (like James Bond in the adrenaline-pumping opener of The Spy Who Loved Me) into a dark and bottomless sea. We have encountered and must now face (sink or swim!) a stunning paradox: An athlete’s physical body is in fact less natural than the implements / tools / machines he employs to display his skill. For the ancestors of those artifacts created his body millions of years before all the recent hype about biotechnology engineering a race of cyborgs. The human body is basically a particular sort of artifact, which we happen to find very special (since we inhabit one).

How might this revelation affect our deeply rooted belief that Nature and Culture are fundamentally separate? If that dichotomy now appears far too nuanced and convoluted for bureaucratic dullards to comprehend, let alone regulate, what are we to make of our strong feelings, our love, of the athlete? If not a display of unblemished physical perfection, what is it about “true sport” that we celebrate, even worship?

Ironically a clue to the answer to these questions is to be found in the very language of those who regulate athletics: their goal is to detect and banish the use of “performance-enhancing drugs” because they seek to insure the integrity of performance. Anyone can ride a bicycle, but only a very few can ride at speed over the two thousand miles of jumbled terrain of the Tour de France. We like to see people who can do things very well.

But only certain things. Warren Buffet is an exceptional performer when it comes to making money, but we don’t throng the streets of Omaha to catch a glimpse of its Oracle. And we don’t award him any gold medals (since he already has most of the gold). Nor do we celebrate the people skills and networking abilities of those we send to Congress; in fact, we’d much rather tar and feather that lawyerly vermin.

What we value about performance is intrinsic to the meaning of the word: it is an activity involving display and focused attention. The performer, as an individual or member of a small group or team, behaves before an audience in a way that engages, excites and rivets the attention of that audience. He is the catalyst essential to transforming the humdrum doings of daily life into an event.

We have been hurled over the edge of a slippery slope into the sea below, but we now find ourselves in troubled waters. If we as right-thinking, fair-minded Americans insist or acquiesce in our government and its lackeys regulating the performers among us, what are we to think about the highly discrepant treatment we apply to those individuals? Performers come in all stripes. We bestow attention, even adulation, and riches on them based on their ability to engage and excite us. Some accomplish this on the playing field, some on the race course, some on the three-meter board and still others on stage, film, CD, or even, to invoke a rapidly disappearing world, through the written word. Yet if it is superb performance we value, why should we apply different standards to the outstanding performers among us? Particularly now that we have seen how intractable the Nature / Culture opposition is, and in deference to the cherished American value of fair play, should we not demand that all our performers adhere to the same standards of conduct?

Perhaps, to the delight of the bureaucrats in the USADA, we should greatly extend their mandate, tasking them with the responsibility of insuring that all our performers are “healthy and clean” exemplars to the general public and, especially, to our young people who emulate them.

Yet as the inquisitors begin their new assignment, they immediately encounter some deeply disturbing material. Having decided to begin their new studies with the performance-arts equivalent of Olympic gold medalists and, their arch villain, Lance Armstrong, they compile CDs, DVDs, and journalistic accounts of a musical group which over the decades has provided the most successful spectacles of any type of performance, including sporting events such as the Super Bowl. That group goes by a whimsical name: The Rolling Stones. The lab coats confirm persistent and shocking rumors that a prominent member of that group, one Keith Richard, is often under the influence of a variety of controlled substances and, horror of horrors, sometimes performs on stage while in that condition. Moreover, they learn that the leader of the group, a Mick Jagger, is said on occasion to do the same, prancing around the stage like the drug-crazed maniac he apparently is. Considering the blatant disregard these performers show for their bodies and, far worse, for the multitudes that idolize them, the USADA must act swiftly. Using their expanded authority, they act to strip The Rolling Stones of every musical award the group has received over the past half-century. And the bureaucrats, supported by a phalanx of lawyers, take steps to impound and seize the fortune the group has amassed through its illegal activities. They embark on the daunting task of removing the group’s songs from YouTube and other social media while confiscating any CDs and DVDs it locates in stores and online.

Having sniffed out this flagrant violation of our basic values, the lab coats are distressed to find that the stench goes far deeper than contemporary musicians caught up in the narcissistic drug culture. Additional research documents that major figures in literature were anything but “healthy and clean,” and, even more alarming, that their work is tainted by unmistakable signs of their substance abuse. On reviewing the novels and short stories of Ernest Hemingway the investigators find that all exude the strong bouquet of liquor, and that the blood-alcohol content of his later work in particular should be incorporated in its titles: Islands in the Stream (of Rum) for example. Fearful of the harmful effect Hemingway’s conduct may have on the millions of Americans required to read his poisonous books in school, the authorities make every effort to eradicate that influence by seizing copies of his books and expunging references to him in textbooks. And just as they did with Lance Armstrong and his trophies, they strip Hemingway of his Nobel Prize.

As the expanded USADA digs deeper into the field of literature, they find other cases that require their inquisitorial attention. They discover that the nation’s youth, already the victims in a raging war on drugs, are subjected throughout middle school and high school to the poetry of an especially pernicious figure: the notorious opium addict, Samuel Coleridge. Like Hemingway, Coleridge not only made no secret of his drug abuse but wove it into the body of his work with dark, disturbing images. In the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which millions of our children are required to read at a young and impressionable age, we find deeply troubling passages:

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie;
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came and made
My heart as dry as dust.

…………………..

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.

Coleridge’s final outrage, which prompts the lab coats to drastic action in removing his name from the record of world literature, is that he actually composed a large part of one of his most famous poems, Kubla Khan while in an opium stupor. Even Coleridge’s decadent English contemporaries were scandalized by his audacity in publishing his hallucinations as poetry. Clearly, such behavior is unacceptable to anyone who values the integrity of performance.

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The integrity of performance. At this point in our inquiry it is difficult to know just what that phrase might mean. Readers will appreciate that the previous pages have been an exercise in reductio ad absurdum (although an occasional reader with ties to the Moral Majority might endorse these arguments to the letter!), a fixture of philosophical and mathematical thought since the pre-Socratics. If we approve the punishments meted out to Lance Armstrong for his use of performance-enhancing drugs, then we must condone punishment for other exceptional performers who have done the same. If that course of action is untenable, then our treatment of Lance Armstrong is seriously in error. Something is deeply amiss in the American socio-logic.

To begin to understand what that might be, it is necessary to employ the classical reductio argument in a way that departs from the formal proofs of Russell and Quine. In the matter before us there is no unambiguous truth-value: [It is not the case that A implies B and A implies not-B] does not apply. The law of contradiction, a bulwark of traditional philosophy, is of no help here. Why? It is because the Lance Armstrong affair, like every cultural phenomenon, obeys a “logic” that owes far more to Camus than to Russell. What most Americans accept as unquestionably true – the need to assure that athletic performers be “healthy and clean” – is shot through with ambiguity and irresolvable conflict. Our moral compass is not fixed on a true course because there is no true course; an unflinching examination reveals that compass to be spinning haphazardly from one point to another. Any certain truth one proposes is therefore incomplete and mistaken, and to insist on it, particularly by legislating it, is an absurd undertaking. It is a page from Camus’ Rebel, not Russell’s Principia.

It seems the only honest approach for a cultural analysis of the Lance Armstrong affair and, by extension, American society in general, is to identify key dilemmas at the heart of our set of basic values. [For a detailed presentation of this proposal, see Chapter 3, “A Theory of Culture as Semiospace” of American Dreamtime, available at www.peripheralstudies.org.] Any credo put forward as a guide for behavior, especially the all-too-common odious variety which regulates and punishes, is inevitably skewed, a one-sided distortion of an underlying absurdity.

The key dilemma (or “elemental dilemma,” following James Fernandez) in the Lance Armstrong affair is the irresolvable conflict posed by an extraordinary individual being both an autonomous actor and a social being subject to the laws and standards of a group composed of highly diverse but mostly ordinary individuals. We value his exceptional performance yet at the same time insist that he conform to rules set by all-too-unexceptional people who want to live in a mediocre world.

The unhappy marriage between the individual and society is a fundamental feature of human life, but is particularly strained in the United States. Only in Camus’ world would the slave-owner Thomas Jefferson draft what is arguably the best-known sentence in the English language: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal . . .” Founded on absurdity, American society over the past two-plus centuries has become a land of irresolvable contradictions (we are the logician’s excluded middle, the “or” symbol in the Principia proposition: symbols)

Nowhere is this more evident than in the matter of competition. Created equal, everything in life urges us to get ahead. Of course, it is impossible to get ahead without leaving others behind. During the first decade of the 21st century financial inequality in the United States has returned to the extremes reached during the boom-and-bust era of the late 1920s that precipitated the Great Depression:

The Wealth Distribution
In the United States, wealth is highly concentrated in a relatively few hands. As of 2010, the top 1% of households (the upper class) owned 35.4% of all privately held wealth, and the next 19% (the managerial, professional, and small business stratum) had 53.5%, which means that just 20% of the people owned a remarkable 89%, leaving only 11% of the wealth for the bottom 80% (wage and salary workers). In terms of financial wealth (total net worth minus the value of one’s home), the top 1% of households had an even greater share: 42.1% (“Wealth, Income, and Power,” G. William Domhoff).

If competition for wealth and social status has now largely played out, with one per cent of Americans owning nearly half of the country’s financial resources, we non-one-per-centers are left with a burning need that has no real-world economic outlet. How can one hope to get ahead when the odds are so terribly long?

It seems that American culture has generated two complementary responses to the agonizing problem of increasing inequality and wage-servitude in this land of golden opportunity: spectator sports on a massive scale; and television reality shows. While politicians of a declining Roman republic of the 2nd century BC devised the scheme of “bread and circuses” to keep their masses from rising up in protest at their corrupt regimes, the American establishment has hit on a more stringent plan: forget the bread and concentrate on the circuses.

Sporting events have lost most of their former appeal as local affairs in which ordinary people could participate: While kids still play ball in vacant lots on occasion (when they aren’t exercising their thumbs on their iPods) and while a few oldsters still slog around softball diamonds in community parks, much of the participatory nature of sports has lapsed. Instead, enormous Colosseum-like structures have been erected in our cities, and every four years an entire sports complex – a sprawling athletic village – is built to host the Olympic Games. Those kids still playing Little League baseball are inculcated, sometimes violently by dads frustrated by their own mediocrity, with the hallowed American value of competition. Yet only a tiny fraction of those kids wind up in the big leagues, The Show that mesmerizes the herd made up of their former teammates who did not make the cut. Baseball, our unofficial national pastime, has been transformed almost beyond recognition over the past several decades. Billionaire owners trade millionaire players in a 21st century slave market and send them out to play in immense stadiums erected as municipal shrines at taxpayers’ expense, stadiums with roofs, climate control, and Astroturf for grass. Games played at night under batteries of lights with near-freezing temperatures outside have become the norm for the World Series (the exigencies of cable TV coverage demand it). And the playing season, already long, has been extended to pump up the bottom line. The team itself has become a specialized corporate unit. The boys of summer have become the designated hitters and base runners of November.

Even with their new corporate structure and big-screen HDTV appeal, however, spectator sports have taken a back seat to a phenomenon that has exploded at the heart of American popular culture: reality shows. In a sense, MLB, the NFL, and the NBA serve up sports programming that is itself a genre of reality television, since they are unscripted displays of American competitiveness in action. But the definitive shows that have completely transformed American television are much more recent than corporate-based sports. Productions of the 1970s such as The Dating Game, The Newlywed Game, and The Gong Show prepared the way for shows of the late 1990s and 2000s that took the television industry and the American public by storm. The phenomenal success of the now-iconic shows Survivor and American Idol have ushered in a new viewing environment with a myriad of shows that feature competition as the supreme value in virtually every facet of American life. Participants in these shows do not simply go on vacation to exotic locales (Survivor, The Amazing Race), enjoy singing and dancing (American Idol, Dancing with the Stars), work at advancing in the world of business (Apprentice), form romantic attachments (The Bachelor and The Bachelorette), or even, in what may well be the most pernicious of these shows, play the little-girl game of dress-up (Toddlers & Tiaras). JonBenét’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.  Participants do none of these real world things; instead they engage in contrived and cutthroat competition to see who can do reality-show things best, who can be the winner.

As traditional religious faith and church attendance wane even in this land of Puritan ancestry, it would not be an exaggeration to suggest that reality television has become the new national religion, one that engages and excites tens of millions of viewers and keeps the most popular shows at the top of rating charts. From week to week, we can’t wait to see who gets voted off Survivor and who the nasty judges of American Idol send home in tears. It is a “religion” based, not on Christian love or Islamic orthodoxy, but on raw, unbridled, in-your-face competition. However, the bitter irony of reality television is that the situations and made-for-television personalities and dramas of the shows are hopelessly artificial, distorted and contrived versions of competitive life in an American society which has already picked the winners – that tiny one per cent who own and control the bulk of the nation’s resources. The reality of American life, its stark inequality, racial hatred, rampant gun violence, perpetual war, untreated medical conditions, prisons (for-profit!) bursting with a population that dwarfs that of Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag – none of this is touched on in the breadless American circuses that enthrall us. For all too many of us, the multitudes that make up the shows’ audiences, actual life is incredibly alienating and painful, and so we eagerly grasp at a fictional reality composed of the basest stereotypes and passed off as genuine.

In The Future of an Illusion Freud lays out a formidable and chilling argument in which he describes monotheistic world religions as a collective case of a self-delusion neurosis, a neurosis cultivated by people incapable of facing life’s problems without a cognitive / affective crutch. And in Civilization and Its Discontents he extends that argument to civilization as a whole: human society is a fabric of palatable lies, woven over the ages to disguise irresolvable conflicts within each individual psyche. Here is the reality which our new national religion, reality television, does everything to conceal.

In its tentative encounter with its host culture – ourselves – American cultural anthropology has paid insufficient attention to these fundamental arguments which come to us brilliantly presented in the work of Camus and Freud. Instead, that faltering academic discipline has preferred virtually to ignore Camus’ penetrating analysis of modern society and to dismiss Freud and the psychoanalytical approach as inadequate to the task of the description and analysis of social action (and incidentally has tarred Lévi-Strauss’ profound thought with the same brush). Although anthropologists may occasionally speak of cultural analysis as cultural criticism, that discussion is generally confined to economic and political topics. But the problem before us goes deeper; it goes right to the heart of the system of basic values we profess to embrace. As suggested above, a close analysis of those values reveals them to be shot full of contradiction and ambivalence. Rather than pursue that line of thought rigorously, cultural anthropology as it has developed in the United States tends to put a happy face on social life, taking as its program the elucidation in meticulous detail of the symbolic composition of culture – essentially an exercise in hermeneutics which celebrates the intricate structure of its subject, and not the discordant systems of non-meaning integral to the key dilemmas of American and any culture.

It is much nearer the truth to regard culture, not as a treasure trove of a people’s vital essence, but as a disease, a virulent outbreak which infects and poisons its carriers. To approach culture from this perspective requires the anthropologist to examine and dissect it with the cold, analytical precision of the pathologist. It requires Nietzsche’s coldness, which he advocated repeatedly to little avail. [For applications of this idea, see Culture, Mind, and Physical Reality: An Anthropological Essay, and Shit Happens: An Immoralist’s Take on 9/11 in Terms of Self-Organized Criticality, available at ] In its advanced pathological state, it is essential that the anthropologist approach his analysis of American society as a pathologist would a diseased organism, seeking out the specific toxins and tumors which are in the process of destroying it.

In that analysis, a particularly malignant tumor attached to vital organs of our society is the body of reality shows; these sap whatever creative energy survives in a sadly diminished America. Those shows are so virulent because they tap directly into the core tissue of American values: to tame the wilderness through individual effort; to make something of oneself starting with the very little available to the immigrant; or again, in a phrase, to compete and win. It is often said that American society owes its distinctive character to the experience of pioneers and settlers faced with a vast frontier which they had to conquer or die in the attempt. [See the classic work by Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth] If the grand design of American culture may be described in this way, then one might suggest that the historical theme is repeated in the host of reality shows now inundating the airways. That suggestion would come with a crucial disclaimer, however, which we owe to Marx’s famous observation in Eighteenth Brumaire:

Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.

The tragedy of America is part of the larger tragedy of the Americas. It is the story of genocide and environmental degradation on an unprecedented scale, perpetrated by European explorers and colonists turned loose on the New World, turned loose and intent on enriching themselves, on winning regardless of the cost in human lives and established ecosystems:

The discovery of America was followed by possibly the greatest demographic disaster in the history of the world. [The Native Population of the Americas in 1492, William M. Denevan, ed., 1992]

The extent of the carnage and catastrophe was not widely acknowledged for centuries after the event, although lone and immediately discredited voices were raised from the beginning (the work of Bartolomé de las Casas being an outstanding example).  It might be hoped that the mistake would have been corrected by the young discipline of cultural anthropology, which in the United States came of age through exhaustive studies of Native American societies. [See the impressive volumes of the Bureau of American Ethnology] To its lasting shame, however, the foremost authorities on those groups, Alfred Kroeber, dean of American anthropology, and Julian Steward, editor of the canonical Handbook of South American Indians, grossly underestimated the indigenous population of the Americas. In a flagrant display of professorial arrogance, Kroeber and Stewart dismissed population figures of thirty-five to fifty million advanced by Las Casas and other scholars as the inflated and fanciful work of non-specialists. Instead, Kroeber proposed a figure of 8.4 million and Steward 15.6 million. [“Native American population.” American Anthropologist, n.s., vol. 36, no. 1, pp. 1-25. Alfred Kroeber, 1934; Julian Steward, Handbook] With their influence in the field, those numbers were not seriously challenged for decades. They provide a jarring contrast with the best current estimates of indigenous population at the time of Columbus’ arrival: 54 to 75 million. [see Denevan] Tens of millions perished from smallpox, measles, influenza, and massacres, and the response by anthropologists was to count moccasin beads and record the quaint customs of the few survivors.

On a smaller scale, the tragedy of America unfolded in an especially agonizing manner: in the Rocky Mountain west with the coming of the mountain men and their exploitation by the first of the robber barons, John Jacob Astor and his American Fur Company. Perhaps no figure in American history or legend is imbued with the independence and supreme competence of the mountain man: living by his wits in a wild and hostile land, he survived hunger, bitter winters, and Indian attacks. And not only survived, he triumphed. In the best American tradition, he won. At least for a couple of decades. Even before the beaver began to run out and European tastes changed to silk, legendary mountain men like Jim Bridger, John Colter, and John “Liver-Eating” Johnson (most definitely not the individual portrayed by Robert Redford in Jeremiah Johnson) felt the pressure to abandon their independent lifestyle in favor of a more regimented existence as employees of a fur company. It was a fundamental change in a nascent American culture: the freest of men became pawns in a new world of big business crafted by Astor and later robber barons such as Leland Stanford and Cornelius Vanderbilt. Astor and the others had learned the secret of capitalist alchemy: how to change the blood and sweat of others into gold for themselves.

With the advent of reality television, the tragedy of America has returned as farce. Astor and the robber barons have given way to an even more crushing economic force: multinational corporations which sponsor television shows carefully designed by media giants to bring in the circus audiences with their consumer dollars (an insidious refinement of the early Roman political palliative, with the masses now supplying bread for their masters). The most popular shows, Survivor and American Idol, have replaced immensely brave and talented personalities like Bridger and Johnson with shallow caricatures of heroes and heroines who submit themselves to the abuse of the shows’ directors and judges in return for a shot at fame and fortune. It is a pathetic charade of competition in which even the supreme American value, winning, has lost its meaning, become a minor ripple in the onrushing torrent of 24/7 cable news. Who were last year’s winners of Survivor and American Idol? Or the year before, or the year before that? No one knows; no one cares; it doesn’t matter at all; the circus opens tonight under the big top/screen with a new cast of stunted, superficial characters ready to endure any humiliation for a moment of glory. And we, the American multitudes, will be glued to our sets.

In what Nietzsche might have called an example of world-historical irony, one season of Survivor managed to take things beyond farce into sheer travesty and thereby expose a fundamental but contingent premise of American culture: competition and reward are inseparably linked. Who could disagree with that premise, which is the basis of the American experience from grade school to the grave, the underlying force at school, at work, at play, and, in its distilled essence, reality television? You compete, win, and are rewarded with trophies, money, adulation. You compete, lose, and are rejected and forgotten.

As with all previous seasons, Survivor embraced this premise in its 2009 installment: Survivor: Tocantins – The Brazilian Highlands. Set on the Tocantins River, a tributary of the Amazon in north-central Brazil, the show followed its usual format of dividing the sixteen contestants into two “tribes,” thus underscoring its adventure theme of primitive life in exotic locales. The names selected for the two tribes were Jalapao, after the region of Brazil where the show was filmed, and Timbira, the name of an actual tribe of Brazilian Indians whose survivors lived about a hundred miles from the Survivor camp. It would be interesting to know the circumstances behind the selection of the latter name; apparently it was done to add a touch of local color – American contestants playing at being actual indigenous Brazilians. The series unfolded with the usual ridiculous tasks, back-stabbing alliances, hidden immunity idols, the exile island, and elections to vote out unpopular players. The final election ended, as always, with a Sole Survivor, who took the million-dollar prize and became a television personality for a few days. Competition and reward, two sides of a coin.

The travesty perpetrated by the show’s directors on an unknowing and uncaring American audience was in selecting “Timbira” as a catchy name for one of the show’s “tribes.” For everything in actual Timbira life, with its traditional homeland a bare hundred miles away, contradicts the premise of competition-reward etched in American thought and exploited in the Survivor series. Had the directors and writers for Survivor: Tocantins bothered to do more than superficial background research in selecting a site for the 2009 show, they would have discovered an anthropological classic, The Eastern Timbira, by one of the foremost ethnographers in the discipline’s brief history, Kurt Nimuendajú.

The Timbira are one of several groups associated with the Gê linguistic-cultural stock found throughout central Brazil(others include the Sherente, Shavante, and Apinayé). [In addition to Nimuendajú’s monograph, for a thorough discussion of Timbira culture see The Dream and the Dance: A Comparative Study of Initiatory Death, available at www.peripheralstudies.org] A prominent institution of these groups, and one elaborated in intricate detail by the Timbira, is the log race. For the race the Timbira form two teams whose membership is based on one of several dual divisions, or moieties, in the social organization of the village (age set moieties, rainy season moieties, plaza group moieties, ceremonial group moieties – theirs is, indeed, an intricate society). The teams travel several miles from the village into the galleria forest, where they cut two sections of burity palm, each weighing 150-200 pounds. The race begins with a member of each team shouldering the heavy, cumbersome log and running at full speed toward the village. When he tires the log is handed off in mid-stride to a second runner and so on until the exhausted runners reach the village and deposit their logs in designated ceremonial locations. A classic competition with a race to the finish line? A race with winners and losers (hopefully none of whom have ingested performance-enhancing drugs that could be detected by a Timbira chapter of the USADA)? No, on the contrary, the Timbira undertake the grueling competition for its own sake: it is a race in which the purpose is to race, not to celebrate a winner and denigrate the losers.

Log races form the national sport not only of all the Timbira (p. 141 f.), including the Apinaye, but probably of all Northwestern and Central Gê. None of the other numerous observances that characterize the public life of these tribes has so deeply roused the attention of civilized observers. This is primarily because, next to the girls’ dances in the plaza, log racing is the most frequently repeated ceremony; further, it stands out for its dramatic impressiveness.

And now we come to the feature that remains incomprehensible to Brazilians and leads to his constantly ascribing ulterior motives to this Indian game: The victor and the others who have desperately exerted themselves to the bitter end receive not a word of praise, nor are the losers and outstripped runners subject to the least censure; there are neither triumphant nor disgruntled faces. The sport is an end in itself, not the means to satisfy personal or group vanity. Not a trace of jealously or animosity is to be detected between the teams. Each participant has done his best because he likes to do so in a log race. Who turns out to be the victor or loser makes as little difference as who has eaten most at a banquet (Nimuendajú 1946: 136, 139).

The farce Marx chronicles in Eighteenth Brumaire pales in comparison with the travesty of Survivor: Tocantins, Had old Karl been around to view the show, it would have had him clawing at his carbuncles and begging for mercy: Stop! No more of the utter absurdity of human existence! (After all, that is supposed to obey the laws of historical determinism, not chaos). Louis Bonaparte, that caricature of Napoleon, doesn’t begin to compare with the mediocrities paraded on Survivor.

…………………………………………

In its obsession with competition and reward, American culture manages to trivialize athletic activity beyond recognition, to destroy the inherent joy of doing. Running or riding a bicycle, along with hitting a baseball, throwing a football, swimming, and skiing may be done for the sheer enjoyment of the activity, of experiencing one’s body in concerted motion. Breath-hold diving over a coral reef, open-water swimming in Puget Sound (see Edwin Dobb’s brilliant essay, “Immersed in the Wild,”), skiing a winding mountain trail beneath a stratospheric blue sky, running for miles along a deserted country road, can be, like the Timbira log race, ends in themselves, instances of genuine re-creation that transport the individual to another realm of being. That experience is close to the exhilaration described by those 13th century Provençal troubadours, whose gai saber or joy-in-knowing/doing Nietzsche commemorated in The Gay Science, echoing his own dedication to careful experimentation (suchen and versuchen) rather than to methodical system-building. To resort to a term no longer fashionable, it is about the quest.

It becomes almost impossible for us to capture that sense of exhilaration when our daily existence is subject to a practice that governs American life: keeping score. What did you get on the Chem test? How fast did you run the mile? How did you do on the SATs? What number is on your paycheck? How big is your house? Your car? Even, for God’s sake, your dick? (Time to email that order for Viagra – comes in a plain brown wrapper! But, oops, definitely a performance-enhancing drug!). All these questions and countless others like them are distilled in what we do for fun – or have others do for us: sports. Guys who could not manage even to run the bases sit slumped in seats at Yankee Stadium, cradling scorecards they can barely see over their beer bellies, but they keep score. The activity itself, the lived experience of superbly conditioned athletes on the field is reduced to a pile of lifeless statistics, the raw material for an endless stream of other numbers that eventually lead to selecting The Winner, the Sole Survivor in American society’s reality show of Life.

These absurd questions and activities which permeate and shape all of life in America conceal a monumental irony, a cosmic joke: Our obsessive need to keep score, to identify and reward those who are very good at what they do, may well lead to missing or misinterpreting truly exceptional individuals who fall outside the limited perspectives of the all-too-ordinary individuals who pass judgment on them.

There is a story here, really an apocryphal anecdote (it is an Einstein story and, like most, probably is apocryphal). It concerns an organization that is one of the most prominent scorekeepers in the country and, increasingly, around the world: the Educational Testing Service, creator and administrator of the SATs which have impacted the lives of oh-so-many Americans. From an early age children with some intelligence are taught to dread the SATs; they are told that a high score may advance their chances of becoming a professional or a manager of some sort, and thus joining that shrinking middle class (nineteen per cent and going down) which Domhoff described (see above). A low or even average score may doom a child of a family with ordinary means to a difficult life of labor and menial jobs; he will sink into that vast pool of eighty per cent of the population who are just surviving. The story goes like this:

It seems that when the ETS was just getting organized in the late 1940s, its button-down executives were anxious to determine the effectiveness of the math section in particular – mathematical facts being irrefutable, they wished to calibrate their set of questions so that the test would accurately identify how students performed on a scale of dull to brilliant. Since the ETS was located in the intellectual Mecca of Princeton, New Jersey, someone had a bright idea: just up the road, at the Institute for Advanced Study, there was an individual who was making quite a stir in the world of mathematics and physics, one Albert Einstein. Why not have him take the SAT math test they had just put together? Certainly he would establish a benchmark against which young test-takers could be ranked. So they approached Einstein, he agreed, and they sat him down with the test. Now a major portion of the math SAT tests a student’s ability to discern a pattern in a series of numbers. A question would supply a four-number series, say 2-4-6-8 and a multiple-choice set of possible answers, say 16, 24, 10, 1. The student is required to select the answer which best fits the pattern established by the four-number series, in this case the “10.” As Einstein went through this section of the test, for each question he thought of an equation that would fit each of the multiple-choice possibilities. Then he picked the answer which gave him what he found to be the most interesting equation – almost always not the answer the test designers wanted.

This little experiment doubtlessly disappointed the ETS executives, but judging from the content of the SAT math test which has been inflicted on students for the past sixty-plus years, its results did nothing to dissuade them from their course of action. Einstein was obviously an anomaly, an oddball, and his toying with their sacred exam could safely be disregarded.

A thought which might have given them pause, but clearly did not occur to the right-thinking, compete-and-win executives of the ETS, is that if anomalies occur in so highly structured a world as theoretical physics, what bizarre deviations from agreed-on, socially acceptable norms might be found in other walks of life? In order to keep score it is necessary to have an authoritative scale, a means of ranking and grading individual performance. But there are in this life those rare individuals whose extraordinary gifts defy ranking; they go off the scales fixed by mediocrities like the executives of ETS. People are different, and a few people are so vastly different that it is senseless to tabulate, to score their performance. In a catch phrase from the failed cultural revolution of the late 1960s, now but a sad and haunting memory, there are indeed the haves and have-nots, but there are also the have-something-elses. Those remarkable individuals either go off the charts or, more often and tragically, fall between the cracks of the charts. In that case their exceptional ability, which initially establishes them as stars (or what our punitive society would call “persons of interest”) dooms them to censure and sometimes ruin when they allow their exceptional abilities, whether in mathematics (John Nash), chess (Bobby Fischer), engineering (Nikola Tesla), aviation (Chuck Yeager), philosophy (Friedrich Nietzsche), poker (Stu Ungar), or, in the case at hand, bicycle racing (Lance Armstrong), to run afoul of standards of acceptable behavior.

Even if we insist on maintaining scales to rank people, we encounter the next insuperable obstacle: There is not a single scale or even a few which adequately evaluate individual ability. Rather, there is a tangled multitude of scales which cross-cut and often conflict with one another, so that any attempt to implement one hopelessly distorts the over-arching truth of boundless difference. As a thirteen-year old Lance Armstrong already possessed an unprecedented combination of raw physical ability and mental determination. Yet everything about his society and his immediate circumstances – he was, after all, named after a star wide-receiver of the Dallas Cowboys; such was his family tradition – led him to embrace organized sport as the means of realizing his potential. And that decision, taken in the context of a judgmental and punitive society, proved his undoing. None of us can experience or perhaps even imagine the tremendous stamina and mental toughness required to stay at the head of the pack of the Tour de France, day after day, year after year, but all too many of us are quite prepared to thwart those remarkable displays, to declare them illegal, not sufficiently “healthy and clean” for the fearful and vengeful herd of non-entities that makes up American society.

A parting thought:

The vast sea of seven billion human beings awash on this fragile planet, those multitudes, are akin to the night sky – dark, without depth or substance, obscure, formless. That sea makes up a background for the stars, each star impossibly isolated from the others, alone, blazing in the dark immensity of space, each with its own history, its birth, evolution, and death. There is no race course, no set of standardized tests, no contest of any description that a star must strive to win. The star’s light radiates aimlessly, forever, illuminating the darkness of space and imparting to it whatever form it may possess. Here or there its beams happen to strike a random atom, perhaps, on the rarest of occasions, an atom in the retina of a sentient being . . . That is all there is, that is the “career” of the star. Here or there . . . here or there an individual star blazes so brightly that it consumes itself, devours its own matter, reaching the point at which it collapses in on itself in a spectacular explosion, a supernova of cosmic proportions, incinerating or scorching everything around it. Then it sinks into oblivion forever. Lance Armstrong.

porky pig
Th-th-th-that’s all folks!

 

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The park of 9

Working Papers Series #16
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

The Park of 9
Street life and community in Pretoria, South Africa

Dennis Webster
University of Pretoria

© 2013 Dennis Webster
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

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BIO SKETCH
Dennis Webster has a BA, with majors in anthropology and philosophy, and an honours degree in social anthropology, from the University of Pretoria. He is currently completing research for his masters in social anthropology there, and is a junior lecturer in social and cultural anthropology at St John Mary Vianney Seminary in Pretoria. Webster has ethnographic experience in the city of Pretoria, and most especially in its inner city spaces and ‘hidden communities’. His theoretical interests include social movements, anarchist perspectives on local and broader processes, pan-Africanist visions of the future, and the importance of everyday communism and the mundane in the construction and reconstitution of human relationships. He uses some of his spare time to coach high school water polo in Brooklyn, Pretoria.

ABSTRACT
Discussions of growing inequality in post-apartheid South Africa are often too broad to make room for questions of how people live under current conditions of uncertainty. The novel ways in which they respond to international and national processes, while constructing new relationships and forms of community, are often overlooked when the realities of contemporary South Africa are considered. This paper addresses how a group of men, who are essentially invisible to the state, live in a public park in Gezina, Pretoria, negotiating the ambiguities of street life and community through acts of everyday communism and illegal public gambling. The park is taken here to be a ‘conceived commons’, owned officially by the state, but informally by the men who occupy it.

Introduction: considering community in the Park of 9

Nothing could be more idle than to occupy oneself with demographic details… A sociological analysis of the city finds its proper field in the psychic forms of interhuman life in an urban environment.

Don Martindale, ‘Prefatory Remarks’ to Max Weber The City

I found The Great asleep in the park on a balmy February afternoon. He slowly stirred and turned towards me, smiling maybe at the idea that I had come back eager to see more. He told me groggily that no one had been gambling that afternoon. But after we sat a while talking, a man in leather boots and wide-brimmed leather hat sauntered off the street and towards us on the grass. The Great pushed himself to his feet, “Just wait, here comes The Cowboy. He always wants to gamble”. The two men greeted, spoke and laughed together for a few minutes, and then sat down to shuffle a deck of cards, which The Cowboy produced from his jacket pocket. Then they began. I had provided the R201 with which The Great bet and he told The Cowboy, who was offhandedly lying down on his side, that he was teaching me how to play. I lit a cigarette each for the three of us and sat back watching. Just then, a young man came from across the park, continuing with laughs and shouts a conversation he was having there. He crouched between me and The Great, quietly asking something of him. Without looking up from the hand he had just been dealt, The Great leaned forward off the large canister he was sitting on. The visitor opened the lid of the canister, rummaged inside and closed the lid again after pulling out a tea bag. He then jogged back across the park, resuming his conversation with shouts, as The Great sat down, re-ordered his hand and began to play again.

As the game continued, The Great recalled, “He hit me, here!”, slapping the side of his neck2 to signify the loss he had suffered at their last encounter, while he tossed another card onto the ground. The Great told me that no one in the park knows his real name; they refer to him only by the nicknames he gives himself, including those of well-known soccer players. ‘The Great’, for instance, was the handle of a 1980s player for the Soweto club Moroka Swallows. The Cowboy, casually reclining, quietly laughed and warned me to “Be careful of this one,” as he took a card from the deck, slowly bending it and then snapping it into his hand, exclaiming the conventional “Ei!” Examining the cards in front of him, he coolly discarded one. It was a winning card for The Great, who with a wry grin dropped his hand on the floor to show that he had won. He collected his winnings and placed his next bet. The Cowboy, no longer as cheery, pushed himself upright to respond to the bet and shuffle the deck. “You see? You see?”, he exclaimed, “Now he’s hitting me here, hitting me here [also slapping his neck]! This one, he’s a criminal.” The Great and I chuckled, as the pair began the next hand. For the time that my sponsorship lasted, ours turned out to be quite a lucrative relationship. The Great would win more often than he lost, with the two of us splitting profits 50/50; and his gambling was a quick way for me to gain access to the park.

Panoramic view of the Park of 9 from Flowers Street. Photograph courtesy of Anjuli Webster.

Panoramic view of the Park of 9 from Flowers Street. Photograph courtesy of Anjuli Webster.

A Conceived Commons

The park in question lies on the southwest corner of Flowers and Johan Heyns on the southern end of Gezina, Pretoria. During the initial stages of my research Johan Heyns Street had been HW Verwoerd Street, but has since been renamed. Verwoerd, who held a chair in applied psychology and later in sociology, was prime minister at the height of apartheid. Some of the most violent laws against blacks were passed during his term and he is often referred to as the ‘architect’ of apartheid. Even before the name change, The Great explained to me that the men in the park did not want to acknowledge Verwoerd’s name. Instead, they continue to refer to it as 9th Avenue and to the park as the ‘Park of 9’. It is for this reason that I think of the park as a ‘conceived commons’3, that is, a communal public space which the men themselves – those who use the space – have identified in their own way. The park is, in this sense, organised not by the state that owns it, but rather by the men who occupy it.

The Great tells me that there are forty men living in the Park of 9, but my own surveys would suggest that the regulars number closer to twenty five men, all black, with a further five to ten drifting in and out. It is these park regulars that I address here. I could not keep track of those who move in and out. Of the regulars, I was closer to and more familiar with some than others. Most of these men spend the nights sleeping under blankets, along with their possessions, on the street pavement outside of the Turtle and Parrot bottle store a little further down Steve Biko. A few of them also sleep underneath a steel roof structure in the park itself.

The park is where they hang out – socialising and catching up on sleep, cooking and cleaning: they eat and drink, share news, stories and jokes. They argue and sometimes fight. They leave in search of work and after work, or failed attempts to find work, they return. Uncertainty is the defining social fact of life in the park. This uncertainty takes the form of precarious living conditions, a poor sleeping situation, unreliable formal employment and a distant, but volatile relationship with the state. Most of the men in the park no longer own or have never owned identification documents: this is a hindrance to their chances of engaging in formal economic activity. Indeed, as I will show, the most genuine interactions they have with the state involve attempts to avoid the police when they raid their illicit public gambling. Gambling animates daily life in the park and is a considerable source of harassment. So a major aim here is to show how the men in the Park of 9 deal with uncertainty.

Gezina lies between two mountain ridges running through Pretoria; the one separating it from Pretoria North and the other linking the affluent southern suburbs of Arcadia, Hatfield, Brooklyn and Waterkloof. It is almost directly north of the city centre and includes its principal street, Steve Biko Road. Gezina is a mixture of suburban, semi-industrial and commercial zones, with a vast array of business establishments (pawn shops, furniture stores, fast food chains, pool halls, street vendors, petrol stations). The area is known as a hub of the automotive trade: second-hand car dealerships line Steve Biko Road from south to north. The men in the park, however, do not benefit economically from these establishments. Rather, they fashion their own forms of labour and income in the Gezina streets. Many of them, including The Great, guard cars there. A few of them sell cigarettes around the park, while some stand outside the hardware store further down Steve Biko, advertising themselves as handymen – painters, plumbers, gardeners.

My initial forays into the park were nothing if not awkward. I was immediately plagued with guilt for living in a comfortable apartment a minute’s walk away, while the park’s inhabitants, some of whom I later called my friends, faced conditions of extreme poverty. There was also a tangible sense of personal threat caused by the fairly obvious drug trade happening around me and the scarred, worn and distrusting faces of most of the men hanging out there. Later, my presence in the park became easier and more natural, thanks in no small part to the friendship I developed with The Great, who believed that I brought good luck to his gambling exploits. I do not claim that I became immersed in the cultural flux and social order of the park, but rather that after a while my presence there no longer prompted long stares and silences. Rather, I was eventually greeted with quick glances over the shoulder, with men hailing me, “Sho soldaat4, The Great hy is nie hier nie [The Great isn’t here]”, or I might be offered a cigarette or a seat by the men I now knew. I had less than a year to conduct research, so such re-definitions of roles were encouraging. I could sit and listen to conversations, but I also become involved in them – Zulu, Sotho and Ndebele were the main languages spoken, but conversations also turned towards Afrikaans and some English for my benefit. I also learned to play the card games that I had just watched at first. During this time, I undertook some semi-structured interviews with The Great and one each with Rasta – a dreadlocked and constantly jesting man in his early twenties who often added music to conversations in the park from his phone with whom I became quite close – and Madala – a wrinkled man in his late sixties whose eyes always seemed to have a smile behind his thick and dilapidated spectacles. So hanging out with the men in the park was variously informal – watching, discussing, joking and gambling – in addition to the more formal interviews. I came to reflect closely on those subtle gestures between people that are so natural to their relationships that they become almost imperceptible. These acts, between the men in the park and between them and me, are the mundane blocks from which significant relationships are built.

Before I explore these foundations of social life, however, I want to tell the story of my closest friend, The Great. I do not suppose that the reasons men live in the park can be captured fully from their own accounts. There are certainly broader processes involved. But my aim here is to provide one intimate portrait that reveals some of the realities of life in Park of 9. I offer a series of ethnographic vignettes which highlight the importance of sharing among the men in the park. This includes seemingly small acts, such as bumming cigarettes and lighting two cigarettes with one match, but also more substantial actions, such as borrowing tea and sugar, or one man buying the bones for the evening meal to be shared by all. David Graeber (2011) writes of the “sociology of everyday communism”. I hope to argue here that ‘everyday communism’ allows the men in Park of 9 to make and extend their community through time. Everyday communism, as practised by these men, also forms and maintains distinctions between insiders and outsiders in the park. Speaking reflexively, I too experienced the gestures of everyday communism in the park, along with the awkward sensation of straddling the insider/outsider distinction. This focus foregrounds a question: Who in the park has access to what and under what conditions? To answer this question we need to understand how the gambling that goes on there is one response to the sense of uncertainty the men feel. In a way they see their own lives as a kind of gambling. It is the activity in which uncertainty and risk are most visibly engaged with and talked about in the park. Gambling often has social consequences and is crucially used as a metaphor for daily life by the men in the park; they constitute their own reality through it. Is gambling also a form of everyday communism? Certainly it is an apt lens through which to view their shared situation.

The Great: the profligate pretender

As a new resident of Gezina, I first met The Great one afternoon while trying to organise a guard for some cars that would be parked outside my apartment that evening. In a rushed conversation, he introduced himself by the name he always uses for potential employers, Ernest. We agreed on reasonable remuneration for an evening’s work. After I had paid him that evening, we did not see each other for a while. A setback in my research a few weeks later, however, forced me onto the streets again, looking for an entry into the life of the suburb I wanted to research, partly because I lived there. The heat of a February afternoon yielded nothing but fruitless conversations, anxiety and doubt over whether I would ever come to grips with what was happening on streets that I had expected to be speckled with ethnographic gold dust. On my walk home, I ran into Ernest on his usual corner of Steve Biko Road and Flowers Street, languidly sitting on his paint canister guarding the cars with a newspaper rolled up in his hand and smiling furtively from under his peak cap. Driven by the suggestion in his impish grin that he knew all there was to know about Gezina life, I approached him with a cigarette and accepted his invitation to sit and talk a while. I was stunned by how lucid certain realities of Gezina became in his conversation, even if I was too anxious to take notes that afternoon. After some time, The Great and I walked to and through the park only a block away. I had barely noticed it before.

We were greeted by uncomfortable stares and silence. While I felt awkward as an outsider, I sat beside The Great and another man, whose greeting was as gravelly as the ground on which we sat, where he tossed a worn box of cards. When The Great asked me for R20 in a whisper, I realised how quickly he had taken advantage of my mention in our previous conversation of being interested in studying street life in Gezina and saw me as a potential sponsor for his gambling. Since I was in no mood to exaggerate the obvious tension my presence had created in the park, I quickly produced the money and watched how the two men dealt the cards, accumulated and discarded them while splitting and reforming the money in a host of different divisions and combinations. The Great lost my R20 in the end and walked me back to the street corner before saying goodbye. My friendship with him (I never called him Ernest again) and experience of the Park of 9 began on that clumsy afternoon.

Inside and Outside the Park of 9

On many walks around Gezina and during all the hours spent in the park since, I listened to The Great’s 42 year-old story and especially about the four years he had lived in the park. Born in Mpumalanga province, The Great lived in and around Hectorspruit for most of his life. He was 27 when his mother, with whom he lived after his father’s death, passed away. He then left Mpumalanga for Pretoria. His two sisters, both of them married, had also moved away from home. It was they who had taught him how to gamble. They were employed as domestic workers and he would visit them during the day where they worked to play card games. His remaining family felt he was not capable of running his parents’ household and gave the responsibility to “some Mozambican man” who The Great said was “looking after my daddy’s house until I can come back”. This homecoming has proved difficult, however, with The Great struggling to put together the money that would prove to his family he could run things. His efforts ranged from working at a supermarket in Garsfontein, fixing truck engines in Pretoria north, gardening at a Silverton home and doing handyman work all around the city. After spending 11 years roaming the city, never staying in one place for very long (he lived in Mamelodi, Ga-Rankuwa, Shoshanguve, in friends’ houses and on the street), he joined a friend one evening at a dice game in the Park of 9. As he started to spend more time and money gambling in the park, The Great slowly got to know the men and the social organisation there. Growing into the life of the park, which has come to be the closest thing to a home for him in Pretoria, involved employing specific devices to navigate this new and potentially dangerous – physically and socially — environment. For instance, he never used his real name with the men in the park. His introduction to the park was “very difficult and dangerous”, he said.

The Great tells a story from this time that illustrates the lengths he went to in building relationships of trust with the other men. One evening a dice game was raided by a police van driving by. The Great, who was still new to the area and not yet adept at avoiding such raids, was caught by three officers while trying to get out of the park. After being beaten up viciously and jeered at for smelling like beer, the police asked him who had been the nox-man5 of the game. Knowing that the police were looking to pin the guilt on someone quickly6 – indeed the relationship between the men in the park and the state is made clearest by the hasty nonchalance of the violence that the police inflict on them – The Great admitted to being the nox-man, although he was not. The police threatened him with prison unless he paid over his winnings. These were only about R40 he says, but he paid them over and in doing rid the park of a police presence for the rest of the evening.

The story of The Great’s false confession and bribery of the police illustrates both how he made the transition from outsider to insider among the men in the park and how relationships there are formed and negotiated through gambling. In this case, by admitting his part in the dice game, The Great placated the police who are a frequent and often violent source of disruption to life in the park. In this way he proved that he had the men’s interests in mind and could be trusted. I sat with another friend, Phillias, many afternoons while he excitedly read out the newspaper advertisements of government departments (finding them to be the height of comedy). More than once he laughed, recalling how “stupid” The Great had been to be beaten up that evening. The Great grins in his turn, but insists that only after taking the fall for the dice game did the men in the park start to accept him.

While I never went to those lengths to be accepted, I never really escaped from the ambivalence of being both an insider and an outsider in the park. Although my presence there became less awkward over time, I could still be reminded of my status as an outsider, sometimes quite explicitly. For instance, one evening in spring (I had already spent more than half of the year hanging out in the park), as The Great and I walked through the park, Eric stepped into our path from the circle around the fire and demanded of The Great, “Wat maak die wit man weer hier?” [What is the white man doing here again?]. Eric, a grave individual in his late thirties who worked as a handyman in the area and commanded a good deal of respect from the others for his no-nonsense approach and famed ability as a fighter, had never been comfortable with my being there. When The Great claimed one evening around the fire that I brought him luck, it only served to exacerbate the tension between us. And so Eric and The Great now had a heated confrontation, fuelled by the drinking that had already taken place that evening. Eric swore to kill me if The Great did not take me away. The Great was not as perturbed as I was and he led me a little distance away from the fire, where we sat down to smoke and converse. At times, however, I was able to use techniques of my own to blur the insider and outsider distinction. Sharing, for example, is a key way for the men themselves to mark social boundaries in the park and it allowed me to bridge the gaps between myself and the park regulars and build some kind of relationship with them. I shared many cigarettes during the course of my research, even with Eric with whom I sometimes discussed his work and shared a laugh. During the winter I sported a formidable beard, which he found ridiculous and mocked me for looking like a boer7. But no methodological nuance would have allowed me access to the social realities of the Park of 9 without my simple and strong friendship with The Great.

By the time I met him, he was already an authoritative figure in the park. Not long after his false confession to the police he had found a more regular source of income guarding cars outside a machinery store on the corner of Steve Biko and Flowers. While he admits to having had better paying jobs in the past, he has held onto this one for the last four years. Given the frequency of The Great’s job changes before he came to the park and his desire for more economic security, it is curious that he stuck it out on a Gezina street corner, guarding cars for less than he made elsewhere. Perhaps this is related to the community he and others built as regulars in the park, a subject to which I turn in the next two sections.

A sociology of everyday communism: sharing in the Park of 9

Small community has been the basis of human life and for this reason is of special interest in anthropology’s effort at discerning that which is basic. (Peacock 2004: 39)

A great deal of what I did in the Park of 9 involved the smoking of cigarettes. It is only retrospectively that I now appreciate what a stroke of luck it was for me as a fieldworker to be a smoker when hanging out in the park. Sharing or bumming cigarettes and matches began most of my conversations with the men in the park and of the relationships I built with some of them as well. Indeed, my friendship with The Great began with smoking. Later it became a standing joke that I smoked too much. The Great often adopted an instructor’s tone when we were together. I had asked him to teach me how to play 7-card, but his teaching extended to other issues including cigarettes. One afternoon he scoffed at me for using my own match to light a cigarette after he had already used a match to light one I had given him – “We save matches here,” he said. After that, I rigorously imitated the elaborate sharing practices that surrounded smoking in the park. Matches are always shared, as The Great taught me, by lighting at least two cigarettes with one match. A cigarette is always shared by at least two men and it is uncommon to see someone finish a cigarette alone; the last few drags are always given to someone sitting nearby. I never opened my box of cigarettes without offering them to those around me, who would always accept, and the men in the park, me included, would often buy loose draws8 for our companions if we were buying for ourselves. So natural did these types of sharing become to me while I was in the park that only on re-reading my notes did I realise how frequent they were. It was striking that this habit masked their frequency. David Graeber (2011: 89) holds that understanding the moral grounds of human life — and of anthropology — must begin with small things: actions, sentiments and gestures that ordinarily we would never stop to notice, but which nevertheless saturate everyday sociality. I agree with him.

Re-reading notes also made me notice how much of social life in the park resulted in, or was prompted by, sharing. The sharing engaged in by smokers could be seen as being universal (Graeber 2011: 97); and it has been observed amongst street people the world over (e.g. Snow & Anderson 1993: 173). Not all sociality is based on sharing cigarettes, but sharing cigarettes is a reliable mechanism for developing sociality9. Sharing in the park went further though. For instance, the old paint canisters in which many men kept their clothing, blankets and other personal items were also used to store basic food stuffs like tea, coffee and sugar. These foodstuffs, although held individually, were shared around the park to the extent that they could almost be seen as common goods. Every day I would see men jogging across the park to ask someone for a tea bag or the like. Moreover, on most evenings the men would cook pap and bones10 to be shared around a fire for supper. The pap came from one of the men’s personal stores, while another would buy the packet of bones from a man (whose name I never learnt) who passed through the park every evening selling bones and venison meat.

These moments of sharing are hard to describe because of their brevity. But the pattern is so frequent and pervasive in the park that they become the most constant characteristic of relationships there. It is most noticeable when the principle of sharing is breached. One afternoon while I was playing cards with The Great, an enraged man approached us, accusing The Great at the top of his lungs. It turned out he thought The Great – who immediately took up a defensive-aggressive posture – owed him R2 for a loose draw the man had bought him a week before. This was the only conversation I witnessed that grabbed the attention of the entire park, which went eerily quiet. While the man tried to take his R2 from the money lying between The Great and me (with which we were gambling), Phillias and two other men came from across the park, where they had been starting the evening fire, and grabbed him under his arms, pulling him away and warning him that he was out of order.

The man’s allegations against The Great and the reaction of everyone in the park towards him show clearly the communistic nature of sharing: it is astonishing and even insulting that any account should be kept of something like ‘bumming’ a cigarette. And in much the same way, no shared tea bag or cup full of pap was ever tallied or tabbed. Graeber is careful to distance his discussion of this sort of everyday communism from ‘communism’ as a utopian political project leading to the withering away of the state or to collective ownership. Rather, he identifies a more mundane kind of communism which he defines as any human interaction that functions on a principle of “from each according to their abilities, to each according to their needs” (2011: 94). He argues that this type of communism “is the foundation of all human sociability” (2011: 96, original emphasis) and that all social systems, including economic institutions, are built on a base of already existing communistic relations even though they cannot be organised along communistic lines alone.

My encounters in the park made me more acutely aware of the foundational importance of this type of relations. The daily activities of the men there are not shaped by the sort of market relations or interactions with state bureaucracy that are characteristic of contemporary city life – they pay no tax, mortgage or insurance, they have no bank accounts, their purchases at stores are limited to essential foodstuffs when they can afford them, and so on. Social relationships are thus less entangled with formal institutions and the communism identified by Graeber, while not the only form of social organisation, becomes far more evident. Moreover, the uncertainty that characterises life in the park calls for greater innovation when approaching day-to-day situations. Outcomes are not as predictable as they may be in a formal economic routine (Hart 2010: 142) and so the men are forced to approach them with constant invention. In a context of acute uncertainty, the men in the park, who are essentially strangers often from vastly different cultural, geographical, and even national backgrounds, become something more like neighbours or even brothers by sharing in the way they do.

In the earlier stages of my research, the only kind of relationship I could initiate, outside of my friendship with The Great, was as a donor to the men begging from me in the park. Cigarettes were given rather than shared; this kind of giving is transient and the pleasantries are superficial. There is no reason for the two parties to see each other again. As I spent more time in the park, however, this type of interaction was slowly replaced by one of sharing. The relationships were no longer one way. I was now offered as many cigarettes as I offered; I sat and shared in meals and beer around the fire. In this way my relations with the men in the park shifted from being a blatant outsider at first to something less easy to define but more intimately involved through sharing.11

I had other insider and outsider relationships in the park apart from these. There were often men there, and sometimes women, who only spent an afternoon there every now and again and yet others whom I would see for one day and never again. These passers-by visited the park usually to catch up on sleep on the grass banks or to watch the gambling and sometimes join in a game. I never once saw a regular share anything with these people, nor did any of them sit around the fire taking part in casual conversation. The drug dealers in the park, whose position outside of the community I will discuss later, also never shared with the men I hung out with; rather they smoked their own cigarettes, drank their own beer and sat in their own corner of the park. This is consistent with Hart’s assertion that communities regulate themselves internally and informally – that is, through tacit customs, conventions and regulations rather than state-made laws – and regulation in such communities usually relies on “the sanction of exclusion” (2005).

The Great once said to me that he would never make a friend in the park, because you can never truly trust someone fighting for his own economic survival; yet he often expressed familial sentiments when referring to the men in the park. For instance, my landlord, who was suspicious of the amount of time I spent in such an unsavoury public space, once asked The Great what I was doing there. He seemed to think that I had a drug problem. The Great laughed about “that fat white man” and gave me a guarantee: “We [the men in the park] will never tell. We stay together and they [anyone not intimately involved in the goings on of the park] must never know anything.” How though, in a situation where conditions are so uncertain, can this communistic ethic be maintained?

The ‘merry-go-round’: gambling in the Park of 9

The Great said of gambling that money is “like a merry-go-round; it always comes and always goes”. And if sharing is the core of relationships in the Park of 9, the most popular activity there is gambling. During the day, the park is mainly a recreational space, dotted with the occasional man selling loose draws, people doing their washing, marijuana buyers and passers-by. The most common image is of a circle of men sitting on paint canisters or spread out on the grass around a game of cards and talking. Three different gambling games are played in the park: two card games, 7-card and 13-card, and dice. The card games, which I eventually became quite proficient at, are more relaxed and conversational. Life outside the games is discussed while they are being played – soccer results from the previous weekend, retelling and joking about what happened at the weekend, complaints about the government and especially the police, stories of work or failed attempts at getting work, and so on – and I have never witnessed any argument or accusation of cheating in a card game. In fact, the only discordant moment I ever experienced was the row surrounding the loose draw I described earlier. Rather, men teasingly recall times when they had been ‘hit’ in a card game and are even willing to show their hands to other players and spectators and receive advice on how to play them.

A winning hand (‘trick’) in 7-card consists of eight cards (including the pick-up), of which six must be two sets of three which are either a run in a suit (i.e. 5,6,7 of clubs – which is called ‘currinan’ in the park, while diamonds are called ‘dice’, and spades ‘scope’.) or three of a kind (i.e. 3 jacks). Two players are dealt seven cards and then pick up (either from the deck or the card that the other player discards) and discard one card per turn until a winning hand is achieved. Each player bets R10 per hand or R5 if a player does not have enough money with him to bet R10. There is no ‘house’ or ‘bank’ involved in the betting – the only bets and exchanges which take place are those between the two players. 13-card is a very similar game, where a winning hand consists of fourteen cards, of which twelve must be three sets of four which are either a run in a suit or four of a kind, and each player is dealt thirteen cards.

Dice, on the other hand, is a high stakes game, which I never had the nerve to even consider playing, and is characterised by higher wins and losses, and a constant threat of violence: I have often seen men cut and bloody as results of brawls around a dice board. These fights are more often than not caused by accusations of cheating. Such is its complexity and the speed of play that even by the end of my time in the park I had not developed a nuanced understanding of dice. Conventionally it is played on a large carton board, roughly a metre square. There is a varying number of players (I have seen dice games between up to four players) who bet increasing amounts of money as the game progresses (the highest bets were R150, but I have heard tell of R400 bets). Each man has his turn to roll the two dice and bet money on their own rolls as well as those of other players. The different combinations rolled determine the outcome of the betting and the game. They may allow a roller to roll again, force him to pass the dice on to the next player, win him the money that has been bet or win the money bet for one of the non-rolling players. The bets are overseen by a nox-man, who also provides the dice for the game and is meant to ensure that no cheating takes place. Bets are called and agreed on through the nox-man; he oversees raises of the sums being gambled with and confirms that the players are happy with the bets. The high stakes often attract players from outside the park and more attention from police. As a result, some of the themes that I address here – the relationship between the men in the park and the state, the nature of the community of men there and the dynamic between those who belong to that community and those outside it – play out more visibly in the context of dice games than anywhere else.

Dice by Candlelight

After spending the lunchtime hours playing 13-card with The Great, Madala, Rasta and Phillias, I was invited by The Great to come and watch a dice game in the park later that afternoon. I entered the park, as I usually did, by the vendor stall on Flower Street and, after exchanging the customary gruff greetings with Big Mos (one of three marijuana dealers in the park, who commanded a good deal of authority) and Eric, I realised that the game had already begun behind the services centre (a 3m square walled structure housing the park’s irrigation systems and the like) on the western end of the park. The sounds around the dice board became apparent as I drew nearer.

As mentioned, the large square carton board provides a flat surface on which to roll the dice. This game involves a great deal more money than others played in the park, is played at an often frenetic pace and often attracts men who are not regulars of the park. As a result, it is always played under risk of accusations of cheating12 and hence of violence. The surface, which allows for fairer rolling, is thus crucial to the maintenance of order around the gambling, although this order is sometimes broken.

On arrival, I drew a cigarette and offered one to Rasta who was watching the game, while The Great, without looking at me, accepted another which I slid over his shoulder. I had not met many of the men playing and watching before and was greeted by a series of sceptical and silent stares in the first few moments, something that made Rasta chuckle quietly alongside me. Lighting my cigarette I stood back with him and some others watching the game. The men were playing dice in its most common form, a game I was then struggling to grasp. Clearly it was the highest stakes game and it attracted the biggest audiences. A quick glance at the numerous R100 notes exchanging hands across the board and the energy of the ten or so men surrounding the five intently crouched over the clattering dice confirmed this. It was entirely unlike the more deliberate, conversationalist card games I had become used to. The Great was having a bad night and his pleading with the dice as they rolled across the board, “Sweetheart! Come my sweetheart, please my baby!” were often followed by a frustrated, “Agh shit man! Shit!”

After watching for some time I met a young man, Xolani, who like me had been patrolling the edge of the game. Being similar in age and both from the Eastern Cape, conversation with Xolani was easy and, after realising we were both very new to the gambling in the park, we discussed its meaning and purpose before sharing stories about various places in the Eastern Cape. A shrill whistle suddenly interrupted us, splitting the air and stifling the drone around the dice board. In the time it took me to realise that the whistle had come from Eric perched on the fence at the bottom of the park, a position I had imagined was casual, the entire game disappeared in front of me and all the men, gathering their particulars quickly, were agitatedly glancing towards Flowers Street as they began to jog gently towards the opposite end of the park. Naively recalling that dice playing was illegal, I was the last to realise that a police van had parked on the Flower Street sidewalk.

All sense of anthropology and fieldwork immediately forgotten, I caught up with The Great who was breathing heavily and in quite a panic near the end of the park, but still laughing at me. From our position in the thick shadows provided by the wall that runs the length of the park, separating it from the apartments and businesses on Voortrekkers Road, we watched the police. He had learnt a lot about their movements since that first experience and seemed confident that they posed no real threat. While I fidgeted behind him, an adrenaline rush told me that confidence at a time like this would be reckless. The van lingered for a short while at the bottom of the park and then left. After a short wait, the men re-established their game. The Great was by now fed up with his losses and I went with him to investigate whether the police had truly left and to fetch some candles for the dice board (the dark was setting in). Along with many of the personal possessions of the men sleeping in the park, the candles are kept in the roof of a structure meant to provide shade in a play park at the southern end. Our time away from the game was dominated by The Great’s lamentations over his losses. “They’re eating me tonight. These guys, they’re stealing from me, man. I don’t know how, I can’t see them, but I’m telling you they’re stealing from me.”

On rejoining the game, which had already re-established its frantic tempo, we lit and placed some candles on the board, and stood back to join the onlookers in conversation and commentary. The Great teasingly suggested that the next time I came to a dice game it should be at night, next to a fire and by candlelight: “Now it’s not dangerous, now we just play. We eat, we eat, we eat!” I listened intently to the men crooning to their dice before they clattered them across the board, “Come now my love, my sweetheart”, clicking their fingers every time they did so and then energetically exclaiming the numbers they hoped to roll, “Eish! 3210! (a well-known model of Nokia cell phone, and reference to a roll of 3 and 2)”; “Ei! Four one!” Comments from player to player concerning each other’s play were also common – “Ja, jy, jy speel soos Bheki Cele13 nou [Yes, you’re playing like Bheki Cele now]!” and the game reached a crescendo when a young player who was doing very well – I had not seen him in the park before that evening – stood up in boisterous exhortation, “My money is my money! That is my money!” The same player, after an eventual losing streak some ten minutes later, stood up in a fluster, muttering to himself about being robbed, and left the group to go and sit alone underneath a nearby tree for a while. There he spoke to himself and gestured for a few minutes before returning to take his place at the board.

***

This short account illustrates some key aspects of the dynamics between the men in the park and specifically how those dynamics play out in the context of gambling. A key component of taking a risk is to expose oneself to unforeseen outcomes. As a result, the theme of exposure and concealment is crucial to a discussion of the how the men gamble in the Park of 9. Dice is in some ways an exception to other forms of betting in the park, since far more care is taken to keep the game from the view of the police. I was unaware of the extent of this care until I reflected on Eric’s strategic but casual position at the bottom of the park during the evening just described, from where he could quickly warn the players of any police presence. Indeed, on The Great’s advice, I have only attended night time Dice games since that skittish jolt in the face of the gomogomo (police).

Despite its heightened concealment, Dice is perhaps the most eagerly watched of the games played in the park. And so, concealed from the greater park, but exposed to a compact, select and eager audience, Dice remains and even exemplifies a site where complex relationships between insider and outsider in the park are negotiated and appropriated towards various ends, as I have mentioned earlier. Spectators are considered to be not involved or not fully aware of what is going on – as was confirmed by my cool reception, the minimal interaction between those gambling and those watching and the loosely established physical boundaries between crouching gambler and standing or walking observer. The audience are just recipients of the players’ performance, as when the young man stood up and exclaimed at large about his money. Players and audience are aware of the performative risks, in particular the risk of personal embarrassment.

The content of the performances themselves is also interesting. The names given to the various combinations rolled (3210) and the pleas with which the men roll the dice (sweetheart, baby), for instance, speak to how the gamblers express aspects of everyday life in the context of the game. The structure of the game and its performance are open-ended enough to allow the players to bring in elements from their lives outside. These elements are as varied as the nationalities and ethnicities of men in the park, involving contemporary politics and modern technologies14. Indeed, constant feminine references as the men roll their dice were the most explicit mention of women I heard the men make. Aside from a few conversations with The Great, when he said that he would never have a wife, only a ‘cherrie’15, and the few and intermittent visits by women to the park, the presence or mention of women there are very limited. Considering that most of the men are homeless, sleep outside the local liquor store or in the park itself and spend most of their days hanging out or working informally, the irregular presence of women in their lives surely extends beyond my observations. The men express this in their gambling in a very animated and deliberate way.

While gambling in the park involves material stakes – the risk of losing money – the simultaneous social stakes make the dice board, and to a less palpable extent the circles around card games, a location which provides insight into how the men in the park confront and make sense of day-to-day existence. These social stakes refer to the performative risks – the animated rolling of the dice, the various verbal expressions, how men deal with loss or success in the face of the other players and those watching, and so on –together with the obvious legal and monetary risks of gambling.

Performative gambling as a way of symbolically condensing everyday life and understanding it differently or of making commentary on it, is of course not limited to the Park of 9. It does, however, allow me to address why gambling is important in the park. Any gambler must ultimately confront the idea of their own eventual loss (if it were truly believed that gambling yielded net winnings, it would be a far more celebrated and engaged form of economic activity), which adds to gambling’s significance in this context.

Graeber points out the ease with which communistic relations can slip into relations of hierarchy. Under the conditions of uncertainty which characterise these men’s daily lives, such a shift is very easy. In fact, given their struggle for economic security, one would expect relations to be predominantly hierarchical. All forms of gambling there do not rely on a ‘house’, but rather take place directly between the gamblers themselves. Also, over time, the winnings and losses of any player, with some exceptions, tend to even out. While I had many conversations around card games of big winnings or losses, they seemed always to have happened outside of the park. This evening out of wins and losses is revealed by how the card games in the park work. While some skill, patience and awareness of which cards have been drawn and played are required for successful performance, the games are ultimately based on 50/50 chances. They take place between two players, one of which loses a given trick while the other wins it. In any game, one player may lose or win more tricks than the other, but the even chances translate into a general 50/50 ratio over time.

This situation is captured in The Great’s comment about gambling in the park as a ‘merry-go-round’; coming and going. Considering that the money used to gamble in the park is made either from gambling elsewhere or in their various forms of day-to-day employment, the games can be seen as a process redistributing money among the men in the park. This redistribution adopts specifically non-hierarchical forms, as evidenced by the absence from any of the forms of gambling in the park of a house or bank (which, as any statistician will tell you, always wins). Madala told me laughingly, “We have gambling. Every day we have gambling. Sometimes also we have work. So we make money and we gamble with that money; this is the way it is.” And, while The Great constantly referred to work as an essential source of income, he always maintained that what he earned guarding cars he would gamble, describing gambling as a source of “sure money” and “fast money”.

Drug dealers in the park never join any gambling activity, which says something. Of all the park’s denizens, they make the most money and consistently, offering something in constant demand not only by the men in the park, but also by an array of buyers from the surrounding area (I have seen school children, for instance, on many occasions buying marijuana in a corner of the park). They thus occupy an economically dominant position relative to the rest. Consequently, they do not engage at all with the everyday sociality of the park (characterised by sharing) nor in any of the gambling. This adds up to a sort of economic hierarchy, as when regulars often act as lookouts for the drug dealers for example; and it would interfere with the communistic ethos of the rest of the park.

It is also revealing that while all the regulars acknowledge drug dealing as the easiest way to make money, the great majority of them choose not to deal themselves. Rather, they take part in the everyday sociability of life in the park – working and earning money where they can, socialising, eating, cleaning and hanging out in the park (all of which occupations involve sharing between the men) – and gambling of course. So gambling in the park, as a non-hierarchical process with redistributive results, can be seen as the practice or structure through which the pre-conditions of everyday communistic relations there are maintained, even under circumstances of extreme uncertainty. Were the men living in the park left to fend for themselves economically speaking, they would face an even greater battle for survival on the street. I have often sat with The Great when he had earned a pitiful R100 from guarding cars for a week. Gambling in the park, however, allows the men to distribute, more or less equally, the money they make there and whatever is brought in from outside.

Conclusions

I have given a glimpse of day-to-day realities in the Park of 9 – of the flavour of life lived in the park – drawing on ethnographic accounts of my experiences, observations and interactions. I have tried to convey a sense of the community that exists among the men there. I have told the story of how my closest friend, The Great, came to live there, including some aspects of my own relationship with him and some of the difficulties I experienced at first, in order to highlight the distinction between outsiders and insiders in the park’s community. I have discussed how these distinctions are maintained and overcome. When the struggle for economic survival is never far below the surface, one might expect relationships characterised by dominance and hierarchy rather than sharing. This is not so. I have presented sharing in the park as typical of what David Graeber has called ‘everyday communism’ – acts and gestures so ordinary that they pass almost unnoticed in everyday relations, but which nevertheless form the building blocks of those relations. Thus the men in the park, through acts of everyday communism, change the nature of their relationships; strangers become neighbours and outcasts become brothers.

Throughout this work I have discussed the Park of 9 as a space and as a community of men. I may have implied that the social reality there is static. This is, of course, not the case. The Great’s story, especially the haphazard years of wandering he went through before arriving in the park, shows that there is nothing permanent in all this. Moreover, the transience which is ever-present in life on the street can be seen manifested in the passers-by – people who are not part of the community of some twenty-five park regulars. Towards the end of my research, even The Great, such a central feature and character in the park, was considering leaving permanently to find better living conditions. He conceded that it was a more expensive choice, but he was fed up with the hassle of summer thunder storms while living on the street. What I have presented here, then, must be seen as the product of what I was privileged to observe and to be a part of during the course of a year in the Park of 9 and not a definitive statement either about the park or the men who live there.

 

References

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Hart, K. 2005. Notes towards an anthropology of money. Kritikos, 2: [sp].

Hart, K. 2010. Informal Economy. In: Hart, K. Laville, J-L. and Cattani, A.D. (eds). The Human Economy: A Citizen’s Guide. Cambridge: Polity, pp. 142-153

Malaby, T.M. 2003. Gambling life: dealing in contingency in a Greek city. Urbana: University of Illinois.

Mitchell, D. 2003. The right to the city: social justice and the fight for public space. New York: The Guilford Press.

Peacock, J. 2004. The anthropological lens: harsh light, soft focus. Cambridge: Cambridge University.

Radford, R. A. 1945. The Economic Organisation of a P.O.W. Camp. Economica, 12(48): 189-201

Reed, A. 2011. Number-One Enemy: Police, Violence and the Location of Adversaries in a Papa New Guinea Prison. Oceania, 81(1): 22-35.

Snow, D.A. and Anderson, L. 1993.Down on their luck: a study of homeless street people. Berkeley: University of California.

Van der Vlies, A. 2013. The People, the Multitude, and the Costs of Privacy in South Africa’s Postcolony. RESPONSE, Cultural Studies, DOI:10.1080/09502386.2013.769155

Weber, M. 1958. The City. London: Heinemann.

Weber, M. 2004. ‘Basic sociological concepts’ in Whimster (ed) The Essential Weber: A reader. London: Routledge.

 

Notes

Acknowledgements: I am grateful to Keith Hart and Huon Wardle for their comments and guidance throughout the writing of this paper, and also to Justin Shaffner for his editorial assistance. I must also thank John Sharp, Jimmy Pieterse, Detlev Krige, and Fraser McNeill for their patience and advice throughout my research. The paper also benefited greatly from the comments of my peers at the University of Pretoria.

1 The South African Rand (ZAR)/US Dollar exchange rate was around $1 = R7.50 at the beginning of my research and was R8.60 by the end of it.

2 Being ‘hit’ is to lose money while gambling, and is always expressed by the men in the park by energetically slapping the side of their neck. Here The Great was referring to a loss he suffered against The Cowboy.

3 Andrew van der Vlies has argued – and I agree with him – that in post-apartheid South Africa there is a void in the national commons, leaving the people unrepresented, so that “they seek, in various and embryonic ways, to assert themselves as unified claimants on the commons that has been and is being denied them, to find, in often messy and imperfect ways, what it means to have something in common with the people who surround us all” (2013: 19). Van der Vlies is writing about the national commons, but a similar void has led the men in the park to claim it as theirs.

4 Soldaat, meaning soldier, is a reference to a pair of army boots and a long army coat I wore in the park during the winter months, and is a nickname I was given by The Great.

5 The nox-man provides the dice for a game and oversees the bets called by the players. While none of the money goes directly through him, his function is to keep order in the game. He handles accusations of cheating and the like and sees that it does not erupt into violence – which I show later is so often a feature of dice games.

6 The raids in the park – both those I witnessed or was a part of and those I heard of – never resulted in serious legal action. Rather, they usually ended in verbal and physical harassment of the men in the park and a bribe.

7 The men in the park use boer not to refer to farmers (its direct translation), but rather to white Afrikaners and particularly those with right-wing tendencies.

8 These are single cigarettes, usually bought from men walking around the park with a carton or from the vendor on the north-eastern corner of the park.

9 Cigarettes are the most constant marker of interactions in the park. They never made there the radical evolution in function from commodity to currency that Radford (1945) witnessed in Second World War PoW camps. But we may note that in the park too, daily life was constructed under oppressive conditions of material scarcity and vulnerability. Reed also noted the importance of sharing cigarettes in shaping the ambiguous and aggressive relations to the state of the inmates in a Papa New Guinea prison, where they are used to establish and mark associations and identities (2011: 25).

10 This is an inexpensive and filling meal consisting of a cooked bag of stewing bones with chunks of meat, eaten with pap (meal).

11 I do not claim that I ever stopped being an outsider. I mean here rather the encouraging redefinition of role expectations I referred to earlier in the introduction.

12 The accusations I have witnessed vary from men playing with tampered dice to men playing with the aid of witchcraft and muti.

13 This refers to South Africa’s former police commissioner, now under investigation for official spending irregularities, suggesting that someone’s playing looks dodgy.

14 The men in the park often identify each other’s ethnic and national differences through gambling, and I often heard stories of how “that Zulu gambler” had ‘hit’ someone, or how risky it is to play against Zimbabwean dice players. Also political references are not limited to Bheki Cele, or technological references to the Nokia 3210.

15 A ‘cherrie’ can be loosely understood as a girlfriend. Such a relationship does not however involve strict sexual commitments or loyalty.

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Negro With a Hat

Book Review Series
ISSN 2045-5755 (Online)

Huon Wardle
University of St. Andrews

© 2013 Huon Wardle
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

Download as PDF, EPUB, MOBI.

GRANT, Colin. 2008. Negro With a Hat: The Rise and Fall of Marcus Garvey and His Dream of a Mother Africa. London: Jonathan Cape.

Marcus Garvey. Image from the Library of Congress collection.

Marcus Garvey. Image from the Library of Congress collection.

In the summer of 1925, the most frequent play in the Harlem ‘policy’ numbers game was 19359: those were the digits that the Atlanta federal penitentiary had assigned to inmate Marcus Mosiah Garvey, recently jailed for ‘mail fraud’. African Americans across the continent had already taken a massive bet on Garvey when they bought hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of shares in his Black Star Line; Garvey had envisioned a fleet of ships that would rival Cunard’s White Star Line or the United Fruit Company’s Great White Fleet. The difference would be that the Black Star Liners would be manned by black seamen and give passage to black passengers; and they would carry beleaguered black people back from the Americas to their homeland, Africa. Garvey’s prosecution for misuse of the U.S. mail struck the last nail in the coffin of an already faltering Black Star Line, but curiously next to none of these multiple thousands of people who had placed their money on Garvey’s dream came forward to assist the U.S. Justice Department in his downfall. In the decades after the First World War, and well into the 1930s, millions of people across the U.S., in the West Indies and in South and Central America joined Garvey’s United Negro Improvement Association (UNIA). He was the leader of the single biggest black internationalist movement that has ever existed, but a decade after his death in London Garvey seemed already almost forgotten: only the Rastafarians of Jamaica continued to revere the one time ‘provisional President of Africa’, as their ‘John the Baptist’.

Reflections on Garvey typically reach for the word ‘enigma’, ‘enigmatic’. Speaking for myself, I first noticed him when I began fieldwork in Jamaica early in the 1990s. There he was, a self-repeating presence amongst the many murals painted on the zinc and chipboard walls of house-yards in downtown Kingston: always the same image – the bullish, proud face in semi-profile and, of course, the striking bicorn hat plumed with ostrich feathers. I am late, though, in reviewing Colin Grant’s biography; originally published in 2008 there is now a Vintage edition where he adds a forward explaining his choice of eponym -‘negro with a hat’ – a title I have not been alone in finding odd. The choice of phrase, he suggests, was deliberately aimed at alienating the reader: the author describes his experience at an exhibition where a photograph of a white man was simply titled ‘man with a hat’, while a black man became ‘negro with a hat’. Was not the ‘negro’ also a ‘man’? Thus explained, his aim becomes more obvious – is it possible for us to see beyond Garvey, the ‘negro with a hat’? At over five hundred painstakingly researched pages, including nearly twenty of bibliography and footnotes, this is clearly the definitive biography and has been widely praised. As we read, the protagonist takes different shapes on the page, engages in varied, sometimes mundane, sometimes strikingly eccentric, acts (making an unannounced visit to the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, for example).

Exploring Garvey’s mass support

Grant shows in comprehensive detail how a flood of money and support enabled the UNIA’s diverse projects; from black run laundries and restaurants in Harlem to black crewed ships and black aviators. The UNIA was backed by a complex coalition of refugee sharecroppers, Central American plantation and industrial workers, longshoremen and New York urbanites who offered money, and in many cases idolization, and to whom Garvey answered in his famously orotund way. There are gaps in the discussion, however. Garvey and his UNIA was above all an intrusion of the utopian and the fantastic into the actually existing American society of the time: explaining this in turn calls out for a type of socio-cultural interpretation that this book perhaps avoids engaging in.

Understandably enough, the bulk of the text is taken up with the period just after the First World War until the mid-1920s when Garvey’s fortunes were rapidly transformed and his ideas began to be treated seriously, even religiously, within a mass movement. Arriving in New York in 1916, one more clever, book-learned West Indian, leader of an obscure ‘association’ for ‘negro improvement’ with a hand full of followers, Garvey’s carefully nurtured skills as an orator abruptly caught the public attention of Harlem. Harlem was itself in a process of change beyond recognition due to ever increasing black immigration both from the Caribbean and from the U.S. South. Southerners were coming in great numbers to escape racist violence, Caribbean industrial workers were arriving too, often en route from the recently completed Panama Canal, while educated middle class West Indians were here establishing an income and an outlet for self-expression; all converging on what would become, for a while, the unrivalled artistic and intellectual epicentre of black social life in the Americas. Just a few years after his arrival from Jamaica, Garvey, initially by way of relentless soapboxing, had gathered tens, then hundreds of thousands of followers for his UNIA; much to the irritation of eminent black sociologist W.E.B. Dubois who already ran the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). Dubois increasingly viewed Garvey as an upstart foreign nuisance who was damaging the cause of black social progress in the U.S. Coming from the West Indies, where colour and class were understood differently, Garvey saw Dubois as a member of the brown elite, as someone whose interests were allied with the whites in power.

We can gain some sense of the chord Garvey struck by looking at his speeches, of which he sold phonograph recordings, along with his newspaper Negro World. Garvey personifies an era in which political charisma could fuse with mechanical reproduction and trigger a mass response. Listening to or reading his words now is a curious experience, because the message is a strange mix. A central motif is the ballad of the self-made man: Garvey tells his audience that they too can succeed by their own efforts, and here he uses language that Benjamin Franklin would surely have approved of. Much discourse is given over to berating his fellow blacks for using rude language and being discourteous to those around them. This is the conservative narrative of ‘improvement’ that remained at the core of the UNIA; a clear reflection of Garvey’s upbringing in colonial Jamaica where ‘discipline’ and ‘manners’ were of the essence. The second theme, closely following from the first, was that all human beings have the same capacities and potentials, people of the black race the same as people of the white: this was of course far more controversial. While in the British West Indies lip-service would have been paid to this idea so long as the preeminence of ‘things English’, the culture of Shakespeare and the de facto rule of white Britons was maintained, in contrast, in the U.S. of the 1920s, this kind of thought was uncontained gasoline waiting for a match. Here, white supremacy, both in politics and the human sciences, was orthodox. During the 1920s the scientific racism of the Galton society was only beginning to be challenged by figures such as Franz Boas.

The third pillar of Garveyism was inflammatory in a different way; this was the idea of Africa for Africans ‘at home and abroad’. If Whites and Asians had their homelands, why should negroes not have theirs – Africa? The anti-imperialist entailment of this idea was of relatively little concern to white American politicians – on occasion they even supported it. In contrast, the notion of returning the African colonies to black people was deeply seditious from the perspective of the British colonial office; in response they tried as far as possible to ban Garvey’s massively successful newspaper Negro World from entering any of the British territories. Despite the great appeal of Garvey’s vision for blacks in the American South and in the Caribbean, the truth is that Garvey himself knew little of contemporary Africa. In part this was because he was barred from visiting the continent by the British, but his ideas were fundamentally a loud echo of a religiously framed ‘Ethiopianism’ that had existed in the West Indies since slave emancipation and before. Africa in this vision was the biblical Ethiopia from which emancipated slaves had long drawn hope and to which they might some day return – ‘Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall soon stretch forth her hands unto God’ was the phrase repeatedly quoted by Garvey. This is why UNIA documents refer interchangeably to Africa and Ethiopia and why the Rastafarians would later focus their beliefs on repatriation there; no Rastaman would die before he reached the promised land of Ethiopia. When Garvey channeled thousands of UNIA dollars in arranging transportation of American blacks to one part of the actual Africa, specifically Liberia, the results were a fiasco. Likewise, when Garvey declared himself ‘provisional President of Africa’ (an idea he borrowed from de Valera, then ‘provisional President of Ireland’) this was plausible to him, as to those around him, because Africa was significantly a blank slate and a potent myth.

Perhaps what drew more attention to Garvey’s movement – including astonishment and ridicule – than anything else was the mass pageantry of the UNIA. UNIA members often war quasi-military garb, with sabres and epaulettes for officials and black serge uniforms for ordinary members. Garvey would parade as a Professor in a gown and mortarboard, or as a Potentate in a turban, or, most recognizably, as an imperial Governor (or perhaps as Toussaint L’ouverture) in his cocked hat and braided uniform. This carnivalesque quality of the UNIA surely had West Indian roots. Marcus Garvey was no more a university professor than the 1960s calypsonian Lord Kitchener was an English lord, but there is more to the symbolism than either a cheeky inversion of the established order or an expression of a stereotypically colourful Caribbean parade. This aspect of the phenomenon of Garveyism asks for further explanation, but to interpret it we need to know something more about the West Indian colonial culture than we can gain from this book. Within the colonial situation, while acknowledging official power with its offices, rituals and uniforms, colonial subjects developed parallel frameworks that mimicked the official hierarchy appropriating some of its symbolic forms. But again, behind that fact, we also need to recognise how, by the beginning of the Twentieth Century, the Caribbean had become a society of migrants who, wherever they arrived, reorganized their social situation in particular ways.

The Imperial Emigrants

After slave emancipation in the 1830s, anglophone West Indians had quit the sugar plantations en masse and many thousands began to migrate abroad, both to secure subsistence for themselves and their families, but also as an act of escape and defiance. Migrant work came in the form of massive engineering projects – first a French organized railway across the Panama isthmus in the 1850s, then the first French attempt at a trans-oceanic canal completed by the U.S. in 1914, then a sequence of mostly U.S.-led railway projects in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Colombia, Ecuador, Brazil and Peru. Britain and the U.S. had rival interests in the South America, but a symbiotic relationship developed in which anglophone West Indian labour became crucial for the development of U.S. capitalism in South America. A case in point is the notorious U.S. company United Fruit which is unlikely ever to have existed in the form it took had not Jamaican workers supplied labour first on Minor C. Keith’s railways, then expertise in growing and cropping his Costa Rican bananas.

Work on these projects was deadly; thousands of West Indians died building the railways and in the three gargantuan industrial projects in Panama. Workers were blown to pieces in dynamite explosions, buried in mudslides, contracted pneumonia from sleeping week after week in the same clothes in the rain. Official medical intervention focused on diseases, particularly malaria, that killed whites disproportionately, but against which islanders often had good resistance.1 West Indians looked to practitioners of folk or ‘bush’ medicine and avoided the hospitals where they feared contracting TB and other diseases. The Americans imposed strict racial segregation on labour to the extent that, in Panama, white workers were ‘gold people’ because they were paid in gold, while black workers were ‘silver people’ because they worked for Panamanian silver dollars. Their status as West Indians offered them very little; certainly not remunerative employment, of which there was barely any to be had on the islands. They could, however, claim to be ‘British Subjects’; and in principle they could appeal to the British Consul for help. The figure of the West Indian threatening to complain to the British Consul became something of a stereotype and a joke. For its part, the colonial government put aside money for the repatriation of migrants to whichever island they came from, and had established savings banks and a postal order system so that remittances could be transferred home – a lucrative source of investment for otherwise impoverished island administrations.

On the one hand, West Indians treated their status as ‘British Subjects’ with gravity. White visitors of the period often comment on West Indian adults and children introducing themselves ceremoniously as ‘fellow Englishmen’. On the other, they created a parallel value structure. In 1910, Sir Roger Casement was investigating atrocities in the Peruvian Amazon. West Indian workers affirmed that the British Honorary Consul in Iquitos was in the pocket of the rubber tapping company that was organizing the killing and mutilation of Amerindians there, however, they had their own ‘Barbadian Consul’ – an elderly migrant called Carlton Morris.2 In the same year, Jamaican workers on the banana plantations of Costa Rica struck in protest at withdrawal of wages and the use of torture by overseers. One of the leaders of the strike was Jamaican Charles Ferguson; referred to as the ‘Consul’ – he was also an obeah man or sorcerer.3 Others involved included Jamaican migrant J. Washington Sterling accused in Limon of practicing medicine illegally – he was almost certainly likewise a ‘medicine man’, a sorcerer. Marcus Garvey arrived in Costa Rica in 1910, aged 23, to take up a position as a banana plantation ‘time-keeper’. He was quickly recognised by the authorities as a subversive, largely because of his criticism of local arrangements to celebrate the coronation of emperor George V, and his attempts to organize more elaborate festivities without consulting the British vice consul.

Notably, Garvey spent some of the first years of his adult life travelling across Central America, going as far south as Ecuador to visit West Indians railway workers there; a journey of nearly two thousand miles from Jamaica by steamer. On his way he published pamphlets and newspapers for the emigrant readership. These years in his career take up just a few pages of Grant’s biography, reasonably enough because relatively little is known about his travels: nonetheless, what we do know for sure is that, not only did the Central American workers become an indispensable cornerstone of support for the UNIA, but Garvey and Garvey’s wife Amy Jacques made repeated visits to Colon and Limon with the aim of re-gathering support there. In return, as Grant shows, they received staggeringly large sums of money, usually donated spontaneously at mass public meetings.

Reconfiguration in Harlem

In Harlem, the initial support for the UNIA was solidly West Indian. As Grant points out, West Indian migrants stood out in Harlem in the 1920s: here they were nicknamed ‘monkey chasers’, ‘King George niggers’ and ‘cockneys’. They were ‘incredibly addicted to waving the Union Jack in the face of their American cousins’ recalled the Jamaican poet Claude McKay (Grant 90-91). The islanders viewed themselves as the better educated and culturally superior subjects of a global empire: in turn, the pageantry and hierarchy of the UNIA mirrored imperial performances. Elsewhere, West Indian migrants had their black consuls and doctors, here Garvey paraded as an imperial official or a Professor. There were recitals of stirring poetry and Garvey often adapted lines from Shakespeare for his speeches. UNIA membership cards offered black people a new ‘flag of empire’; an ‘Ethiopian’4 one with a black hierarchy regarding which those ‘at home and abroad’ could be proud, and aspire to join. If Dubois’ movement was ‘national’, Garvey’s was ‘universal’, but the incipient model for his internationalism was the diaspora of West Indian colonial migrants. When the Chaplain of the UNIA, Antiguan born George McGuire, decided to canonise Jesus Christ as ‘the Black Man of Sorrows’ he was carrying this logic in a direction that Rastafarians would elaborate more fully, but he may well have adapted the idea from a figure already popular with West Indians in Panama – the ‘Black Christ of Portobelo’ – a statue processed in Catholic pre-Lenten carnival there. Either way, as Garvey reiterated; if whites can see god ‘through the eyes of whiteness’ then ‘we are going to see him through the eyes of blackness’ (Grant, 389).

The race politics that pushed U.S. blacks into espousing UNIA goals is laid out much more fully in the biography. Terrorism against freed African Americans had been ongoing from slave emancipation in 1865. In the thirty years before Garvey arrived in the U.S. more than three thousand southern blacks had been lynched; many more had been burnt out of their homes and forced into exile. These conditions, the devastation caused by the boll weevil on cotton harvests, and the search for work, propelled them North. Post-war demobilization, combined with a major economic downturn, triggered rioting by whites in many U.S. cities; the rioters attacked the black population, particularly black soldiers who some claimed were spreading Bolshevik propaganda.

Many joined Dubois’ NAACP, but Garvey’s movement was now visible too, offering an organizational structure and even employment prospects. Grant suggests that the difference in success between Dubois and Garvey derived from the fact that Dubois was an analyst and social philosopher whereas, quite simply, Garvey was charismatic, a visionary and a stupendously talented orator. We can still catch a glimpse of this in his writing, his rhythm and style are evangelical: looking back, people who joined the movement describe something akin to religious conversion. The U.S. government quickly took it that Garvey was a potential Bolshevik threat and they appointed a fresh-faced Edgar J. Hoover to investigate. From then onwards the UNIA was subject to surveillance and covert sabotage by the Bureau of Investigation.

If the only authenticated recording of him to survive is anything to go by, Garvey never lost a very distinct, highly polished, Jamaican accent. He and the other West Indians were doubly outsiders, in as much as geographical mobility had become so elemental in their worldview. The American blacks who joined UNIA were often exiles too – outsiders in their own country, drawn to Garvey’s utopia out of a different set of social facts. Importantly, then, the success of the UNIA was about the similarities but also the contradiction between West Indian and U.S. viewpoints. In both sites race hierarchy was an inescapable fact, but people of the Anglophone Caribbean had lived in societies where most people were black, where colour prejudice was muted in accord with the need to preserve colonial order, and where race/colour was a complex hierarchic continuum intermixed with class standing and ideas of ‘Englishness’. In the U.S., people were either white or they were black but that stark duality made little sense in the West Indies. The coalition and fusion of these alien perspectives amidst the oratory and pageant in Harlem is surely a crucial dimension of why Garveyism was so spectacularly successful. Garvey’s movement created an extraterritorial adventure, an anti-structural vista, inside which UNIA members could hold office at every level of the social hierarchy while belonging to their own empire, Africa.

Endgame

Despite the best efforts of J. Edgar Hoover, who cut his teeth destabilising the UNIA, there never was any plausible evidence of illegal activity on Garvey’s part. Garvey was a visionary with no capacity, or seeming interest in, the day to day accountancy of his multiple enterprises. Unfortunately, few of his rapidly put together leadership showed any greater competence than him. The U.S. government eventually recognised that the best method of solving the problem of the UNIA was not by by keeping Garvey in prison but to deport him to Jamaica; which they did in 1927. For its part, the British colonial authorities were coldly efficient in closing off contact between Garvey and the UNIA’s network of supporters across the empire. He was successively banned from visiting other British colonies and kept out of Panama and Costa Rica. In Jamaica, he was as successful as ever, putting on large scale spectaculars on the life of Toussaint L’Ouverture and other themes. He also founded Jamaica’s first political party – the People’s Political Party. Legal means were used to remove him from his elected seat as a city councilor; ironically or not, the barrister who prosecuted him would later become the leader of the People’s National Party and prime minister of Jamaica, Norman Manley.

In the mid-1930s Garvey moved to London – one of the few big cities he could now freely visit, but support for the UNIA was already dwindling. A new generation of pan-Africanists including CLR James and George Padmore had by now come to the fore: they were socialists and for them Garvey’s quasi-imperialist pomp was a ludicrous distraction. Having lost his organizational base, Garvey struck an increasingly strange and lonely figure in London. In 1940 he died of a stroke. In his absence from the U.S, the UNIA in Harlem had engaged in a chaotic sequence of internal battles and went into decline and the international network fragmented and ultimately disappeared. Costa Rica remains the last place worldwide where a UNIA branch has continued to exist as a functioning institution.

What then was Garveyism? The fact that I was still asking myself this question when I had finished reading Grant’s biography was what prompted me to write this review. Certainly Garvey is still with us as a range of significant ideas and images, like the pictures of him that re-occur on the walls of house-yards in Kingston, Jamaica. Some years ago, walking through my fieldwork site in Kingston, I was pursued by a local eccentric, Upsetter; ‘My Lord, My Lord!’ he called after me, trying to catch my attention. Two youths shouted at him reproachfully as he followed this white man up the street ‘what happen to you man – you forgot Marcus [Garvey]? you forgot Malcolm [X]? There is a great deal more, though, that could be said about the contradictory worldviews which briefly turned Garveyism into a mass social movement. The sudden explosive growth of the UNIA is an instance where an submerged nexus of utopian ideas and values briefly pierce the membrane of what actually exists and acquire a reality of their own.

Notes

1 Chomsky, A. West Indian Workers and the United Fruit Company. Louisiana: Louisiana State University Press.

2 Casement, R. 1997. The Amazon Journal of Roger Casement. Dublin: Anaconda Editions.

3 Chomsky, A. ibid.

4 Bourgois, P. 1989. Ethnicity at Work. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, page 85.

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Tuff City

Book Review Series
ISSN 2045-5755 (Online)

Francine Barone
University of Kent

© 2012 Francine Barone
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

Download as PDF, EPUB, MOBI.

Dines, N. 2012. Tuff City: Urban Change and Contested Space in Central Naples. New York: Berghahn. 344 pp.

Ah, Naples! Capital of the Italian South, historical port city and Italy’s third largest metropolis. Sprawled beneath the looming shadow of the slumbering Mount Vesuvius, it is the birthplace of the Neapolitan pizza, Capodimonte porcelain and actress Sophia Lauren. Exports aside, the name brings to mind a chaotic, but vibrant, street life. One envisages a tangle of narrow, cobbled streets hung with linens and densely packed with tourists and locals; a loud hum of activity from animated, gesturing Neapolitans; and the disorienting buzz of Vespas dodging and darting between impressive ancient piazzas. In the tourist literature, from guidebooks to newspaper editorials, foreigners love to wax poetic about Naples. For instance, here is a brief snippet of cultural advice from the New York Times:

Neapolitans love their traditions and rituals: stores close for the midday pausa, cappuccini are not drunk after 10 a.m. and grated cheese never goes on top of seafood pastas. And on weekends, residents take to the streets for their daily passeggiata, or stroll. If the weather holds up, everyone walks toward the Gulf of Naples, alongside the Villa Comunale park. It’s a runway show of sorts: children lick their gelatos, women saunter arm-in-arm in their Sunday best, and men discuss what men in Italy always discuss: politics. It’s a true slice of Naples (Santopietro 2008).

What a stunning image of Mediterranean urban life! Like the Spanish paseo and Catalan passeig, subjects of my own urban ethnography of space and place (Barone 2010), these communal social performances look quaint and idyllic from the eyes of wealthy holiday-makers.

However, this romanticized scene is only part of the urban experience of Naples. It is the darker side of Neapolitan existence that graces the international news and has made the city renowned as backward, disorderly and plagued by social woes. Tourists and locals alike lament a maze of streets clogged with endless traffic and the jarring noise of impatient car horns reverberating through the city center. One imagines a cloud of smog heaving past museums, ensconcing hapless sojourners at quaint sidewalk cafés and adhering black soot to classical monuments. Time, natural disaster and neglect have seen many of Naples’ architectural gems crumble in haphazard chaos. Today, Bourbon palaces stand alongside dilapidated tenement buildings sinking into their dangerously decaying foundations. And it just gets worse from there: Pickpockets. Beggars. Endless piles of rotting, uncollected trash. Corruption. Seedy Mafia bribery. An arresting and lively city, it is no exaggeration that Naples is better known for its organized crime and pollution than its culture.

And so Naples’ reputation precedes it almost everywhere in the world. Indeed, Italian-Americans and their pop culture representatives are familiar with the vulgar expression used within Sicilian-American communities: va fa Napoli (“Go to Naples!”). It can be loosely translated for family audiences as “go to hell” – but likely euphemistic for va fanculo (f— you) – as if there were no worse punishment in life or death than condemnation to the forsaken city. The irony of one mafia stronghold asserting superiority over another is not lost, but it nonetheless attests to some longstanding divisions within and between Italian communities, cross-cut no doubt by class consciousness and levels of education and strong enough to carry over to the new world.

Dines’ ethnography shows that similar sentiments about Neapolitan inferiority are fairly common within Italy, too. Naples is situated against northern Italian cities as socially and culturally inferior in the popular imagination of locals and as well as in the minds of politicians looking to bring the city up to “European standards”. Recent criticisms from Italian Leftist academics and journalist levied at failed urban regeneration projects throughout the 1990s (detailed in this book) argue that Naples – and by association, Neapolitans – never changes (p. 295), which is to say it will never improve or progress towards being civilized (p. 289). Such an attitude explains away the sources of failure in urban regeneration projects and obviates the need to find potential solutions for an ailing city (p. 295). The city and its inhabitants are simply labeled anomalous, destined to remain in a state of festering decay and left to live up to this predestined reputation.

Challenging the presumed moral destitution of Naples, throughout the book, Dines draws his attention directly to the ignored and the disenfranchised members of the city who are otherwise only mentioned when the subject of salacious headlines. It would seem nearly impossible to expel the reader’s first impressions of heaps of garbage blighting the urban landscape and the Camorra profiteering from the urban ruin that lay at its feet. And yet somehow its two most distasteful icons can be made somewhat incidental to the story of the Neapolitan people presented here.

Through public spaces and contests over place and identity, Dines takes an alternative look at the city, challenging both local and outsider preconceptions about what it means to live in Naples. Part 1 of the book introduces the reader to the city of Naples with local historical and political information necessary to grasp the political climate of 1990s Naples and upon which the case studies of urban regeneration will be framed. Parts 2, 3 and 4 are devoted to the ethnographic snapshots of significant social spaces in Naples.

The three distinct public realms chosen as case studies – two central piazzas and one reclaimed neighborhood park/civic center – together offer an authentic portrait of contemporary urban life in the European south. The choice of three very different locales all within the center of the city highlights the diversity of Naples and the difficulty of relying on stereotypes to make sense of its urban landscape. Dines provides both synchronic and diachronic reading of the places under examination, thereby framing the entire historic center as a “battleground of competing claims and interests” (p. 15).

***

Like most Mediterranean cities, Naples is made up of a patchwork of smaller neighborhoods or quartieri. Designated by imperfect physical or imagined boundaries around, for instance, historical expansions of the city, iconic spaces, architectural styles, social class or ethnic identity, these neighborhoods have unique local histories and interrelationships which together make up the urban whole. Expansions in all directions from the old historic center over the centuries – and continuing today – have left an eclectic mix of architecture and peoples inhabiting Naples.

Throughout the text, the author follows the path of the city towards a contestable future. In addition to snapshots of three significant urban places, Dines traces the policies of the local administration which seek to rid the city of its poor international reputation as the “urban outcast of Europe” and, in turn, reclaim its cultural and architectural patrimony (p. 2). The program of urban renewal throughout the decade sought to “clean” the city in a number of ways (see below). The cruel fate that a mere decade later Naples’ image would be severely marred by yet another Mafia war (2004) and the ongoing garbage crisis (2007) adds a sad, dramatic irony to the storyline.

In 1993, newly elected Mayor Antonio Bassolino embarked on a project of rehabilitating the physical appearance of Naples to restore a sense of heritage and decorum. In this process, the historic center (centro storico) was re-imagined and repackaged as the “heart” of the city, imbuing in its inhabitants a shared sense of belonging (p. 82). The objective from above was to eradicate the sense of anarchy and disorder that had long befallen the city and inspired its poor reputation, hoping to transform its public face by building “places of collective identity” (p. 88). This reworking of the tapestry of the urban landscape through ambitious planning was meant to correct the behavior of wayward residents and “civilize” them to European standards. Neapolitan culture was presented by city officials and journalists as something singular and in need of preservation. As such, in regenerating Naples, the city would have to – intentionally or unintentionally – go about remaking Neapolitans.

Dines draws on the spatial theories of Lefebvre (1991) and Bourdieu (1977, 1984) to present the framework for analysis of “contested spaces” in the city of Naples (pp. 99-105). The ethnographic focus of the book is the piazza: “The piazza is one of the most distinctive and emblematic features of the Italian city. […] Across the centuries, these ‘organized voids’ have stood as measures of urban beauty, order and harmony” (p. 106). A piazza’s symbolism is built upon enduring bonds between citizen and city space. However, the concept of the piazza in Italy, like the plaza in Spain or plaça in Catalonia, is popularly depicted by intellectuals and local pundits as being under threat from TV, the Internet, cars and modern lifestyles (p. 111), even though empirical evidence suggests otherwise (pp. 91-92). Ideologically, an empty piazza heralds the decline of society. As a result, the past two to three decades has seen a push towards a revival of the piazza or piazza-like culture (throughout Europe as a whole) in an attempt to restore a sense of urban place and memory and to rejuvenate cities with welcoming and enticing spaces for gathering (p. 111).

Through selected piazzas of Naples, the reader is given a look into complex uses and representations of these traditional city spaces. Dines’ first ethnographic case study of contested space looks at the Piazza Plebiscito (pp. 115-118). Prominently located in the center of the city, the enormous space had habitually been used to hold large cultural and political events (pp. 119-123), but by 1990 it had been converted into a de facto car park and bus station due to the city’s perennial problems of congestion (pp. 123; 126-8). After an intense clean-up in the mid-1990s, suddenly the newly empty space was awarded the lofty status as an historical icon and urban emblem representing the city on the international stage, no longer to be tarnished with cars or filth (pp. 139-141). To maintain its sterile beauty, the piazza was intentionally left devoid of any structures or organizational elements like benches or flowers, apart from temporary modern art installations or special events approved by government officials. But public spaces in the Mediterranean are never empty or devoid of meaning, as desolate as they may appear to bystanders.

The restoration of the space and its new “rules” neglected existing Neapolitan life in the piazza for some of its longtime patrons whose patterns of use became visible transgressions of the space (p. 166). Discourse on public activity in Piazza Plebiscito was naturally blind to the hurried youths on Vespas, daytime street vendors, raucous children playing ball games, occasional protesters, petty criminals and nighttime drug users (pp. 151-153), all seen as peripheral to the New Naples. Where actual practices, however longstanding, conflicted with the new image of a beautiful and inviting city, the behavior was seen as inappropriate and inauthentic. What planners overlooked in remaking the so-called civic identity of this place is the personal histories attached to what may seemingly look like empty gaps in the urban landscape to others. Dines shares some of these personal attachments through interviews of city residents (pp. 155-164), including fond memories of the piazza in past years as well as many conflicting ideas of what constitutes “appropriate” or “desirable” behavior within its boundaries.

The second case study focuses on Piazza Garibaldi, the railway station and environs, which is recognized by city residents as the most dangerous, disorderly and crime-infested part of the city (even though this is factually inaccurate, p. 189). The space has historically undergone more than one period of redevelopment, but by the 1980s it was relegated to the “immigrant piazza” known for its hotels, bars and migrant-run marketplaces (p. 171). Dines’ ethnography shows that on closer examination the Piazza Garibaldi is now a multifunctional polynational space. It is not simply the domain of immigrants, drug dealers and sex workers, but is governed by overt and unspoken spatial and ethnic divisions (pp. 212-219). As opposed to Piazza Plebiscito, so socially and culturally peripheral is this space that by the 1990s it was no longer even seen as Neapolitan (p. 207). Yet the immigrant social and economic activities taking place there make it closer to an approximation of a traditional Neapolitan piazza than the carefully staged Piazza Plebiscito.

The author’s analysis brings to light the class politics of urban planning. It is clear that the local government did not intend to increase the rates of use of public spaces in the city, which were already being utilized in different ways by many groups of residents, but to reconstruct behavioral guidelines within the spaces (p. 98) to fit with new models of Neapolitan identity. A lack of agency on the part of some inhabitants (namely immigrants) greatly restricts their involvement in urban development (p. 85). At the same time, however, those denied a public voice are still able to powerfully contest their place vis-à-vis other citizens and the urban space itself, carving niches in its landscape, running its most prolific street economy, forming relationships with other natives, transients and locals, and passing their own value judgments on the city’s public spaces.

Finally, the last contested urban space under examination is the social center and park complex known as DAMM in the quartieri of Montesanto (p. 265). Once a decayed zone in a depraved and neglected outlying neighborhood (labelled a “slum”), it was reclaimed by local residents and turned into an active civic center in 1995. Entirely self-run, the many successes of the civic center include bringing together the local community, regenerating the park and keeping it safe for local children (pp. 271-277), all without the assistance of the local government who continued to ignore demands to renovate the park. While much of the city’s governing classes demeaned this community and its residents (p. 278) and literally feared entry into the area, DAMM cleaned up the park and instituted a number of vibrant social and after-school programs. The local volunteers took it upon themselves to remedy the neglect of their working-class residential neighborhood while expensive, superficial renovations of touristy piazzas took priority for the Mayor. This example contests the very ideas of urban “degeneration”, “inclusivity” and “civic participation” (p. 283) and represents an ethnographic vignette of real Neapolitan experiences that can be easily lost in the broad strokes of political debate over the past decade.

Dines calls for “measured, critical analysis” (p. 295) of this period in Naples’ recent history. He is clear on the inconsistencies and imperfections in policy-making as well as mixed popular perceptions of the Mayor’s attempts at reforming Naples. The account is highly class-conscious and particularly sympathetic to the underrepresented. Thus, in all three case studies, Dines draws his attention to those citizens of Naples who are not likely to find their streets in tourist guidebooks; to the kids who defiantly climb on art installations (pp. 142-3); the street hawkers who smoke hashish under cover of the colonnade in the Piazza Plebiscito at night (p. 164); and the Eastern European migrants or Senegalese traders that carve niches in the Piazza Garibaldi, making use of the tried and true survival tactics of Neapolitan life (p. 217), whether or not they are denied the label of official citizen.

***

Tuff City is as much a history of the political Left in Naples as it is an analysis of everyday Neapolitan life. A sizeable portion of the text is devoted to Neapolitan and Italian political historiography, especially of Left-wing and communist parties, which may be taxing to follow for those not conversant in the specific events of Italian history. That said, the case studies, interviews and vignettes of space and interaction in the city make powerful statements about immigration, crime, degeneration, social exclusion and a number of other themes that produce a strong ethnographic text for Mediterranean and urban anthropologists alike.

Mediterranean anthropology is not as fashionable as it once was. Perhaps scholars think that the region has been “done” for some time or that cheap flights to sunny resorts have ruined the mystique. But this book offers a necessary contribution to the field: a recent take on a Mediterranean city that many people might rashly presume to know by reputation alone. Naples, the shameful, uncontrollable and uncontrolled metropolis is certainly prime fodder for anthropological study. At the same time, and helpfully for urban anthropologists, Dines seeks to dismiss Naples’ exceptionalism, presenting it instead as an “ordinary city” (p. 17).

Without diminishing the power and pervasiveness of corruption, the role of the Camorra, or masking the clear inefficiency of local administrators, Dines treats the reader to an authentic story of the Neapolitan people that is more inclusive than the reworked, pre-packaged notions of citizenship bantered by local politicians. One cannot help but conclude that it is perhaps their permanently stigmatized and downtrodden state which inspires in Neapolitans a stubborn perseverance in the face of its many detractors. In Tuff City, we learn that the persistent failure of Naples to “civilize” has likely confounded both local and international observers because the debate frames hyperlocal realities in absurdly foreign terms.

Even though it “was born out of the particular field of Italian studies”, the author hopes that the text will “contribute to a more general meta-methodological critique of how we write about the contemporary city” (p. 25). He achieves this by utilizing public spaces as windows to the city, and by interweaving alternative, personal narratives into the wider story of Naples’ stagnating development. Thankfully, it is not just another pretty story. We read little about the passeggiata except in nostalgic flashbacks. The reader quickly discovers that what passes as a harmless blurb in a NY Times travel guide is actually teeming with contradictory and conflictive symbolism: by no means is “everyone” in Naples represented in the leisurely stroll in the Villa Comunale. In light of this book, such a romanticized scene instead comes to reflect another aspect of exclusionary politics and the powerful divide between “us” and “them” in Naples.

 

References

Barone, F. 2010. Urban Firewalls: place, space and new technologies in Figueres, Catalonia. PhD Thesis. United Kingdom: University of Kent, Canterbury.

Bourdieu, P. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Bourdieu, P. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge.

Lefebvre, H. 1991. The Production of Space. Oxford: Blackwell.

Santopietro, J. 2008. 36 Hours in Naples, Italy. The New York Times, April 27. http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/04/27/travel/27hours.html, accessed September 25, 2012.

Posted in Book Reviews | 2 Comments

In and Out of the State

Working Papers Series #15
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

In and Out of the State
Working the Boundaries of Power in the Democratic Republic of the Congo

Patience Kabamba
Marymount Manhattan College

© 2012 Patience Kabamba
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

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BIO SKETCH
Patience Kabamba has a BA from the Jesuit School of Philosophy in Paris, a Masters Degree in Economic Development from the University of Kwazulu-Natal in Durban, an MA in Philosophy from The Catholic University of Leuven, Belgium, and a PhD in cultural anthropology from Columbia University, New York. He was a Senior Lecturer in the department of Development Studies at the University of Johannesburg before moving to Marymount Manhattan College as Assistant Professor of International Studies. Kabamba has intensive ethnographic experience of emergent social formations when states disintegrate in war-torn Africa: in DRC, Rwanda, Burundi and Uganda. His theoretical interests include the dynamics of conflict, new state formations, transnational trade networks, ethnicity and global political and economic governance. His publications include: “Ethnic Alternative to the Post-Colonial State: Case of Nande from Butembo and Luba from Mbuji-Mayi in the DRC” (Canadian Journal of African Studies, 42(1), 2008); “Where does the value added go in the Rebel Controlled Territory of the DRC?” (Congo-Afrique, 2004); “Heart of Darkness: Images of the Democratic Republic of the Congo and their theoretical underpinning” (Anthropological Theory, Vol. 10 (3) September 2010); “Economic Empowerment without the State: Lessons from the Nande,” (Africana Vol. 5 (2), June/July 2011); “Articulation of modes of political production in the Democratic Republic of the Congo” (Congo-Afrique, N. 456, June 2011). His forthcoming book with CODESRIA Press is Business of Civil War: New forms of life from the debris of the Congolese State.

 

ABSTRACT
The idea that power usually flows top-down from a state monopoly is increasingly questioned in an era of networks fuelled by interactive decision-making processes that include non-state actors. Power theoretically understood as potentia – the elementary power through which human beings deploy their productive capacities and creative possibilities – is ontologically prior to power expressed as an obsession with order that is often repressive (potestas). Granting precedence to potentia over potestas inevitably leads us to question the conceptual centrality of the state. The Congo (DRC), which has long stood – and stands today – as a symbol of the antithesis of social order, offers much material for reflection on this issue. This paper considers how people negotiate the boundaries between state and non-state power in the contemporary DRC.

 

Introduction

When asked to name the conflict that has claimed most lives in Africa during the last decade, most of my American students cite Darfur or Somalia. They are surprised when I show that the Congo conflict has accounted for 4 million deaths (IRC 2008), while that in Darfur on a conservative estimate claimed at most 400,000 deaths (United Nations 2008). Students of contemporary Africa are often surprised that the media have little to say about the Congo conflict. Mahmood Mamdani (2004) believes that the reason for the media’s near silence on the DRC conflict is that two of the major protagonists there, namely Rwanda and Uganda, are friends of the United States. It would be embarrassing for the Western media which makes of Rwanda’s post-genocide president Kagame of a new Moses to accuse him of murdering so many Congolese people. Indeed all attempts to make Kagame and Museveni accountable for the Congo conflict have met with resistance from the US and Britain in the United Nations. But this line doesn’t really work, given that a number of scholars have begun to criticize Kagame’s handling of power in Rwanda recently (Reyntjens 2006, Pottier 2000).

The real cause of the media’s relative silence about the main African conflict today, which has claimed the most victims of any conflict since the Second World War, is that it goes far beyond the categories we usually use to define such conflicts. In the Congo there are no easily identifiable good guys and bad guys, no regular armies fighting against non-uniformed belligerents. Our usual categories do not work there. This partly explains why journalists, especially foreign journalists, who are used to constructing conflicts according to a binary logic, can’t understand one which involves a government army, a dozen Congolese rebel militias, a dozen foreign rebel groups and UN peace-keepers. The complexities of the Congo war defeat the normal categories of our understanding. We need to find other ways of theorizing not only this type of conflict, but also the types of states that house them, and the notions of power we use to conceptualize them.

We need new concepts if we wish to understand power in Africa. The traditional ways of conceptualizing power and sovereignty do not help us to grasp the dynamics of state formation there, especially when we attempt to understand what is being produced at the local level beyond the state’s reach. I examine here the emerging forms of society where the state’s traditional monopolies – welfare, prosperity and security – are increasingly replaced by non-state actors. To understand what is happening in countries like Congo, we must move from conceiving power only as a kind of repression undertaken by the unchallenged authority of a government or ruler manifested in a territorial state. We must also see power, following Spinoza, as potentia, the productive and creative capacities of the human species. The notion of sovereignty needs to be conceived as an ontological attribute of humanity that is anterior to state sovereignty (De Genova 2002).

Spinoza made a distinction between power as potestas and as potentia. The concept of ‘power’ reified in notions of the state is defined as potestas – the unchallenged authority of a despotic ruler. The power of the sovereign state captures and cannibalizes its subject. Power as potestas characterizes the state of exception where the sovereign power of the state gives itself the right to dehumanize its subjects and turn their lives into ‘bare life’(Agamben 1998).

This paper promotes another theorization of African state power in general and the Congo in particular as potentia. This is the sort of power Foucault is concerned with when he writes: ‘Power is something that is acquired, seized, or shared, something that one holds on to or allows to slip away; power is exercised. . . . Relations of power . . . have a directly productive role, wherever they come into play. Power comes from below’ (1996[1980]: 94). In rejecting a focus on sovereignty and state, Foucault contends that these are merely endpoints or crystallizations of power relations that are understood to be ubiquitous and elemental and therefore must be seen from the bottom-up.

Human subjects deploy their productive capacities and possibilities through potentia . This sort of power is an elementary aspect of human possibility and capability. It is ontologically prior to and ultimately autonomous of the reified power of the sovereign state that captures it. This theorization of power brings us to the fundamental sense of power expressed in the tradition of social contract. In the midst of chaos, some people have demonstrated their creative ability to escape the ‘bare life’ the Congolese State sought to impose on them. Here I will focus on the Nande whom I have studied. Through their transnational activities, Nande people resisted the cannibalizing power in trying to control their own destiny. Butembo is a city in Northern Kivu, an area ravaged by the Congo civil war. The organization and regulation of public goods such as roads, universities and health provision there are taken care of by an alliance of merchants, the Catholic Church and a militia whose coercive power is combined with the patronage of traders. They taught me a new way of conceptualizing not only power, but also the notion of sovereignty which is attached to it.

Theorized as potentia, the notion of sovereignty may be redefined as not belonging to the State, but rather as an inalienable attribute of human beings. As an ontological attribute of the human species, sovereignty is anterior to state sovereignty. From this standpoint, sovereignty is never a monopoly of the state. As we will see, the Nande people in eastern DRC exercise their inalienable sovereignty by taking control of their wealth and destiny in the face of the DRC state’s predatory power.

This paper first discusses the traditional ways state power has been conceptualized in Africa. It analyses a body of academic literature on the state and its sovereign power that has generally been conceptualized as potestas. Second, in empirical support of this theoretical claim, it provides an ethnographic account which calls for a re-conceptualization of the state and the notion of power in central Africa,. Finally, it discusses the implications of understanding power to be not only repressive, but also productive. This new understanding of power may help us better to grasp the dynamism of African state formation today.

 

African state power: the debate

The conceptualization of power in Africa has been traditionally skewed towards what Deborah Bryceson (2011) called “cultural essentialist thinking which identifies African power with patrimonialism, informality, deviance and, in some cases, criminality or with neo-patrimonialism, shadow, failed, collapsed, or in decay” (Clapham 1996, Erdmann and Engel 2007, Reymaekers 2004, Zartman 1995, Reno 1999, O’ Brien 1998, Bayart, Ellis and Hibou 1999, Chabal and Daloz 1999). As Bryceson accurately observes, this sort of analysis refers to cultural repertoires, registers and rationalities that convey the notion of a distinct African culture of power in contrast to universal (Western) standards of bureaucratic and legal practice. In most cases power is understood as potestas exercised by the government which according to these authors has a universalistic claim. Indeed for them Western forms of state are the universal standards which should work across time and space.

Inside Africa, the debate among African scholars is oriented towards understanding the structural reasons why power in many African countries has come to be understood as it is. A consensus amongst them points to what Mamdani refers to as ‘paradigm of state-civil society’ (1995 and 1996). For him, the key to understanding the state in contemporary Africa is the historical fact that it was forged in the course of colonial occupation. The colonial state was then organized around a central and overriding dilemma: “the native question”. How can a tiny foreign minority rule over an indigenous majority?

Colonialism created different institutions that made minority rule possible. Instead of racializing the colonized into a majority identity, as did nineteen-century direct rule, twentieth-century indirect rule dismantled this racialized majority into many minorities. Furthermore, indirect rule in colonial Africa meant that the linkage between state and society was constituted by African collaborators, whether they were ‘native’ authorities or new rulers created by colonial administrations. For most of Africa, Mamdani argues, the ‘decentralized despotism’ of chiefs was the unique mediating linkage with the colonial state that shaped access to resources through the state’s patronage. Thus, the political authority that emerged from the national independence process inherited the role played by chiefs during the colonial period. The new class of rulers, not bothering to articulate a social dream, was concerned primarily with maintaining ethnic and regional patronage. The colonial world has only been turned upside down without being changed. True, there is a state collapse, but it is just not any state that is collapsing; it is specifically what remains of the colonial state in Africa that is collapsing. For Mamdani, postcolonial African elites are predators like their colonial masters rather than real leaders interested in political reform of the state inherited from colonialism (1996:179). Why were post-independence leaders more interested in their political position than in profound reforms?

Claude Ake (2000) has a better answer to this question. Ake argues that the colonial powers could only justify colonialism with the fiction that Africans were less than human and could not be entitled to the amenities of civilization, especially democracy. In the colonial era, political discourse excluded not only democracy but also the idea of good governance. After political independence, the African nationalist leaders continued this legacy by turning against democracy. Independence in Africa changed the manager of the State, but not the state’s arbitrary and totalitarian character. Ake explains that the African elites who came to power decided to exploit the colonial system they inherited for their own benefit rather than transforming it into a democracy. The use of force increased the mutual alienation of the elite and the masses, so that rulers relied even more on coercion. Franz Fanon (1963) characterized the African post-colonial elite as an “envious man.” “The look that the native turns on the settler’s town is a look of lust, of envy; it expresses his dream of possession – all manner of possession – to sit at the settler’s table, to sleep in the settler’s bed, with his wife if possible.” And Fanon warns that if Africans want to move away from envy, from an appropriation without understanding, they must turn over a new leaf and work out new concepts. This paper is one response to Fanon’s invitation long ago.

I generally agree with these analyses of the post-colonial state by African scholars. But they focus on the state’s actions without much information about what it means to be on the receiving end of these actions. In order words, this body of African literature on the construction of order and authority in post-colonial states accurately understands and conceptualizes the role of imperial power conceived of as potestas (Mamdani 1996, Zegeye 2004, Mbembe 1992, 2000, Ake 2000, Fanon 1963). But there is a lack of research on the initiatives of non-state agents in this post-colonial period, especially on the production of cross-border social order and economic management. I have sought to address this omission by examining the transnational activities of local “ethnic” communities and by reformulating power as “potential”. In this way I hope to make sense of Africa’s social transformation today.

Indeed, in places like the DRC, nation-state competence in any Western meaning of the term has all but disappeared (Reno 1998). Mobutu’s strategy of building political authority through market control increasingly impinged on local non-state agents who then used access to illicit trade to help themselves and their neighbors weather the collapse of state institutions. Janet MacGaffey (1990) has shown how in the 1980s and the 1990s, some community trade networks developed ways of avoiding the predations of Mobutu’s political network. In the 1990s, while the formal economy was collapsing in Zaire, the Eastern part of the country prospered as a result of cross-border trade by the Nande with Uganda, Tanzania and Dubai in the Gulf (MacGaffey 1997). With the collapse of the shadow state and precarious security in the mid-90s, local strongmen emerged with ties to warlords from Rwanda and other neighboring countries who started the war that overthrew Mobutu. According to MacGaffey, many Nande entrepreneurs had to deal with local strongmen whose predatory powers rose after the state collapsed.

With the demise of normal state functions and use of any remaining state apparatus just to enrich its personnel in the interests of the powerful, the ‘second economy’ virtually replaced the official recorded economy. In other words, the decline in government revenues in the long economic crisis and pervasive corruption and clientelism among government personnel led to the devastation on the economic and transport infrastructure, with widespread food shortages and the virtual disappearance of public health and education. For the general population, rampant unemployment and impossibly low wages meant that town dwellers had to find the means for survival and essential supplementary income outside formal wages. Using their capacity to think and to fight not only for survival, but also for prosperity, people responded by ‘informalizing’ society. The Nande turned to informal transnational commerce. These processes provided the material basis for reconstitution of the state or, to be precise, for new kind of social formations whose success was linked to the absence of state structures. Does this transnational economy imply the end of state or is it the expression of people’s creative capacities to reinvent the state in new ways when faced by the failure of what went before?

 

Transnationalism

The anthropological literature on transnationalism focuses particularly on the related mobility of labor and capital, on the globalization of capital and labor. Leslie Sklair (1995) recognizes that the central feature of the idea of globalization current in the social sciences is that many contemporary problems cannot be adequately studied at the level of nation-states, in terms of national societies or international relations, but need to be theorized in terms of global (transnational) processes, beyond the level of the nation-state. Global system theory is based on the concept of transnational practices that cross state borders but do not necessarily originate with state agencies or actors.

The keenest disagreement between globalization theorists and their opponents, however, concerns the extent to which the nation-state is in decline. This entails disputes over the relevance of terms such as “informality,” “illegality” in the new context of transnationalism, given that in African countries, for example, people have developed informal strategies of survival or even prosperity in the absence of formal structures associated with the developmental state. To call these actions ‘illegal’ maintains the fantasy of the state in its real absence and ignores the point that ‘illegality’ is a constructed form of social relations which has limited historical scope and holds sway only when the conditions of its objectification persist. Why should citizen of the Congo pay taxes when the state that collects them provides no return in terms of public infrastructure? A sort of ‘natural’ resistance has risen from the local, not so much as a weapon of the weak (Scott 2000), but resistance emerging from the inner capacity of human beings to pursue their aspirations through the best social arrangements they can produce. The potestas of the government does not exhaust our human creative capacity to organize power. The Weberian idea of the state as a monopoly of force is just one among others. It may or may not work for the West, but it remains a colonial anomaly in the countries formed by empire.

People often do not primarily identify with the state they live in; it is not for them the most significant ‘imagined community’. Identities derived from regional and local associations are usually more significant in people’s daily experience, especially in a world where globalization at one level and regional autonomy movements at the other challenges the nation-state’s raison d’etre. Globlization may be defined as a process whereby the constraints of geography on social and cultural arrangements recede and people become increasingly aware that they are receding (Waters 1995:3). As Appadurai puts it, “deterritorialization is one of the central forces of the modern world, since it brings laboring populations into the lower class sectors and spaces of relatively wealthy societies, while sometimes creating an exaggerated and intensified sense of criticism attached to the politics of the home state” (1986:301). The social relations emerging from these contemporary developments are not confined within the borders of nation-states. Thus, they may be regarded as transnational, a term which indicates a relation over and beyond, rather than between or inside nation-states.

The debate on transnationalism in anthropology opposes those for whom the state has lost its relevance to those who think the state is still important. Work on transnationalism raises the question whether life across borders involves resistance to the nation-state and allows previously marginalized groups to challenge the social hierarchy (Lewitt 2001). In my opinion, transnationalism, as a search for more creative ways of organizing the social contract, is more likely to stimulate a transformation of the nation-state as it is rather than to make its functions and existence disappear. MacGaffey has shown that Nande traders benefit from the borders of the DRC state when organizing their cross-border activities. Drawing inspiration from her, I spent more than a year of ethnographic fieldwork in the Nande region of eastern DRC.

 

The Nande of North Kivu: an ethnographic account

I carried out ethnographic field research among Nande people for 14 months in Butembo in the north Kivu territory of Beni-Lubero (Kabamba forthcoming). Briefly, in the past decade endemic conflict in the Democratic Republic of the Congo has precipitated the collapse of public authority and the brutal disintegration of the formal state. The facts are well known: four million dead, entire zones of the country controlled by foreign armies, and the withdrawal of the state from an effective presence in several regions. In the midst of this chaos, however, certain ethnic groups have been able to take advantage of the state’s absence to prosper and institute new forms of order and development.

In the next pages the paper will describe an empirical example of power understood as potentia in that a group of Congolese traders took the destiny of their region into their own hands in the midst of war. In the absence of effective state sovereignty and national government and in the presence of numerous armed contenders for power, Nande traders have managed to build and protect a self-sustaining, prosperous transnational economic enterprise in eastern Congo. But why them and what gave the Nande the capacity to extract their population from despotic and predatory rule, from the exercise of power as potestas?

North Kivu is predominantly inhabited by the Nande in northern Beni and Lubero, by the Banyarwanda (primarily Bahutu and some Tutsi) in Rutshuru and Masisi, and the Hunde in Walikale. There is no linguistic relation between these groups. The name Nande is of relatively recent origin. Elderly people in the region do not remember the term being used in their youth, and it is thought to have been introduced by the Belgians, or possibly by Arab slave and ivory traders who penetrated the northern Mitumba Mountains region at the end of the nineteenth century. The term Yira was used to speak of the Kinande-speaking people in general, but this term took on derogatory connotations during the colonial period, when it was used to refer to backward, uncivilized persons. Yira sometimes refers to the lower social strata of the population (Bergmans 1970:8). Rather than adopting a cultural definition, anthropologists such as Bergmans and Remotti (1993) see the term Yira as a reflection of a triple opposition. First against the Hima pastoralist ruling class (this division is also present in other traditional Interlacustrian kingdoms, such as Toro, Ankole and Bunyoro); second, as agriculturalists in opposition to the land-owning aristocracy (in Nande traditional society); and finally as primitives in opposition to civilized in the context of colonial society. This socio-economic status was also traditionally linked to the customary authorities’ tolerance of others engaging in private commerce. Such acceptance of private initiatives apparently stimulated a spirit of ‘constructive competition’, which allowed individuals to measure their success to that of others (Sarata 2002:40). This was in sharp contrast to surrounding communities where the customary chiefs had the tendency to strangle merchant initiatives. In the Hunde community from Bwiti and Bwisha in North Kivu, for example, a vassal was not allowed to be richer than the local chief (Mwami)(Kasay 1988).

The common language used by Nande people –Kinande – is shared with the Konjo people living in the foothills of the Ruwenzori Mountains in Western Uganda. Oral tradition in the region suggests that there were successive waves of migration from the Ruwenzori region across the Semliki Valley to the Mitumba Mountains since the end of the sixteenth century (Packard 1981), while the Yira traced their origin to the kingdom of Kitara in today’s Uganda.

The result, in Packard’s opinion, was a social organization only loosely based on descent, with clans having “very little corporate identity” as they are neither “geographically cohesive, nor are they totemic or exogamous units”. The forms of territorial leadership that emerged seem to have been based on ritual control of rain-making using rain stones. This was in turn altered, at least in the Isale region studied by Packard, when Hima-Bito pastoralists (who apparently had been able to survive an earlier famine in the valley) began migrating into the mountain regions during the early part of the nineteenth century. Packard documented in the Isale region a history of alliance-building rather than open conflict, whereby pastoralist groups, using their cattle as a greater economic resource and co-opting the support of existing ritual leaders (rain chiefs, original clearers of the forest, diviners, and healers), were able to broaden their spheres of political control. Tribute payments were the primary form of link between dominated groups and ruling classes. The rights of the original occupants (Bakonde) continued to be respected, annual tribute payments were maintained, and the ritual authority of rain chiefs continued to be a factor in politics. To this was added a system of tribute payments to the new chiefs (Bwami) and an enhanced ideology of their consolidated ritual control over nature and the wellbeing of society.

It is important to note that the Yira never seem to have organized themselves into a centralized government. On the one hand, their community remained historically divided between the Nande and the Kondjo, two branches of the Yira community that live respectively in the DRC and Uganda today. On the other hand, the Nande community is also divided between several clans or sub-clans: the Nyisanza, Bashu, Baswagha, Batangi and Bamate. This political dispersion resulted in the maintenance of a certain degree of local autonomy, even though they were integrated into a single kingdom. For Bergmans (1970), the Nande political system contains in itself the seeds of a fragmentation of power. The Nande political system also contained important centrifugal tendencies that were directed more towards expansion and conquest than territorial consolidation (Raeymaekers 2007). This illustrates how the claim of ‘sovereignty’, rather than being an expression of a single ruler or actor finds its expression in a system of codes and rules that govern a particular social domain. In the Nande community, ‘sovereignty’ was traditionally instituted in two figures: the Mwami, the chief, and the ‘Mughula’, a kind of anti-power figure who intervened in crucial phases of the Mwami’s life. Indeed, this ‘sovereignty’ is expressed specifically in the “vast network of tributes” that made it possible to individuate particular links between different clans and persons (Remotti 1993: 45). This “vast network” of tributary relationships finds its contemporary expression in the Nande’s economic organization, as I will show. Ultimately, the informal economic activities taking place currently should be understood above all as a particular expression of the social dynamic of the societies that have developed them. Economic agents mobilize and use resources for economic development as a function of their insertion into a plurality of social networks, primarily of family and kin, but also friends, neighbors and other members of the community.

Through their transnational trading activities, Nande people today have produced and organized themselves around a historically specific social arrangement based on a reconfiguration and mobilization of kinship, as well as ethnic ideologies and practices identified with “Nandeness” (an ensemble of social relations in which human productive powers and creative capacities are paramount). Indeed, Nande people have managed to insulate themselves from the chaotic conditions around them and maintain a framework of public order centred on trading networks reflecting the structures and values of indigenous Nande society as well as to the history of their incorporation into international networks and structures. The Nande’s capacity to exercise their potential today has its origins in what Packard identified as the centrifugal tendencies in their traditional social organization.

I will explore here the origins, reproduction, and conditions of possibility for the emergence of a network of transnational traders in Butembo, who have gradually captured the social and economic surplus within the Nande society. This group includes at the top of the commercial hierarchy in Butembo and its hinterland a dozen import-export traders who are millionaires. They import from East Africa, the Persian Gulf, Southeast Asia and China containers of goods ranging from motorbikes, automobiles and spare parts to textiles, medicine and many other commodities. They export agricultural products including coffee, potatoes, beans, papaya latex and other vegetables, in addition to minerals such as gold, coltan, wolfram, and cassiterites. The group maintains a high level of internal cohesion and trust between its members.

If you stand on any hilltop of Butembo, you can observe the growing wealth of the city. New villas, constructed by traders, are rising up all over. In the central commune of Bulenghera (12 kilometers square) these properties proliferate. According to Raeymaekers (2007) these new buildings each cost around USD 300,000. A shopping center, “gallery Tsongo Kasereka”, reportedly cost around 3 million USD to build. The total value of new real estate in Butembo is roughly 20 to 35 million USD. Prices have skyrocketed in recent years. A friend of mine, the son of a prominent Butembo trader who holds a bachelor’s degree from a school in Boston, is building a mansion that will cost USD 400,000 when it is finished next year. All the construction materials are imported from China. His swimming pool will be one of the biggest in the city.

The first question is: where does the money come from? How do they accumulate so much? Before I try to answer it, I would argue that the emerging property market in Butembo comes from economic activity that is ‘embedded’ in the local community. Unlike the capital flight we see from some DRC politicians who are anxious to establish a stake abroad, in Butembo houses are built at home and only some abroad, while profits are invested in the same environment where they are being made.

Butembo commercial traditions predate the current era of globalization. Vwakyanakazi (1982:2) noted, already in the 1970s, that 75 to 80 percent of households in Butembo were selling goods ranging from agricultural foodstuffs to small household necessities. Today, on every corner of Butembo, there are mini-shops, boutiques, and galleries offering cell phone cards at $1 or $5 apiece, high-quality computer equipment, motorbikes, etc. Market women usually sell foodstuffs like onions, beans, tomatoes, or ‘araque’ (alcoholic maize drink). These small trades usually reflect domestic needs for petty cash to cover a family’s immediate concerns or school fees. The retail trade in cars, computers, textile, or electric engines is no different from what is taking place in the globalized world, except for the level of bargaining involved. Everything in Butembo’s market, from the quality of the product to delivering the merchandise, is subject to endless bargaining between vendors and their clients.

The Nande trading association, a branch of the Federation of Congolese Entrepreneurs known by its French acronym FEC, regulates how traders tend each 50 km of road they are in charge of. This involves running the tollgate and using the revenue to mend the road. This is the only part of the country which has good roads beside the minerals region of Katanga. When one of the sections of road is not functioning, the trader in charge has to answer to other users of the road. Local social control can be quite effective.

This part of the region is also the only one with a school system that works. The University of Graben (UCG) for example, an institution of higher education in Butembo, was created ten years ago by the Roman Catholic bishop, Monsignor Kataliko, with the help of Nande traders. The UCG is among the best institutions of higher education in the Congo. Despite the trouble that has afflicted the Congo from 1996 to this day, UCG has continued to function with its four faculties of law, civil engineering, medicine and political sciences. Most of the auditoria were built with the help of traders. The bishop gave each trader a list of 100 books to buy for the university library. They were proud to provide the books the bishop asked for. Many of the books come from a link between UCG and the University of Grenoble in France. The university also has a nutritional center and medical students practice at the Matanda hospital run by the Catholic Church. Medicines for the nutritional center and Matanda hospital are imported by Nande traders. To solve the problem of personnel, the university flies in professors from all over DRC and many Nande professors who live in Europe come back to regularly to teach at UCG without compensation. Before the creation of the Catholic University, students had to travel to Kisangani in Oriental Province or to Kinshasa for their higher education. The rector of the UCG, Abbé Malu-Malu, was chosen to organize the 2006 DRC general elections, the first democratic election for 40 years. The university is involved in the development of the city’s electrification and traders are employing engineers from the UCG to that end. Butembo maintains a sort of social cohesion thanks to an alliance between traders, who are in charge of economic production, the Catholic Church in charge of development sector and the militia responsible of the exercise of coercive power. Militias are in fact junior partners to traders.

When power as potestas is absent, we have been led (from Hobbes onwards) to assume that selfishness will reign; thus, a ‘failed state’ adversely affects the lives of all who continue to believe in its aegis, and its weakness ensures suffering for anyone who does not manage to circumvent the system. These circumventions are understood not only as corruption, but as criminal acts from which only a few will benefit. The economy is inseparably linked to this model of the state. A strong state survives because it can regulate production, trade and profit (through taxation, etc.), thus sustaining itself (and the society as a whole). Accordingly, when a state is politically and economically unstable, weak, or absent, it is commonly supposed that all will suffer. The informal economy is particularly irksome because its works outside state (and taxation) structures. As a symptom of the state’s ‘weakness,’ therefore, a thriving informal economy is identified with the poor health of the society at large. Power as potestas is fetishized in our political theories and popular beliefs.

Within the territories of Beni and Lubero, the state is surely very weak, even absent. Yet the Nande have thrived in this context. To call their actions ‘corrupt’ is to apply a one-dimensional view to a very complex picture with a complicated history. The paradox of this situation is that the Nande traders are rich, yet the entire area prospers; they amass fortunes and they feed them back into the community. As a result, this is one of the few regions in the DRC with a flourishing economy, decent schools, and health care. They do not rely on the nation’s ports but rather have strong ties that take them regularly to the Middle East and East Asia. The potentia begins with trade and is carried on within the region by social organization outside the framework of the state. Transgression of frontiers through this transnational move is fuelled by a creative capacity to free oneself from the territorial impositions of despotic rulers, exercising potestas.

 

A transnational network

Nande people do not identify primarily with the DRC state; it is not their most significant ‘imagined community.’ Their identity derives from belonging to networks that are more significant in their daily experience. The transnational production of Nande community through ‘illegal’ or ‘informal’ cross-border trading activities shows that these are not only strategies for survival, but also “spaces of resistance against the violence generated by the failure of a postcolonial mode of accumulation, the state’s dictatorship and its episteme of leadership” (Mbembe 1992:3). Hence, even the concept of “illegality” becomes questionable. Laws which make actions legal or illegal are indeed forms of social relations objectified or codified under certain conditions. If the conditions of the codification of the law disappear, the law loses its relevance. Legality or illegality are, in my view, ‘dependent variables’ whose value depends on the continuing existence of the conditions which led to social relations being codified as law.

The Nande’s construction of a peaceful trading community in the midst of war shows how their particular form of transnationalism and ‘ethnic’ insularity colludes with internecine (even genocidal) violence in its seemingly remote home on the distant borders of a “collapsed” state. Horrendous civil wars like the Congo’s may provide opportunities for a cynical restructuring of global capital accumulation where effective access to valuable resources is what matters to capital and the lives and limbs of those who inhabit that particular corner of the planet is utterly expendable. Seen in this light, the Nande’s newly found desire to keep government at a distance while relying on governance through local communitarian mechanisms could be said to articulate a kind of neoliberalism: one where a weak national state serves as a hollow shell, providing minimal security and stability for unhindered capital accumulation, and the so-called free market is entirely unencumbered; where local communities and networks are free from the onerous regulations, interference, and impositions of a state that might otherwise, if only occasionally, be an impediment to plunder.

The Nande do not desire full autonomy or complete separation from the DRC state nor anything resembling a Nande ‘national’ self-determination; but rather they welcome attempts to stabilize the national state, but only in a relatively weak and unobtrusive form that would leave them unencumbered by intrusive state surveillance and excessive taxation of their transnational and cross-border trade. In short, they prefer an arrangement not very different from the situation that has persisted in various forms throughout recent decades (even back into the Mobutu era). The Nande capitalist class welcomes the same sort of frail neoliberal national state that appeals to the agenda of global corporations interested in the DRC’s resources. At the same time, a pernicious armed conflict in this region, the Kivus of East Congo, has claimed 4 million lives or more.  The Nande case is ostensibly outside or exempted from this horrific calamity, but it actually underlies and helps to explain its persistence.

What I have just said is true, but so too is the observation that, in all the DRC’s troubles, Butembo offers a glimpse of a new emergent African society. In more stable countries with prosperous cities like Dar es Salaam or Luanda, Accra or Dakar, a gradual transformation is taking place in the hands of an emergent ruling class where money-making is linked to state contacts at home and abroad; but the economic and political spheres are not so starkly demarcated, given continuities with a past from which there has been no violent break (Freund 2009).  This is an Africa that is slowly divesting itself of the neo-colonial ties that dominated the years after independence. The Nande offer a sharper image of the direction in which Africa is really moving. The horrors of war in the eastern Congo may not just block what we wish to think of as ‘development’; they might also be speeding those processes along.

The Nande case shows the ontological primacy of power as potential – creativity and productivity – over power as repression or potestas. We urgently need new theorizations of power that can grasp a context where state is neither the necessary core nor the only unit of analysis. The map below illustrates this situation.

Is this an example of a failed state?

The concept of a failed state does not capture what is really happening in places like Butembo which is an island of prosperity in the DRC’s civil war. There are three principal flaws when applying the concept to Africa. First, it conflates failed government and failed governance (Reymaekers 2007). William Zartman (1995) equates state collapse with the collapse of the society, yet the Nande case shows that non-state agents – in this case the trader networks — have taken over the role played by the state and provide security and economic well-being. The failure of potestas does not necessarily means the failure of potentia. The second flaw is that non-failed states are presented as being normative. The United States might be an example of a non-failed state when seen from Silicon Valley or Wall Street. But it is a failed state when seen from the perspective of those who live miserably around Moore House College in Atlanta or faced the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Finally, the theory of state failure is misleading because it gives an impression of something that was once integrated and is now falling apart. No African state ever reached this sort of social integration since it was imposed by colonial empire and never took root to grow organically from the bottom up. In sum, talk of failed states simply reproduces the same essentialist and hegemonic paradigm that has always accompanied the projection of western state power into the world.

Moreover, the Nande case shows that the state is never the only and exclusive form of social relations, which are rather “always un-predetermined, agonistic, and unresolved.” These “relations of struggle” entail a “full panoply of contests over the objectification and fetishization of human productive powers as alien forces of domination” for which “the state tends… to be the hegemonic manifestation” (De Genova 2007: 442; see also Holloway 1994). The Nande region is one of many places where the state is continually experienced and undone through the illegibility of its own practices, documents, and words. Unlike in the rationalized world of Weberian abstractions, the DRC state, as seen from its margins, is inscrutable, incoherent, unpredictable, and unreliable. But to characterize these features as “failure” is merely to retain and recapitulate the illusion of inevitable state dominance.

I have tried in this paper to dissolve the state as a rigid category while seeking to understand the state as a social form, as a form of social relations (Holloway 1994). By defining the state as a social phenomenon, as relations between people, I hope to recognize the creativity, fluidity, unpredictability and instability of this category. Indeed, these relations have been solidified as certain forms that have acquired their own autonomy, their own dynamic. The semblance of rigidity accorded the state in some classical conceptions lends it the appearance of being a given and positive fact. The notion that African states have failed or collapsed is part of the same drive to reify and fetishize the colonially imposed model of statehood. The state in Africa is a colonial abnormality which needs to be rethought in the light of the local creative and productive capacities of Africans themselves in order to build de-centralized social arrangements from the bottom up that are more suited to the realities of struggles on the ground.

 

The consequences of understanding power as potentia

The Congo situation begs for new categories to understand its situation and to break the silence around its predicament. In the absence of state sovereignty and the presence of numerous contenders for coercive power, Nande traders have managed to protect their self-sustaining and prosperous transnational enterprises in eastern Congo. Perhaps their example reflects the direction towards which 21st century Africa is really moving. In order to understand this Africa, we need to abandon old theorizations of power and sovereignty. The Nande case shows us that, before being an attribute of the state, sovereignty is an ontological and inalienable quality of human species. Power in this context is fundamentally an elementary aspect of human possibility and creative capacities. Reified and rigid notions of state power and sovereignty confront and are contradicted by the flexibility of human relations and by the productive capacities inherent in human nature unleashed by a theorization of power as potentia.

The ethnographic case study shows that in a chaotic situation or one of protracted, fragmented and proliferating violence, it is always possible to construct political and economic order, relying on agencies of governance other than the state. Indeed, new kinds of regulation and governance practice, which have emerged from the retreat of state power, are shaping the ongoing formation of a genuinely postcolonial state.

This is an Africa that is slowly divesting itself of the neo-colonial links which seemed dominant in the years after independence. The horrors of war in the eastern Congo may block what we wish to think of as ‘development’, but they might also be speeding the process whereby power as ‘repression’ is giving way to power as ‘production.’ Efforts by some scholars such as Zartman (1995) to restore the “pre-failed arrangement” only guarantee the failure of their own policy recommendations.

The current situation in the Congo can only be understood if the way we think of power refers back to individual creative and productive instincts. Since many scholars cannot go beyond the Westphalian categories of power and sovereignty (potestas), they see the Congo as nothing more than a desperate “failed state”. If this is so for many Western scholars, their journalists are running out of categories to define the Congo conflict. It is a conflict that blows up the division between good guys and bad guys (terrorists or enemy combatants) on which their traditional construction of conflict is based. In the Congo case, the local militias, government soldiers, Congolese rebels, Ugandan, Rwandan or Burundian rebels and the UN peace (or war) keepers all share a social space where mineral extraction remains the common denominator and women’s bodies constitute the front line of the conflict. Imprisoned in their binary logics, the western media are rendered speechless by a linguistic repertoire wholly inadequate to address the complexity of the DRC’s predicament.

 

 

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The Good Life: Values, Markets, and Wellbeing

Working Papers Series #14
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

The Good Life: Values, Markets, and Wellbeing

Edward F. Fischer
Vanderbilt University

© 2012 Edward F. Fischer
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

Forum discussion in the OAC network.
Download as PDF, EPUB, MOBI.

 

BIO SKETCH

Edward F. Fischer is Professor of Anthropology and Director of the Center for Latin American Studies at Vanderbilt University. He has written and edited several books, including Cultural Logics and Global Economies, Broccoli and Desire (with Peter Benson), and (forthcoming) Cash on the Table. He has conducted long-term ethnographic fieldwork with the Maya of highland Guatemala and middle-class consumers in Germany, focusing on issues of political economy.

ABSTRACT

Here I make a simple proposition: the ends of the economy, as well as politics, should be provisioning the good life for people as they conceive it. The rub is, of course, that while we may all want to live the good life, we differ widely on just what that entails. Yet, everywhere, the good life implies more than mere “happiness”: it implies wellbeing, fulfillment, the meaningful existence Aristotle termed eudaimonia. An adequate income is absolutely necessary, but alone is insufficient, for overall wellbeing. Health and physical security, family bonds and social relations are also important. My research points to several additional key elements of the good life: aspiration and agency, opportunity structures, dignity and fairness, and commitments to meaningful projects.

 

The Good Life: Values, Markets, and Wellbeing

This paper is a précis of a larger project and monograph: German Eggs, Guatemalan Coffee, and The Good Life: An Anthropological Look at Markets, Values and Wellbeing.

The genesis of this project, as with so many ethnographic endeavors, began with a chance encounter: in this instance, a reproachful look from the owner of a small cinema. I was in Hamburg with my family over the Christmas holidays, and my seven year old son wanted desperately to see the recently released Harry Potter movie. We had come to Germany to visit family but also to take a breather from the frenetic commercial pace of stateside holidays. Still, Johannes had cheerfully attended all of the gemütlich feasts and gatherings, and so we felt that we could hardly deny him such a simple, easy pleasure. Thus, on Zweiten Weihnachtstag (the second day of Christmas, December 26th, a public holiday), we looked up the schedule in the newspaper and discovered that a neighborhood cinema had a showing at 5:30 that evening. With good German punctuality, and led by my good German wife, we arrived a few minutes after 5:00, only to find a long line already stretching from the ticket window. We took our place at the end of the queue and arrived at the window just in time to buy three of the four remaining tickets, much to the dismay of the family behind us.1 As the woman counted our money, I asked why she did not offer earlier matinees since there was obviously a demand. She looked at me over half-rim glasses—reproachfully pausing for a moment as if she did not know where to start—and replied that during the holidays kids should not be inside watching movies, rather they should be at home with their families or playing in the park. She was pleased with my surprise—it seemed to be the effect she was going for—that a small business owner would voluntarily support a notion of common good at the expense her own material gain, a moral position at odds with the rational expectations of much economic theory and a stance that would be foreign to many American entrepreneurs.

This was one of those “ah-ha” moments of participant observation and ethnographic fieldwork that Willis and Trondman (2000) write about, when a pervasive yet subtle pattern crystallizes for a moment in a concrete interaction. The cinema incident reminded me of experiences from my years of fieldwork in Guatemala, those many economic anomalies (and yet cultural consistencies) in which social concerns trumped self-interested rationality. Once while living in the Kaqchikel Maya town of Tecpán, some friends from there (who had studied abroad and gotten good jobs working for international organizations in Guatemala City) came home for a visit. My wife and I were pleased to see them and gladly accepted when they invited us to go with them to the land they kept in one of the surrounding hamlets. Getting there was a trek—we drove about five kilometers and then hiked over a small mountain for the last few kilometers. While I had thought we were just going to check the land out and maybe clean up a little it, as it turned out we worked all day–with a break to eat tamale-like chuchas reheated over a fire—to harvest the remains of what was missed when the hired hands gathered the crop. In the end, we wound up with a few paltry net loads of maize (corn is often carried in large nets on one’s back). I was surprised, and frankly a little aggravated, at having worked so hard for such a small reward, and that my friends would take time off from their relatively high-paying jobs since, in economic terms, the maize we harvested that day was not worth nearly what they could have made working. Given the opportunity costs, spending our time this way did not make economic sense, or at least was not rational. I said as much to our friends, and they responded that it was not just about the money, the monetary value of the corn, but the fact that this corn came from their ancestral plots; that the corn from there tastes different, better; and that, in any case, it is xajan (taboo) to waste maize (one is taught as a child not to drop it or step over it). Most important, they stressed, are these affective ties to the land, a connection with the collective weight of history and the generations of relatives who had worked this land, a value that could not be measured in monetary terms. Here land and its produce embody familial and social values that coexist with, and sometimes trump, their value as an economic asset.

A final introductory example comes from closer to home, from a cab driver who picked me up at the airport in Washington DC a few years back, just before the city switched to a dashboard meter system. Arman owned the Lincoln Town Car that he drove, and he had it arranged like a car service car, with the front seats moved all the way forward to give more leg room in the back and a newspaper tucked into the seat-back pocket. He obviously took pride in his vehicle, and when I asked him about it he said that he could drive an old beat-up taxi and charge the same fares, but that he liked the professional style. He went on to say that he studied maps and monitored traffic so that he would always know the best route around the city. When I asked him about the switch to meters, he was opposed. I protested that the zone fare was such an opaque system for visitors, and that I always had the vague feeling that I overpaid for cab rides. He said that he never overcharged—when his fare looks like they have money, he charged the normal full fare, but for needier passengers he often reduced the zone price to give them a break. He would work out, in the blink of an eye, a complex algorithm, taking into account all the subtle signals of dress and speech that a passenger conveyed, the destination and so on, to come up with what he judged to be a fair and just amount. He took great pride in achieving excellence at his trade and he stressed the value of having a sense of control over his life that meters would partly take away.

In each of these stories we find folks motivated by culturally embedded conceptions of “the good life.” They envisage particular sorts of futures for themselves and the world—the agency to control one’s own destiny, the meaningful obligations of family and friends, the delicate balance between private interests and common goods. We see individuals giving meaning to their economic activities, seeking the good life, each in their own way, and often in ways that directly counter their immediate material interests. I explore here what the good life means in different places. As we see in the stories above, wellbeing is not simply seen as material affluence, and these are not simply rational, self-interested automatons like Homo economicus. We see in these cases individuals making decisions based on culturally particular and deeply-held values: valuing—materially—something other than narrowly defined self-interest. These are economic decisions embedded in moral projects and conceptions of the good life.

 

A Simple Proposition

I have a simple point to make: that we should understand the ends of economics, as well as politics, to be provisioning the good life for people as widely as possible and as they themselves conceive it. While we often talk about them as such, markets and political systems are not naturally given orders. They are contrivances, technologies, tools for us to achieve ends that we value collectively. Understanding conceptions of the good life, then, allows us to document diverse values and aspirations on-the-ground and to evaluate market forces and regulatory structures as mechanisms to promote not only material wealth, but greater overall wellbeing (see, for example, Hart, Laville, and Cattani 2010).

But what is the good life? We often use “happiness” as shorthand to denote wellbeing. Researchers who study these sorts of things generally distinguish two types of happiness. There is “hedonic” happiness, that everyday contentment (and the cheeriness the term calls to mind in common American usage). Then there is a broader sense of “life satisfaction,” judged by the criteria of “wellbeing” and “the good life” (Watermanm Schwartz and Conti 2006).

Some would also call this second condition simply “happiness,” but it is not the sort of giddy jolliness so often associated with that word. Rather, it has more of the classic Aristotelian sense of the ultimate end of human existence: a fulfilled life, a meaningful life, eudaimonia. Eudaimonia comes from “eu-,” signifying “well” and “daimon,” which is the same root as demon, signifying benevolent power over one’s destiny. In this sense, the good life is about having the power to construct a life that one values, equivalent to what we tend to call “agency.”

Striving for the good life involves the arduous work of becoming, of living a life that one deems worthy: creating meaning, aspiring for something better, the act of becoming the sort of person and living the sort of life one desires. The good life is not made up of simple happiness, as John Rawls (1971) reminds us. The good life requires trade-offs, often forgoing hedonistic pleasure. Perhaps the good life is not a state to be obtained, but, as Aristotle suggests, it is the aspiration and act of becoming, the pursuit, and the journey that gives meaning and fulfillment. Robert Nozick (1974) famously posed the question of whether it would be preferable to live in an “experience machine” that could give one any experience one desired (indistinguishable from real life) or to live one’s up and down real life. Nozick, argues that most folks would choose real life. He posits that the ups and downs of real experience and struggle give value to the ends enjoyed and that folks are driven to be certain sorts of people (not indeterminate blobs). Similarly, Neo is faced with a blue pill/red pill dilemma in The Matrix, and clearly the scary reality of the red pill is the right, and virtuous, path to take even though it is the antithesis of blissful ignorance.

Wellbeing and the good life involve much more than just hedonic happiness. As we see in what follows, the two sorts of happiness—hedonic and eudaimonic—can well be at odds with one another, a tension crucial to understanding economic behavior and the role of public policy. Daniel Kahneman and others have shown, for example, that income has a very different impact on the two sorts of happiness; he concludes that “being poor makes one miserable, and that being rich may enhance one’s life satisfaction, but does not (on average) improve experienced well-being” (2011: 397).

For Aristotle,2 fulfillment comes from pursuing ends for their own sake (not as an instrumental means toward other ends); that there is virtue in the purity and sincerity of such pursuits. For example, it is virtuous of me to write a book because of a desire to write it (a desire to develop thoughts and express them), not because I want to make some money (and that is a good thing, too, given the state of academic publishing). Aristotle recognized that we must have the material resources to enjoy such virtuous pursuits (and this is a very big condition indeed), but his contribution comes from stressing the values that go beyond just material resources.

While, words like “moral” and “virtue” are often used in popular discourse to denote timeless, essential cultural prescriptions, our perspective here sees them as the product of ongoing processes of socially situated negotiation, continually enacted through the dialectic of everyday social life and yet strongly conditioned by path dependencies and the weight of history and tradition (Fischer 1999; Sayer 2011). Living up to the expectations of particular values is in many ways the stock in trade of human existence; and it is this forward-looking, aspirational quality to the internalization of culturally produced virtues that drives “agency.” Jens Beckert (2011) writes of the power of daydreams and imagination of the future in the construction of consumer identities. Elsewhere, Peter Benson and I (Fischer and Benson 2006) have made a similar argument for the role of understanding desire in producer identities, and Arjun Appadurai (2004) has looked as the role of aspiration in terms of the capabilities approach to development.

Happiness and Wellbeing

Since the late 1990s, there has been a boom of research around issues of happiness and wellbeing. In the U.S., Germany, and the developed world, this generally goes under the rubric of happiness studies and builds on innovative work coming from psychology and economics. For the developing world, a parallel field has emerged through multidimensional models of poverty and Amartya Sen’s (1999) influential “capabilities” approach to development.

It is clear from this work that income, wealth, and material resources are necessary but insufficient prerequisites of the good life. Happiness studies and multidimensional measures of poverty show that income is crucially important for one’s ability to achieve a good life, but it is insufficient alone. In fact, happiness increases level off dramatically after a relatively low threshold of income. People need financial and material resources, no doubt, but perhaps not in the proportion we might first imagine.

Studies have shown that family, education, social ties, and dignity are all powerful predictors of one’s life satisfaction (Layard 2005, Gilbert 2006, Veenhoven 2000, Graham 2011). People who feel that they contribute importantly to a larger project, those that possess the agency and power (daimon) to effect change, are more satisfied with their lives. Alan Krueger (2005) observes that “worker satisfaction depends at least as much on social aspects of work, and having a sense of meaning and interest in work, as it does on material rewards.” Dolan, White and Peasgood (2008) find that strong corollaries of subjective wellbeing include health, meaningful employment, having a spouse or partner, and a degree of social contact.

Wealthier people are on average happier than the poor, but there is no neat linear relationship between income and happiness. The Easterlin Paradox observes that between countries, average happiness does not rise with income although the wealthier within a country tend to be happier than the poor (Easterlin 2001). Easterlin’s findings have been challenged by Stevenson and Wolfers (2008), but it still seems that, at least above a certain point, income is valued relative to the income of ones peer group and others; Layard (2005: 44) writes that “income is much more than a means to buy things. We also use our income, compared to others’, as a measure of how we are valued and (if we are not careful) a measure of how we value ourselves.” Robert Frank (1999) has argued that the ways the affluent tend to spend additional income (on positional goods and conspicuous consumption) adds little to collective happiness.

Perhaps there is a hedonic treadmill of adapting quickly to upward mobility. Although, as David Clark (2009) notes and the recent financial crisis reminds us, adaptation can occur either through adjusting aspirations upward or by adjusting them downward. Layard (2005), Kahneman (2011) and others argue that there is a curvilinear relationship between income and happiness: more income produces proportionate advances in happiness up to a given point. Kahneman (2011: 397) reports that above household incomes of $75,000 in high-cost areas in the U.S., there is no increase in experienced well-being with income increases. Kahneman and Deaton (2010) argue that while hedonic happiness is not tightly associated with income, broader measures of life-satisfaction do have a linear relationship. Graham (2011) summarizes the research: “more money does not necessarily buy more happiness, but less money is associated with emotional pain” (36).3

This all suggests that, while poverty alleviation policies are necessary to promote the general welfare, they are but one component of wellbeing. And if we are to talk about holistic human development, income serves as a fruitful means to an end, but, beyond basic subsistence, it is ultimately unrewarding as an end in itself.

 

Elements of the Good Life

What are people’s visions of what the good life should look like? And how do they engage markets in pursuit of the good life as they conceive it?

My recent work has looked at German eggs and Guatemalan coffee, cars and broccoli—things to which we attach aspirations and desires for a good life, both extraordinary and mundane. I have looked at how the good life is conceived and pursued in Germany and Guatemala, how folks as both producers and consumers engage their circumstances to work toward the good life as they see it. In these cases, we find that ideas about the good life are morally laden—replete with ideas of value, worth, virtue, what is good or bad, right or wrong. It is clear that we give (and take) meaning from our many market interactions. Think of the moralities around consumption—not only the overtly ethical question of fair trade and organic goods, but also the ways consumption embodies values of thrift and generosity, family obligations and social relations, and a whole host of other personal and cultural virtues.

To understand the good life we have to take seriously not only material conditions but people’s desires, aspirations, and imagination. We need to value what people say the good life should look like (what economists often discount as merely “stated preferences”), acknowledging that these projections often take long time horizons and give significant weight to pro-social behavior and other elements of eudaimonic wellbeing. Such stated ideals may well be contradicted by actual behavior (revealed preferences): what we say and what we do may be two different things. Yet, we still need to give due weight to what we say we would like to do (as well as what we actually do) if we are to understand what our shared aspirations will allow.

In line with other studies of happiness and multidimensional poverty, I find that Adequate Material Resources (“adequate” as based on a relative and socially positional baseline), Physical Health and Safety, and Family and Social Relations are all core and necessary elements of wellbeing. Further, my research shows that wellbeing is tightly linked to several other key dimensions:

  • Agency and Aspiration
  • Opportunity Structures
  • Dignity and Fairness
  • Commitment to Larger, Meaningful (Moral) Projects

My study focuses on how these elements of wellbeing are expressed by German consumers and Maya farmers, what this means for their visions of the good life, and what they can tell us about wellbeing.

In both places, we find that wellbeing requires a sense of agency—the ability to exert at least some degree of control over one’s own destiny—and the material resources and social and political opportunity structures through which to exercise that agency. Notions of the good life orient the aspirations of agency and provide a dynamic framework through which to interpret one’s own actions and those of others, all the while bound by the realm of what is seen as possible (what Pierre Bourdieu (1977) termed “doxa”). The market is a key venue through which to pursue the good life, and a sizable percentage of German middle-class supermarket shoppers explicitly link their buying choices to supporting certain sorts of ecological and social ideals. Similarly, we find Maya farmers actively engaging and changing the coffee market in Guatemala in pursuit of their particular aspirations for the good life.

Yet, the effectiveness of agency is often limited by available opportunity structures (the social norms, legal regulations, and market entry mechanisms that delimit, or facilitate, certain behaviors and aspirations). The will is important, but there also has to be a way. Opportunity structures encompass not only market relations but also formal and informal social norms; ethnic, gender, and other systematic biases; the principles and practice of legal rights; and the whole range of institutional factors that define the space of the possible. Individual agency acts on choices, but those choices are structured through political-economic processes that transcend the individual. In situations where agency far exceeds available opportunity structures, we find the condition that Bart Victor and I (Victor, Fischer, and Vergara n.d.) term “frustrated freedom.”

Ample evidence shows that relative valuations of fairness and dignity play a central role in work satisfaction and overall wellbeing. This involves freedom from discrimination, but also the more positive value of respect. What is considered “fair” varies across cultures—for example, playing the Ultimatum Game in Guatemala, we find folks willing to pay significant sums to punish others perceived as playing unfairly. But, wherever one draws the line, the respect of others and the self-respect that flows from mastery of a practice is crucial to subjective wellbeing. At great expense, the German system of “co-determination” promotes the dignity and professionalism of working-class trades, and a sense of fairness permeates German middle class discourses of solidarity. Among Maya coffee growers in Guatemala, we find notions of dignity linked to control over land and productive resources and strong local social norms that attempt to limit inequality to levels considered fair and just.

Finally, having a larger purpose and being part of a meaningful project are central to wellbeing among both the affluent and the poor. At first blush this might seem to be the exclusive purview of the affluent, the luxury to pursue fulfilling life goals. But I suggest that it is more broadly human, an important part of wellbeing for all but the most severely deprived. Management research has shown that for employees to feel that they are part of a meaningful project can be more important for wellbeing than even income. In fact, Robert Frank (2010) finds that the more morally satisfying a job is on average, the less it pays. We could see this either as having to pay a premium for folks to stretch their morals or as some jobs being compensated in non-financial ways. The importance of being part of a meaningful project to one’s sense of wellbeing is not restricted to the well-off, as our look to the desires and aspirations of Maya farmers makes clear. Nor do meaningful projects need to be what we might classify as positive: they encompass hate group ideology as well as religious fervor, the mastery of a skill or profession as much as mastery of a video game. Moral projects have to be meaningful, but their meanings are not determined by any absolute code and span the range of political and social leanings. We will see that many German shoppers buy free-range eggs to support the environment and good working conditions, a moral value they articulate as “solidarity.” In turn, Maya famers envisage a better life for their kids, they want to provide more opportunities for them to flourish and not to be bound to subsistence agriculture. These are meaningful life projects as well as visions of the good life.

 

Development, Income, and the Good Life

Inspired by the work of Nobel laureate Amartya Sen (1979), a capabilities approach sees the goal of economic development as freedom: the capability for individuals to pursue the lives that they themselves value. This requires income, but also, as with the relatively affluent subjects of happiness studies, agency, the capability to act with intention, to envision and make changes in one’s life, to aspire.

Income may be a useful measurement of development, and we have long ranked countries by GNP per head. But such averages are at best imperfect measures of wellbeing. For one, they hide inequality: a country may have a high GNP per capita with a small clique controlling most of the resources and the vast majority living in poverty. (If Bill Gates walked into a soup kitchen in Seattle, the average annual income of people there would skyrocket—but that wouldn’t tell us much about the distribution of wellbeing among individuals.) In response to the shortcomings of national income measures, and inspired by the work of Sen, in 1990 the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) introduced its now widely used Human Development Index (HDI), which incorporates measures of health and education as well as income.4

The idea of looking at happiness and wellbeing in addition to standard economic metrics to measure the success of public policies has taken hold not only in Latin America, Africa, and the developing world, but in Asia and Europe as well. China’s overarching policy goal of promoting a “harmonious” society melds Confucian principles to multidimensional measures of wellbeing. Bhutan famously has adopted a Gross National Happiness index to orient public policy and measures the country’s development in terms of wellbeing. France (Stiglitz, Sen, and Fitoussi 2010) and Britain (Dolan, Layard, Metcalfe 2011) too have explored ways to move beyond GNP as a measure of economic and political success.

The HDI and other multidimensional measures are a big improvement over GNP rankings, but they remain very blunt measures for overall wellbeing, eudaimonia. The Oxford Poverty and Human Development Initiative (OPHI), led by Sabina Alkire, has introduced more holistic measures. Alkire (2005, 2007), James Foster (Alkire and Foster 2011), and others (Alkire and Santos 2010; Alkire, Comim and Qizilbash 2009) at OPHI have identified five key missing dimensions of poverty (from www.ophi.org.uk): employment, freedom from shame, agency, safety, and subjective wellbeing.

While differently categorized, the dimensions that emerge from my study overlap significantly with the OPHI list. For example, what I label fairness and dignity includes employment conditions and the ability to go about without shame; what OPHI includes as agency, I have broken down into aspiration, agency, and opportunity structures. My categories are adapted to the particular cases at hand, but note that they seek to approximate the same conditions indexed in the OPHI scales.

The OPHI missing dimensions are not meant to be an exhaustive list of the conditions of poverty, but they do an impressive job of covering key areas and possess the great virtue of being practical in an operational sense: these are items that can actually be measured with surveys and available data. The OPHI approach points us toward a fruitful new way of documenting the multiple and interrelated dimensions of poverty and its antithesis, wellbeing.

Martha Nussbaum (2011) offers a more expansive list of what she considers to be the ten central capabilities (“not just abilities residing inside a person but also the freedoms or opportunities created by a combination of personal abilities and the political, social, and economic environment”) required for the good life. Also intended as an open and revisable list, Nussbaum’s dimensions extend the scope of wellbeing to include emotions, practical reason, play, and imagination. While harder to operationalize, Nussbaum’s concern with the subjective experience speaks to our own present focus on desires, aspirations, and ethnographic conceptions of the good life.

No matter how long the list of items, accounting for such missing dimensions of poverty and wellbeing allows us to find correlations we would miss from income data alone. For example, Graham and Lora (2009) find that friends and family matter more to the happiness of the poor in Latin America, while work and health matter more to the wealthy.

And here is the rub: We may all want to live the good life, but we also differ widely concerning just what that entails, on what the good life might look like and the best means to get there. Conceptions of the good life are furthermore laden with deeply-held moral valuations, the various meanings behind a “meaningful life.” These can be culturally specific and even idiosyncratic, but they share a common concern with values (what is important, what is really important, in life) and an orientation toward the future.

 

The Moral Provenance of German Eggs

Let’s start with buying eggs. That might seem an odd place to begin a discussion of the good life, but a lot of wellbeing is linked to precisely such small moments that fill our days. Buying eggs may be one of life’s more mundane tasks, something most of us do without much thought beyond occasionally comparing prices. But egg shopping in Germany compels one to make an explicit moral decision with every purchase, to lay bare the price one puts on certain values. This presents us with a natural experiment to help answer the question of what price we are willing to pay to be virtuous.

Since 2004 the European Union has required all eggs (the packages and the individual eggs themselves) to carry a numeric code. (This could be a set-up for one of the commonly heard jokes about the more absurd and intrusive EU regulations, such as the specifications for cucumber curvature.) The first in the string of digits denotes how the chicken was raised, followed by a two letter code for the country of origin (DE for Germany), and then a unique identifying number for the farm and packing company. The designations for how the eggs were handled are 0 = organic and free range, 1 = free range, 2 cage free, to 3 coop raised, also sometimes termed pejoratively “KZ” or concentration camp eggs, a strong analogy indeed for Germans, who tend not to joke about the Holocaust. These designations are posted over display shelves, putting front and center details on the conditions of production and forcing a morally laden decision about how much to pay for the social values embodied in different sorts of eggs. There is a price to pay for perceived virtue, and it is a decision one has to make every time one buys eggs.

From 2006-2008 I conducted fieldwork with middle-class supermarket shoppers in the Südstadt neighborhood of Hannover, Germany. I focused on the eggs they buy and the reasons they gave for their selections. We find a broad concern with the provenance of eggs, facilitated by mandatory labeling. Shoppers often explained their choices in term of valuing a (somewhat nebulous) environmental commons and frequently invoked the relevance of social “solidarity.”

The point I want to make here is that moral values affect the choices we make, even in mundane supermarket purchases. German egg choices tell us about the difference between “revealed” preferences (what people actually do) and “stated” preferences (what people say they want). In the consumer realm, stated preferences are more likely to be concerned with what I call the “moral provenance” of goods—positive and negative externalities, the impact of commodity chains on the environment, social relations, and our views of a just world.

In the 2008 Hannover surveys, 3 in 5 of the supermarket shoppers interviewed reported buying free range or organic and free range eggs. Those who bought eggs from a farmer at a local market (also a sort of socially conscious purchasing move) or did not eat eggs were another 14%. Only 1 in 4 bought the cheapest eggs

 

Egg type Reported purchasing Average price (€ per egg)
0 = organic, free-range 27% 0.38
1 = free-range 34% 0.20
2 = cage-free 12% 0.16
3 = battery-cage 13% 0.14
local market 9% 0.25
don’t eat eggs 5% —-

 

Given the significant price differences, these data are surprising. They reveal an apparent willingness of German consumers to pay a big premium for moral preferences—almost three times as much for organic compared to battery-cage raised. And this pattern holds true across socio-economic groups.

These German consumers are willing to pay a premium for what James Foster and I (n.d.) term “moral provenance.” Moral provenance refers to the social conditions embedded in commodity chains and the social, economic, and environmental externalities implicated in transactions; that is to say, it represents the elements encoded in the value chain beyond price. Moral provenance manifests itself in consumer behavior as a willingness to pay a premium for positive externalities and to punish companies for (perceived and actual) negative externalities. It appeals to some consumers’ sense of the good life and to their imagination of a better world. As a distinguishing attribute and a competitive advantage, goods that reflect moral provenance allow consumers to (voluntarily) place a monetary value on intangibles such as justice, solidarity, thrift, and environmental stewardship. Looking at moral provenance allows us to see how consumers are driven to pursue moral values and at what economic cost. At the same time, it is often difficult to separate moral from other considerations. Moral provenance, for example, is often linked to quality (e.g., associations with a geographic region or a more artisanal model of production): as one Hannover shopper told me, “it is important to support one’s own region, country. The quality is better—you know what you are getting.”

Among Hannover supermarket shoppers, a broad range of respondents were willing to pay a significant premium for some eggs as well as for other organic and fair trade products. The Südstadt supermarket shoppers who preferred “bio” eggs tended to invoke broad notions of fairness and social solidarity, environmental concerns, and civic obligations, all of which blur together into a general sense of the common good. They used a language of social obligation and moral values. For many, this was not much more than a vague and abstract idea of the common good, sometimes glossed as “solidarity.” When pressed to clarify, they would mention environmental concerns, animal rights, eradicating unfair work practices, and generally safeguarding common resources. For all of them, however, these values were an important motivating force: an ideal, even if only broadly defined, that requires action in the real world. Such moral projects give meaning to life—and, along the way, bestow meaning on markets and on things.

 

Word and Deed

Yet, what we say is not always what we do. There is a whole set of folk admonitions about the slippage between word and deed (inevitably privileging the latter: “it’s not what you say, but what you do,” “all talk, no action,” and so on). This is not just a question of bad intentions and duplicity: we are very capable of cognitive dissonance, holding contradictory ideas and desires. We sometimes do not know what we want (as marketers understand so well), and our notions about what is best change. Paradoxically, it may even be the case that what we (truthfully) say we want may not be what we actually choose. I want a cinnamon roll but I also want to lose weight; what do I really want? Sometimes there are difficult trade-offs between short-term, hedonic happiness and long-term wellbeing.

Economists distinguish between “stated preferences” (the sometimes crazy things folks say they want) and “revealed preferences” (what they actually do). Revealed preferences are taken to be more real: it is thought that when the rubber hits the road and the cash changes hands, one reveals one’s true preferences. There are also good empirical reasons for focusing on revealed preferences, for they are what can actually be measured (and in dollars and cents, no less). Yet, I argue, we should also take seriously what people say they want; folks’ stated preferences reveal their desires just as truly, and are often more attuned to longer-range and more pro-social values.

An anthropological perspective naturally takes stated preferences seriously, for we place great value on what folks tell us. Stated preferences imply an intention to enact those preferences at some point in the future. This is to say that stated and revealed preferences are not mutually exclusive; it is also the case that people often do what they say. At the same time, less constrained by the exigencies of daily life, stated preferences have the freedom to express more social interests and to give greater emphasis to long-term goals and moral projects, common goods and the common good. Revealed preferences also reflect such desires, but they result from cost/benefit analysis embedded in a market logic expressive of more immediate material concerns.

Stated preferences may sometimes contradict the deeds of revealed preferences, but it does not follow that they are any more real or important. In fact, we must take into account the hopes, desires, and aspirations of stated preferences in order to understand how wellbeing is pursued in socially embedded market transactions. We may well find that, given the desires expressed in stated preferences, regulations and norms that reduce choice may in some contexts not only act to protect common goods but also to improve individual wellbeing overall.

With that in mind, let us return to our survey of Hannover supermarket shoppers. Over 60% of our sample reported buying either organic or free-range eggs; but sales data show that the national proportion of eggs sold is less than half that figure. So, assuming that our sample was not wildly atypical, what are their real preferences? Revealed preference presumably values price over moral provenance and quality (more battery-cage raised and cage-free eggs are actually bought), and yet their stated preferences are just the opposite. Both tell us something important about consumer values.

 

Egg type Sample purchases5 National sales
0 = organic, free-range 31% 7%
1 = free-range 40% 24%
2 = cage-free 14% 40%
3 = battery-cage 15% 29%

 

There would appear to be a strong dissonance between what folks say they want and what they actually do. But we should not take their revealed preferences as self-evidently what they really want. I would suggest that they also really want what they say they want, and this reveals a great deal about their ideals and values, the sort of person they imagine themselves to be and the sort of world they would like to live in. Such aspirational values orient our long-term goals, and yet we often also succumb to short-term expediency at the expense of longer-term aspirations or feel compelled to pursue individual versus collective interests so that we do not fall behind in relative terms because collective action problems.

Price theory privileges “true” or “revealed” preferences over “stated” preferences. This claims to be an empirically rigorous approach, with preferences being revealed through documented behavior such as purchases made or votes cast. At the same time, the importance of the cultural and institutional contexts of decisions are discounted—the fact that choices are limited by structural conditions, as in the common scenario we face in the grocery store aisle and the voting booth to choose between the lesser of two evils. What if real preferences (as expressed in moral projects, for example) are not addressed by the market and competition diverts preferences toward goals with less overall utility? There would then be real values on the table that can only be realized through regulatory structures shaping collective action.

It is a fundamental axiom of marketing experts that folks do not really know what they want. This pliability is what makes their job possible. Many of our daily economic encounters (in the supermarket, shoe store, online) are orchestrated by companies drawing on extensive behavioral research to make us “freely” choose in certain ways. While this isn’t surprising, we don’t actively consider such matters in the course of these transactions. Of course, we are not completely malleable, we are not puppets, but we are manipulated all the time in ways that should make us question our cherished beliefs concerning free will.

Revealed preferences tend to be framed by what Gudeman (2008) calls calculative reason—the cost/benefit analysis of perceived utility as represented in dollars-and-cents. The symbolic (and sacred, McCloskey’s [2006] “S” variables, including the solidarity of social obligations and convictions of moral value) is often undervalued in such monetary conversions. Revealed preferences are highly sensitive to contextual and structural constraints, a necessary and pragmatic concern with what is possible. They are also influenced by what behavioral economists term “hyperbolic discounting,” a bias towards immediate and short-term rewards expressed by discounting future values (Thaler 1992).

Stated preferences, on the other hand, are less bound by the practicalities of time-horizons and collective action problems. They are able to consider “what if” possibilities: what kind of person one would like to be, what sort of world would we like to live in. Even with stated preferences, we find disciplined aspirations developed in a cultural and social context of what is possible (Li 2007, Bourdieu 1977, Carrier 2010).

In the German case, we find a strong stated preference for “quality” and “solidarity” and yet revealed preferences that value price frugality over these qualities. We might expect supermarket decisions to be especially susceptible to hyperbolic discounting: money will shortly change hands in the checkout line (and in Hannover it is most often a cash transaction); one must decide the value of an immediate savings versus other, perhaps more distant, preferences for quality and solidarity.

We should not ignore the importance of stated preferences if we seek to understand what motivates economic behavior. These tend to value broad, long-range ideals and unveil a concern for common goods that often remains hidden in the immediacy of revealed preferences. As the case of moral provenance of German eggs suggests, we might do well to promote economic structures that help us realize our stated preferences and not just cater to the quick buck of hedonistic revealed preferences.

 

A Word about Morals and Virtues

The word “moral” carries many connotations, but I use it here in a specific way. Morals are often thought of as prescriptions and proscriptions on behavior, telling you what you should and should not do. I take a broader, more ecumenical and ethnographic, approach, recognizing the multitude of moral codes extant in the world. I use the term descriptively, to denote those cultural (and psychological/ethical) processes that deal with valuations of what is good and bad.

We may, following Arthur Kleinman (2006), define the moral as what matters most to folks. This perspective has the advantage of not judging whether or not a particular moral stance is right or wrong, good or bad; rather it calls attention to what folks themselves value in their lives (Sayer 2011).6

For present purposes, “moral” implies (1) a conception of good (and thus a value judgment), (2) a concern with others (and how one’s actions affect others) and (3) an affirmation of what matters most to us. We may then view virtues as the positive expression of shared moral values—living up to the moral expectations of particular values and visions of the good life. In the Aristotelian sense, virtue, from the Greek arete, is moral excellence, the learned capacity to do something well. Alasdair MacIntyre (1984) defines virtue as excellence within the domain of a given “practice,” a perspective that moves away from the universalizing tendencies of cardinal virtues and allows for greater cultural latitude. In a MacIntyrian practice, one finds something in an endeavor beyond oneself, something to be valued for its own sake and not just the means to satisfy an end. He writes that:

any coherent and complex form of socially established cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that form of activity are realized in the course of trying to achieve those standards of excellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form of activity, with the result that human powers to achieve excellence, and human conceptions of the ends and goods involved, are systematically extended. (1984:187)

In short, moral values and culturally salient virtues reference visions and valuations of what the good life—excellence, in this neo-Aristotelian view—could and should be.

 

Economic Preferences, Moral Values, and the Good Life

Moral values inform economic behavior. On the face of it, this is an unassailable proposition. Think of the often spiritual appeal of consumer goods or the value-laden stakes of upward or downward mobility. Think about the central role that moral questions regarding poverty, access to healthcare, the tax code, property and land rights, and corruption play in the shaping of modern governments, societies, and social movements. The moral aspects of the marketplace have never been so contentious or consequential.

Despite this, the realm of economics is often treated as a world unto itself, a domain where human behavior is guided not by emotions, beliefs, moralities or the passions, but by the hard calculus of rational choices. Many economists recognize “the limits of the self-interested, rational actor as a proxy for human decision making” (Goodenough 2008: 228). The recent financial crisis led even true believers such as Richard Posner and Alan Greenspan to question some of their axiomatic principles. But, as Paul Krugman (2009) has pointed out, a simplified view of Homo economicus has come to dominate in much scholarship, public policy, and popular media, basing explanations of why humans behave as they do on rational, self-interested, utility-maximizing individual behavior in natural “free markets”.

There are ethical and political consequences of such models of economic behavior. If humans are assumed to be unwaveringly driven by self-interest, then the economy is best managed by isolating moral questions and concerns. Judging economic behavior and public policy becomes not a question of good or bad, but rather of efficient or inefficient, of how to best maximize utilities (Becker 1996, Becker and Becker 1996, Samuelson 1976). In this view, trade restrictions, national borders, political corruption, religious values, and other such issues are seen as barriers to and distortions of a fluid marketplace. Efficiency is championed as the ultimate moral practice—producing the most goods for the most people (even if distribution is seen to be handled by the fundamental fairness of a free market).

The attraction of such an approach rests in its parsimony, translating the chaos of everyday life into a metric system of numbers and models. Applying scientific rigor to behavior, economics has come to rely on mathematical modeling based on assumptions about equilibrium and maximization as expressed through utility functions (Carrier 1997, Fullbrook 2004; Stiglitz 1993). Textbooks liken the workings of markets to natural forces, distancing themselves from the field’s historical roots in philosophy and ethics. Popular books like Freakonomics, Discover Your Inner Economist, and The Undercover Economist convey a message of ethical agnosticism about human behavior (just let the facts speak for themselves) and fuel the conceit of the brand of economics associated with Milton Friedman, Gary Becker, and the Chicago School.

This trend tragically popularizes a certain variety of economics as the field’s public face just when economics witnesses a proliferation of new and innovative behavioral and empirical approaches that not only recognize but embrace the classical model’s anomalies. In fact, economics has a good deal to offer anthropology and the other social sciences, especially with its sophisticated models of preferences and utility maximization, attention to macro forces of political economy and corporate behavior, as well as the systematic analysis of rational and non-rational behaviors.

Behavioral economics is working to redefine the limits of rationality, and to document systematic “biases” that subvert rationality (Thaler 1992, Ariely 2008, and others); and a growing number of academic economists work on issues touching on the role of cultural values and moral concerns. For example, George Akerlof examines the ways identity affects commitment and performance within organizations (see Akerlof and Kranton 2005). Robert Frank (1988 and elsewhere) documents how economic decisions are informed by a sense of identity and narrative life history. Daniel Kahneman and Richard Thaler (1991) champion experimental methods and behavioral observation to show how psychology influences rationality. The list goes on. On the margins of the discipline lies a vibrant Heterodox Economics movement and a vocal minority calling for a “post-autistic” approach (to use the 2000 rallying cry of rebellious French students) that moves beyond the “uncontrolled use” of mathematics and better engages with empirical realities (www.paecon.net). These revisions open up the possibility of a more complicated picture of subjective components of economic behavior, especially moral values, that have long been bracketed within utility functions.

 

Moral Economies

Moral and cultural assumptions about what is good and bad, right and wrong, fair and just are inherent in all economic institutions and systems. Even neoclassical economics inevitably introduces moral premises into its models and explanations; the methodological individualism of rational choice theory is itself quite parochial and moralistic (McCloskey 1998:47). In fact, the free market model is itself a kind of morality that embodies assumptions about who deserves what and what kinds of citizenship are valuable to the national product and national future (Hart 2005). For all its claims to moral agnosticism, such extreme economistic thinking has itself become a form of theology (Nelson 2001), laden with unchecked cultural assumptions and confident about making the world in its own secular image and converting fables about behavior’s natural causes into everyday commonsense.

John Kenneth Galbraith (1998 [1958]) presciently observed that, “In the United States, as in other western countries, we have for long had a respected secular priesthood whose function it has been to rise above questions of religious ethics, kindness and compassion and show how these might have to be sacrificed on the altar of the greater good. That larger good, invariably,was more efficient production” (215). As Galbraith makes clear, this is not just a matter of economics, but also one of morality. Similarly, Fourcade and Healy (2007: 304) write that markets are “actively moralized by the deployment of practical techniques, whether self-consciously (as in the case of social responsibility) or in the name of neutrality and objectivity (as in the case of efficiency).”

The idea of a “moral economy”, made famous by the work of James Scott (1977, 1985), typically refers to the continuing force of pre-capitalist traditions – especially moral values about fair prices and economic practices – in the face of capitalist development and expansion (Thompson 1971). For Scott, local moral values are an expression of subaltern resistance to capitalism, enlivening everyday forms of resistance and thwarting the consolidation of consensual, hegemonic power.

I follow Andrew Sayer’s (2011) expansive understanding of moral economy. For him morals are not external to the market, but internal to all economic orders. This is to say that all economies are “moral” in the sense that they embody and reproduce values. Economic systems are built upon assumptions – often taken for granted and naturalized assumptions – about what is good, desirable, worthy, ethical, and just. These are culturally informed and historically particular assumptions, even though some actors (say, policymakers, neoclassical economists, or human rights advocates) struggle to codify certain values as “universal.”

Shared moral values undergird economic systems, including, and perhaps even especially, anonymous market exchange. As Kenneth Arrow (1974) has shown among others, trust, loyalty, and honesty have clear economic value and indeed are essential to the efficiency of the economy. Indeed, pursuit of the intrinsic rewards of a value-based system (virtues) is necessary for the workings of free and fair exchange. Businesses would crash if employees only did what they were explicitly told to do (or were explicitly paid to do); work-to-rule strikes can virtually stop production simply by following rules to the letter. Likewise, economic systems built simply on the enticement of extrinsic rewards often fail in the long run (see Stout 2010).

Values may also stand in opposition to market relations. Debra Satz (2010) looks at “why some things should not be for sale,” arguing that markets should explicitly be organized around principles of justice as well as efficiency. Most folks accept the prohibitions on markets for human organs, sex, and freedom are just incursions on the free market. Richard Titmuss (1970) even found that paying for blood instead of relying on donations actually decreased the quantity and quality of blood, indicating that folks have a deep preference to give rather than sell certain items. And Michael Sandel (2012) points out that often what is most important is precisely what money can’t buy. And we have The Hitman’s Dilemma of where to draw the line between impersonal calculation and human obligations (Hart 2005).

To reduce moral and cultural values to an individualistic and monetary “utility” is to miss an opportunity to understand the fundamentally social and contextual dimensions of human behavior. That morality matters in ordinary people’s economic decisions and attitudes, and that values and norms are historically particular, is contradicted by a market fundamentalism that views morality and moral beliefs as superfluous, nothing more than secondary explanations that detract from an objective account of natural laws: “morality represents the way we would like the world to work and economics represents how it actually does work” (Levitt and Dubner 2005:50).

In fact, how we want the world to work is just as important as how it actually does work if we wish to understand what drives us toward a particular future, what informs visions of the good life. Understanding the empirical complexities of economic behavior in a globalized world demands a kind of economics that is also a science of moral sentiments, a project of ethical reflection. It demands a kind of economics that goes beyond regression analysis and moves into the real world of people living in diverse circumstances, of what they want or do not want, how they see themselves and who they hope to become.

 

References

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Notes

1 The little cinema neatly captures some stereotypical German traits: an usher takes one to assigned seats; there is a shelf for drinks and snacks; beer is, of course, sold at the concession stand. The Harry Potter movie was subtitled, although most foreign fare on television and at the movies is dubbed, and the German dubbing industry is renowned. Some dubbing voice performers have become well-known celebrities, with their own fan clubs. The dubbers work to make the German fit the mouth movements of the English or Swedish or Russian or whatever language is being spoken. A long way from the arbitrary dubbing of 1970s kung-fu movies, it is difficult to tell that the top German work is dubbed at all—you have to look closely to catch the occasional gap between what you see and what you hear. It is a point of national pride.

2 References to Aristotle here are to his Nicomachean Ethics (circa 350BCE) as translated by W.D. Ross and available at http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/nicomachean.html

3 In fact, as Graham (2011) and others suggest, instability and uncertainty seems to significantly decrease happiness (at a national level in economies undergoing rapid transition and individually with life changes). But we adapt more quickly than we think to even catastrophic disabilities (e.g. becoming paraplegic) and great fortunes (as in winning the lottery) (Brickman, Coates, Janoff-Bulman 1978).

4 The World Bank defines two categories of poverty in absolute terms: extreme poverty is living off less than $1.25 a day (in purchasing power parity terms) and moderate poverty at less than $2 a day (see Ravallion 1994, 2008; Ravallion and Chen 2008).

5 Excluding local market purchases and those who don’t eat eggs.

6 Morals are socially constructed, although some (e.g. Haidt 2007, Pinker 2008) have argued that there is a core set of universal moral predispositions such as not harming others, group loyalty, and deference to legitimate authority based on evolutionary predispositions. Appiah (2008) also seems open to the notion of a recurrent set of basic virtues.

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An Amazonian Question of Ironies and the Grotesque

Art of Anthropology Series #1
ISSN 2045-578X (online)

An Amazonian Question of Ironies and the Grotesque1
the arrogance of cosmic deceit, and the humility of everyday life

Joanna Overing2
University of St Andrews

© 2012 Joanna Overing
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

Forum discussion in the OAC network.
Download as PDF, EPUB, MOBI.

 

1. The place of humour.

My strongest memories of Piaroa people of the Venezuelan Amazon Territory involve experiencing their humour. The ludic was vital to their everyday life. These were people who were lovers of slapstick and witty, outrageous play on words. There was their punning, their satire and irony, where the use of the apt and mischievous trope was given especially high value. It was through hilarity that I felt I actually understood my Piaroa teachers. It was then that I felt at one with them.

I will dwell upon the connection between this love of slapstick, the apt pun and their  egalitarian antipathy to hierarchy, rules and regulations. To begin to understand this link between a love of laughter and the feeling for social and political equality of both men and women, it is necessary to consider the absurd grotesqueries of creation time hubris, which the Piaroa shaman unfolds through his singing narrations of mythic time, as he conducts his daily healing ceremonies. My main interest is in this telling of the monstrous modes of power set loose in creation time by the creator gods – and of course their repercussions. We find that the stress upon the grotesque in these healing narratives is strongly related to the shaman’s thorough understanding of the dangers in the present day of the monstrous modes of power unleashed by the gods when they created the world. It is through exploring these mighty, but highly dodgy, powers of creation time that we (as anthropologists) can begin to understand their connection to the rich social philosophies of folly that are attached to the egalitarian practices of Piaroa people as they interact in ‘today time’ sociality.

Along the way, I shall unfold the two diseases of folly and madness that Piaroa people may experience in the course of everyday life. The names of these two illnesses are ki’raeu and ke’raeu. The former, ki’raeu, was a comparatively minor disease of social irresponsibility which could lead to such errant behaviour as crazy laughter, promiscuity, wandering at will – and also diarrhoea. Sufferers of such symptoms are considered victims, led to their waywardness (such as their excessive use of orifices) by the social irresponsibility of others who perhaps taunt, or are unduly arrogant toward, them. The taunter blatantly displays a lack of regard to familial matters and good etiquette, which leads their victim into a state of minor madness.

Ke’raeu – in contrast to ki’raeu  – is a much more serious threat to the social fabric: its symptoms involve more violent display, such as accompanies the madness of hubris, paranoia, extreme arrogance – and also murder. As happens today, characters in mythic time also fell foul of both illnesses, with behaviour becoming truly grotesque when ke’raeu seriously set in. We find a major irony here. These stories speak of the original violent creation, acquisition and stealing of grotesque powers that would allow for the culinary arts. However, it was these very toxic powers that led eventually to the creation of beautiful, but dangerous culinary skills that enable Piaroa people today to achieve the sort of life that they could consider to be human.

2. Sociology, Political Anthropology

It is important to note that my exploration of Piaroa understandings of the grotesque and other modes of power is intended as a foray into political anthropology. For instance, I find that certain comparisons of modes of power can be highly enlightening. For example, in Greek myth, Zeus, who becomes sovereign of the whole universe, gets away with hubris and excessiveness, while Wahari (the creater god of Piaroa people) does not. Why this difference? To answer such a question, we need to widen our horizon of concerns greatly to understand its importance. Obviously, the cultural context (for instance, the aesthetics of living together) and histories (within which modes of power are enacted) vary considerably with regard to matters of social and political value. It is certainly legitimate to question the worth of comparing the political values of a Greek city state with those of an Amazonian village. On the other hand, with our horizons expanded, we might well find gold. In comparing the political concerns of the citizens of Thebes with those of a Piaroa village I discovered that they shared a number of egalitarian values and practices. For instance, in both cases it is particularly the women, as chorus, who take responsibility for unfolding to the people the irresponsible actions of a tyrant – or a shaman  – gone mad.

Perhaps we need to understand that an aesthetic of living may well play a large part within most political agendas. For quite a long time political anthropology has been deeply in need of new sociological ways of thinking, talking, examining – and most importantly imagining.

Exploration of this kind is needed to open up sociological categories and ways of thinking and even to begin to understand the extraordinary political repercussions (and lessons) emerging from the respective fates of these two creator gods – Zeus and Wahari. The former is king of hierarchy, teaching its ‘wonderful attainment’. As for Wahari, it originally was his desire to create for his world a moral order comprised of equals. However, it was his plight that he was foiled in following through with his plan. On the other hand, he did succeed in creating a people who held tight to his original dream of creating a moral order of equals. They also had the intelligence to understand how difficult it is to actually achieve this state of existence – one capable of creating beings who were actually human.

3. Modes of Power:

I shall begin by sketching some of the basic characters within Piaroa cosmology and the modes of power attached to each:

First there is Tapir/Anaconda: This monstrous, almighty, subterranean Tapir/Anaconda let loose all those mighty powers that eventually allowed for an animated existence on earth. The great granite outcrops of the ancient Guianese landscape are the result of his defecation: Lying beneath the earth, he propelled his waste upwards, like worm casts, to sit on Earth’s surface. His granite shit became the source on earth for all ‘life force’ of a sensual sort: it thus plays a crucial role in the empowerment of each Piaroa individual: the casing for their beautiful, interior ‘beads of life’ is made of these potent defecatory granite upcastings of Tapir/Anaconda. It is this casing that allows for their ‘life of the senses’ and thus all of their physical capacities. When the terrifying and violent Tapir/Anaconda wandered along the earth’s surface, s/he wreaked mayhem in his/her wake.

Next there is Kuemoi: Tapir/anaconda was the father of Kuemoi who became the Master of Rivers and Lakes. Tapir/Anaconda grew Kuemoi within the womb of the Mistress of the lake, feeding him with wildly poisonous hallucinogens from the rust of the sun and the centre of sky down of the sun. Through these hallucinogenic powers from the dreadful heat of the sun, Kuemoi became the father of all cultivated food. He was the creator of all those forces that belong to the culinary arts: gardening, hunting, curare, cooking fire. He is also a tyrannical, grotesque, little madman and is portrayed as a diabolical buffoon, raucously laughing with each plot he hatches, shrieking in outrage when foiled: he stamps his feet when foiled: a figure of high comedy, not tragedy. When overtaken by total madness, he runs endlessly around in circles. (He reminds me of Robert Nye’s depiction of the devil in Merlin: “He grins like a fox eating shit out of a wire brush; the Devil is ‘snoring as loud as a pig’; ‘he giggles and he writhes’”). This is the hilarious, absurd and mockable side of wickedness.

The main aim in life for Kuemoi is to gobble up as many beings of the domain of the jungle as possible. Coming out of water, he was the evil cannibal predator of all beings of the jungle. He stalked all jungle beings as food. He lusted after their meat. He devoured them raw, he ate them cooked. To catch them used cunning and an odious use of guile and sorcery. He was the master of horrid traps! The king of stealth! The trap he enjoyed most was his own daughter, ‘Maize’. When she was sleeping, he filled her womb with piranha fish and electric eels – as a seductive trap for the handsome young men of the jungle, who then became his meal at night. He created all creatures nasty to jungle beings, each as a trap to catch them for a meal: the jaguars and all other cats, ticks, biting insects, the stingray, poisonous snakes. He is the father of opossum and electric eel, the grandfather of bat, vulture, quarrelling, sting ray and boils.

He was the owner of what the Piaroa call the ‘crystal boxes of tyranny, treachery, and domination’. He epitomizes excessive power – the power of the true tyrant. Kuemoi released all the horrors from these boxes of primordial powers full blast into this world. Kuemoi was the owner of the ‘crystal boxes of Night’. It was he who in great glee released night and all its dangerous creatures into earthly space. All of these vicious beings are Kuemoi’s weapons. In fact all of Kuemoi’s creations serve as his weapons, including the culinary arts. All have powers either to kill or to poison. He transformed himself during his escapades as jaguar, vulture, mudfish or anaconda.

Through all this he achieved the clothes of physical might. A small, but monstrous two-headed figure, Kuemoi had one head to eat meat raw, and one to eat meat cooked. Kuemoi is the archetypically evil figure of creation time – and its most ridiculous. This very foolish god who has all the knowledge of the culinary arts speaks nonetheless to a highly sophisticated theory of ethical behaviour and to the side of human nature (as the Piaroa perceive it) that gives all human beings the potential for odious and wicked behaviour. A deep cruelty drove Kuemoi and the use of his might. The power of his thoughts, that had their source in the poisonous hallucinogens he took, though sufficiently mighty to create the culinary arts, continually poisoned his will. Overtaken by total madness, Kuemoi always acted without reason. He had no dignity. Evil here is clearly associated with knowledge and thus with too much power. Kuemoi had far too much of both. He ever experienced an extreme poisoning of his emotions (the disease that the Piaroa call ke’raeu – paranoia, hubris, the desire to murder). This condition of suffering poisonous unmastered knowledge is firmly attached to an imagery of madness and buffoonery. The political lesson is clear.

Then there is Wahari: The greatest adversary of Kuemoi in creation time was Wahari, the Master of the Jungle, and the creator god of the Piaroa. As such, Wahari was the opposite side of the coin to Kuemoi’s evil – at least at the start of creation time. Wahari, who was also created through Tapir/Anaconda’s efforts, was fed on different hallucinogens from those given Kuemoi. Wahari was given the power of earthly space, of the day, light and sociality (although in the end it all went wrong). He with his brother, worked together to create many of the aspects of terrestrial space that made it habitable. They took the sun and moon from their homes beneath the earth, and jumped with them into the sky to give themselves light by day and night. Wahari created air, breeze and the skies for the comfort of the earthly creatures of his domain. He created all branch animals and birds of the jungle. The hummingbird, eagle hawk and the lapa were the most important manifestations of his power. They were his transformations, his thoughts and as such his sons. He used the force of the hummingbird to fly above and beneath the earth in his flying canoe. He, like Kuemoi, had mighty powers of transformation. He too had the power of cunning, guile and the arts of trickery, combined with mighty sorcery.

But Wahari had the benevolent desire to create a good life for his inhabitants of the jungle. He wanted to provide them with the civilised conditions for a human life on earth, including the culinary arts, and the capabilities for civilised sociality and social virtue. He spoke the principles of a moral social life for his people. Certainly at the beginning of creation time, he was the god of unity and accord, including that which should hold within the family. But Wahari strongly wanted to capture the culinary arts from his father-in-law, Kuemoi. With this desire began a treacherous cosmic comedy of errors. None of Wahari’s benevolent desires were accomplished in creation time – and that is its tragic irony. The narrations tell how

Wahari begins mythic time with the gift of social finesse, but the moment he tries to trade with Kuemoi, cosmogenesis becomes a bag of tricks, a high comedy (then tragedy) of errors. The genre of the bawdy grotesque slips in the end to true tragedy.

4a. Creation Time Hubris and its Landscape of Monsters.

This we can gather through the tales about creation time and the shaman’s skilled performance of the hilarious, bawdy, grotesque episodes of mythic time through which the ludicrous conditions of being human are disclosed. The narrations disclose the subtle lessons of two-edged folly – that which is good, engendering health and well-being, and that which is disastrous. Erasmus’ sermon on Lady Folly would fit well here.

Creation time, much as with Sophocles’ Oedipus cycle, moves from a kind of naughty irony, filled with crazy jokes such as reversing heads and buttocks or grabbing a penis hovering in the air in order to create men. They also tell of mistakes that lead to intentions backfiring, for example when putting up the sun and moon, and in the antics of monkeys. Finally, a more grotesque, dark place of the tragedy of hubris emerges, where excess pride, arrogance, greed tend to lead to the ruin of the transgressors. We here find similarities with Foucault’s reading of Sophocles’ Oedipus, whereby the downfall of Oedipus is caused not by innocence, but a monstrous excess of knowledge, and too much power. This rings true with the experiences of Wahari. There are also similarities to the often erratic destiny and suffering found in the historical tyrants of Sophocles’ time, with their tendency to rely on their own solitary knowledge, rather than solving problems by conversing with ‘the people’ and other ‘knowledgeable’ advisors. Such lack of regard can lead easily to ‘real’ tyranny, which is associated with the tendency to excess. This in turn leads to the hubris and asociality of tyrants who misuse power. In dwelling on these problems, classical Greece comes up with democracy as a solution.

All of the vignettes from the shamanic narrations below come from the cycle on the origin of the craziness disease, k’eraeu. This disease gives you delusions of grandeur and paranoia. It is the ‘fall down’ disease, the ‘go round and around disease’, the ‘twirling circles’ illness. K’eraeu is the most deadly illness you can get and the most destructive malady of folly imaginable. It leads to deranged intentionality. You can die from it and with it you are very likely to damage and kill others.

Here is the history: Creation time becomes the battleground between the two powerful creator gods, Wahari and Kuemoi, and ends with a cannabilistic war of all against all. Wahari tries to trade with Kuemoi, to acquire his powerful hunting spells and powers for the cultivation of plants; in turn, Kuemoi tries to poison Wahari with his powerful hallucinogenic drugs, in order to capture and eat him. So Wahari stealthily tries to steal from Kuemoi the means to civilised life. He tries to rob all the edible fruits and vegetables from Kuemoi’s great tree of life. But suffering from the poisons of Kuemoi’s spells, Wahari instead becomes desperately ill, thirsty; he lusts after women and spends many years chasing after foreign beauties. He becomes insufferably arrogant, destroying all of his personal relationships with kin. He sells his sister to the Master of White Man’s Goods for 6 boxes of matches; he sodomises her, an event that leads to the birth of his son Diarrhoea, whom he tries to kill. He suffers hubris: his mockery infuriates his relatives, who take revenge, by further zapping him with Kuemoi’s disease, k’eraeu, the craziness illness: his head hurts, he runs in circles. It makes him want to kill. The terrible twirling circles of k’eraeu really captures Wahari: maddened, he announces that all of his own creations (people) will suffer this disease. He wanders in the world, lost, arrogant, beautiful. However, he returns again and again to steal Kuemoi’s powers for civilised eating. He manages to steal Kuemoi’s daughter (after cleaning her womb of piranha fish). Next comes a god-awful series of battles between Wahari and Kuemoi, where they both indulge in villainy, thievery, trickery, deceit and disguise, traps and general mayhem. In hilarious episodes, Wahari often outwits Kuemoi because he foresees his intentions. He manages to give Kuemoi diarrhoea and causes him to rape his own daughter (Wahari’s wife). Kuemoi runs round and round in circles.

Wahari becomes crazier and crazier as he becomes increasing zapped by Kuemoi’s poisons. On one occasion Wahari becomes locked in the midst of a k’eraeu circuit comprised of the narrow translucent streams of k’eraeu descending from four of Kuemoi’s mountains. He then falls into Kuemoi’s trap of poisoned hunting charms, filled with vulture down, sky rust, centre of the sky down. He goes off hunting and then fishing, through yet other traps set by Kuemoi, and manages to kill, not a deer, but his much beloved old grandmother. He cries and wails at this mistake.

4b. Wahari then decides to create his own culinary arts:

He tries to create his own fire, his own sweet and wild fruits and hunting paraphernalia, but he fails badly, These are tales usually told with rather hard-edged slapstick comedy. Each and every creation was false and perverse because of Kuemoi’s poisoning of his will, making Wahari crazy. At one point he tries to kill his own brother. The more he tries to create the culinary arts, the more Wahari proclaims his own greatness – as master of the universe, the jungle, and the rivers. It was his hubris that created the forces of a monstrous, perverted culinary arts. His ‘fire’ blossomed as skin disease, burns, and boils, a fire that scorched but could not cook; his cures backfired on the user and became the miscarrying of women and the bleeding of adults from the mouth, the anus, the vagina; his hunting charms became paralysis, his fish hooks, sore throat… All these useless, poisonous creations became the diseases that human beings suffer today and not the useful artefacts for civilised living that Wahari so desired for them. These creations today impregnate human beings with disease. As in Greek myth, life for human beings is not easy; the gods made it so.

5. How do humans receive all these horrors? This is the story:

It was when Wahari invited most of the people beings of the jungle to a great feast. He gets them drunk and then transforms them into animals, to become game for him to hunt and eat. He takes away all their powers for thought and intentionality and gives them instead all of his perverse creations. The animals will not suffer them, but instead they will pass them on to human beings. Piaroa people thus do receive Wahari’s artefacts, but in the form of diseases given to them by the animals. Wahari, the star of mythic time, becomes its worst villain, all due to his mistakes and his arrogance.

Today, human beings (ironically) have to use the dangerous forces for the culinary arts that were originally let loose by Kuemoi, not Wahari. All of Wahari’s efforts turned out to be useless. In fact, it is only earthly human beings who can use the powers created by Kuemoi. There are all sorts of dangers there for folly (their intentions can so easily be poisoned by Kuemoi’s deadly powers). Today, human beings must, through everyday hard work, manage the culinary arts on their own, transforming the ugly and dangerous powers for the hunt and the gardens into beautiful forces, safe for a civilised life. They must cleanse their vegetables and fruit from the poisons of Kuemoi and all their game and fish from those of Wahari. And, they must deal with the fact that the game they eat is really human in origin.

6. The relation between the culinary arts and the arts of conviviality:

This everyday work of the culinary arts and civilised sociality is at the same time accomplished through a good deal of practice in the comic arts. Indeed the practice of the arts of conviviality become a sign that the powers they use are those of civilised eating, a practice which keeps hubris at bay. The wisdom of folly is highly valued.

On the other hand, there is no resolution of the great conflicts of mythic time. The villainy of the ludicrous, ironic, treacherous practices of creation time generate the ambiguous conditions for the humans who live today on earth – civilised eating, civilised sociality – are all to be acquired at great cost, with great difficulty, with great suffering, and with a good dash of treachery. We who use the powers of the cannibal god, Kuemoi, can also be poisoned into greedy, arrogant behaviour. The domesticated Piaroa can hardly separate themselves in any absolute way from the animal other. As human beings they are hardly innocent. This takes us to the genre of the grotesque, that genre that retains to the bitter end its unresolved conflicts and ambiguities.

7. The Genre of the Grotesque: the mythic narratives and the unresolved incongruities of history:

Mythic imageries of the grotesque and the absurd are not unusual. The French scholar, Vernant, speaks of the robust, multi-layered imagery of mythic narrations, their hilarity and the intellectuality attached to them. And, we may add, their strong connection to particular social philosophies, to distinctions of moral worth, to treasured ways of doing things. He calls for deeper cross-cultural comparison of mythic styles (with which I strongly agree). Is there a particular style of mythic presentations? I suggest that the genre of the grotesque is one such widespread style. The powers sufficiently mighty for creation are typically violent dramatic stories, as we see from Vernant’s own disclosure of the ancient Greek mythology, and ours from Amazonia.

The story of creation time is one of poisoned intentionalities, of cosmic follies: it is a story of greed, hubris and mental derangement.

The genre of the Grotesque is calculatingly used by the narrator of Piaroa myths in unfolding, disclosing, evoking the deep absurdities of human existence and its pre-conditions as played out in creation time. Wisdom depends on understanding the message of the grotesque. We need to pay attention to such messages.

The 18th and 19th centuries had a pejorative view of the grotesque, judging it a vulgar species of the comic, deprived of the serious. In general it was viewed as a genre of ludicrous exaggeration, a genre of the fantastic. However, more recent responses (Kayser 1963, Thomson 1972) have understood it otherwise, stressing its power to speak to reality. They note that its explosive force serves to make us see the real world anew. It jolts one into a transformation of perspective on what reality might be.

Some relevant points with regard to this re-assessment of the genre of the grotesque to our understanding of the mythic narration performances are the following:

1) The genre of the grotesque (also read as the genre of mythic narrative) is more attached to realism than fantasy. It is extravagant, but not fantastic. However strange the grotesque world is, it is also our world. The mythic narration, in partaking of this genre, has as its first and foremost aim to express the problematic nature of existence, and its preconditions, to unfold the absurdities of our life, its ambivalences, as played out originally in the ironic grotesquery of creation time.

2) The comic is necessary for the genre of the grotesque to work. There is its playfulness and its terror, its confusion and interplay of heterogeneous elements: the monstrous and the ludicrous; humans, animals, and vegetables. There are its paradoxes and ironies (the creator of fire devouring meat raw), and also its shock tactics (Wahari eating stew discovers he is eating his own son). We react to the slapstick experience of such horror with glee, as opposites continually clash. We laugh at the tale of deceit, trickery, mischief, hubris, illness, death, cannibalism, treacheries, greed, general mayhem. Part of the glee comes from the question ever rising over ‘who are the victims? who the victimisers?

3) There are the physical deformities, the (bawdy) bodyliness of it all (see Bakhtin). We have the 2-headed god of culture; the huge sexual organs, male and female (Think of Cronus’ enormous member). Wahari, creator of people, transforms himself into the monster supreme deity beneath the earth, the dangerous chimerical Tapir/Anaconda, preying intently on his own kinsmen.

4) The most distinctive trait of the grotesque, according to Thomson (1972), is the unresolved nature of grotesque conflict, separating it out from neighbouring genres (e.g. the absurd). In Piaroa myth, this grotesquery of the origin of culture is never resolved – Wahari did not succeed (Zeus did, but earthlings didn’t). Thus, the forces for creation continue into today as the uncleaned product of the deadly hallucinogens that the creator god of the culinary arts withdrew from the rust of the sun andthe heart of the armadillo. The gods were creators and as such, killers. 5) The emotional and intellectual tension continues through the story: it is one of poisoned and poisonous intentionalities. Despite the human capacities of Piaroa people (their capabilities for the culinary arts, for reasoned intentionality and therefore sociality), there remains this deep ambiguity to being human. For as humans they are hardly innocent. Their reflections upon alterity recognise that the violence of foreign politics demands from the start an unleashing of poisonous forces from themselves not so very different from those of exterior others – or the gods (Overing 1996).

8. Ironic practices of the everyday

How should we as anthropologists interpret the Piaroa reactions to their absurd universe? We have then the ironic performances/rituals of everyday life among an egalitarian people who love their freedom and also their sociality. These are a people who are very fond of the comic; they find the practice of folly essential to their well-being: a very Amazonian way of thinking. My interest is how such a cosmogenesis and the philosophy of the absurd that comes from it (as understood by the Piaroa) are linked to their social psychology and to their egalitarianism. As we know, our own social theory of the comic is indeed weak, as too that of the grotesque.

For insight, we might be wise to turn to the likes of Vico on the political use of tropes (the more hierarchical people’s values the more literalness is approved of) and Kenneth Burke on true irony being attached to a deep humility with regard to our own frailties. We need to think about an irony that does not make us ‘superior’ to the enemy, for we have some of the same attributes as he/she – and indeed we are indebted to this enemy. (For Piaroa - the gods are cannibal predators, and so are the Piaroa themselves).

Perhaps it is with lessons from the Taoist Monks (e.g. see Peter Berger) that we might begin to understand the comic as a mode of knowledge. Thus perhaps the Amazonian case is not totally alien. Let us look at the connections:

1) The role of the jokester shaman leader has much in common with the raucously laughing Taoist Monk. For both, the comic is a mode of knowledge.

2) The humour of both is forthcoming from a profound sense of the incongruities (lack of reason) of the universe, and of human behaviour within it.

3) There is a strong use of tropes. According to Peter Berger, the Ch’an/Zen way of teaching is through parables, through riddles, and most solutions are in the form of jokes.

4) What is more, a self-mocking humility is taught. The Piaroa shaman is the teacher of this attitude of the world – he starts with the children when they are five years old. Success in the ability of not taking oneself seriously is a good test of whether liberating, true learning has taken place, one that is conducive to the deconstruction of reality, with the disclosure of all its incongruities – albeit the shaman’s job, but to a lesser, yet important extent by each individual.

Berger lists these components of a comic philosophy (as followed by the Taoists):

1) The diagnosis of the world as a mass of incongruence

2) The radical debunking of pretensions of grandeur and wisdom (the breeder of hubris)

3) A spirit of mocking irreverence

4) A profound discovery of and appreciation of freedom

Such a list fits as well the attitudes and teachings of the Piaroa shaman who teaches of the importance of humility – in light of the enemy within – and stresses at all times the craziness of the expression of anger and arrogance, true signs of a tyrannical temperament destructive of the accomplishment of a human sort of life. These are the lessons of the two diseases of craziness: k’iraeu and k’eraeu.

These are also philosophical insights that lead to a stress on the immense importance to sociality of the accomplishing affective comfort. The hierarchical and the literal are both too direct for affective comfort and well-being. The hierarchical and the literal can too easily and treacherously poison intentionality.

9. The comic, the social and the creation of a counterworld

Finally, a word on the notion of comedy as a counterworld and as ‘anti-rites’. See M. Douglas and others on the notion that jokes are an intrusion of the comic into everyday life. They see jokes as ‘anti-rites’, rebellious of ordained patterns of social life. They understand the comic as a temporary suspension of social structure!

However, for many Amazonian peoples, folly lies at the heart of the social. Far from the comic as an intrusion into everyday life, the view is that the human social condition can only be accomplished through the spirit of folly. Through an understanding of an ironic, grotesque cosmogenesis, Amazonian peoples tend to stress the value of playing out in social life a sociable ‘humble irony’. For example, with Piaroa, ludic practices allow for sociable living and working together. They enable the bringing up of children, feeding them, curing them, and most important, teaching them the arts and decorum of Folly. In other words, ironic practice allows them to deal with the poisonous forces within that are at the same time conducive to a human way of life. These are a people who recognise well the happiness of foolery, its poetics and also its necessity, its health-giving properties.

In Amazonia often the achievement of the social forms a counterworld that protects against all those absurdities of the universe. Thus the ironic practices: a spirit of mocking irreverence, a debunking of all those pretensions of grandeur and wisdom, but coated with a good dose of well-considered humility in the face of it all. For those absurdities not only always intrude upon the everyday, they also rest within each person, corporeally so to speak. At any moment, and you never know, anyone can suffer k’iraeu (promiscuity, crazy laughter…) and any shaman could be attacked by k’eraeu (paranoia). This is the misery of cosmic Folly. It is the comic as a mode of knowledge that provides insight into this downside of folly: by knowing it, and practising in its light, we can, for a time at least, fool the cosmic comic incongruities of existence and of this world on earth. The latter being an environment created by means of poisonous, deadly hallucinogens.

Some Bibliography:

Bakhtin, Mikhail (1968) Rabelais and his World, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.

Berger, Peter (1997) Redeeming laughter: The Comic Dimension of Human Experience, New York: Walter de Gruyter.

Douglas, Mary (1975) Implicit Meanings, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

Fernandez, James & M.T. Huber eds (2001) Irony in Action: Anthropology, Practice, and the Moral Imagination, Chicago: the University of

Chicago Press.

Kayser, Wolfgang (1963) The Grotesque in Art and Literature, Bloomington.

Meyer, Michael (1995) Literature and the Grotesque, Amsterdam: Rodopi.

Overing, Joanna (2000) ‘The efficacy of laughter: the ludic side of magic within Amazonian sociality’, in Overing & Passes (below), The Anthropology of Love and Anger.

—— (2006) ‘The Stench of Death and the Aromas of Life: Poetics of Ways of Knowing and Sensory Process among Piaroa of the Orinoco Basin’, Tipiti, Journal of the Society for the Anthropology of Lowland South America,Volume 4, numbers 1& 4, June & December.

Overing, Joanna & Alan Passes eds (2000) The Anthropology of Love and Anger: the aesthetics of conviviality in Native South America, Routledge.

Thomson, Philip (1972) The Grotesque, Methuen & Co.

Zijderveld, Anton (1963) On clichés: The supersedure of meaning by function in modernity, Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Notes

1. Paper originally presented in Santiago Chile, July 2003.

2. Joanna Overing is a Social Anthropologist, and a Professor Emeritus at the University of St Andrews, Scotland. Her fieldwork and interest, since 1968, has been with Piaroa people, who live in Venezuela along tributaries of the Orinoco. A broad research concern has understanding ‘egalitarianism’ and ‘individualism’ as these are understood by the indigenous peoples of Amazonia. Her work attempts to spell out the understanding and philosophy of power, modes of equality and materiality expressed by Piaroa people in their cosmology, shamanic exegesis and in daily practice, discourse, and rhetoric. A second area of research has centred on the problem of translation in anthropological analysis. Her overall concern is to wed issues usually dealt with separately by ethnography, philosophy, and social linguistics. Her recent research deals with sensory ways of knowing, and their relations to the genres of the grotesque and the sublime – as used in Piaroa narrations of myth – and, most important, their accomplishment of a ‘human’ sort of society. Her books: 1975, The Piaroa: a People of the Orinoco Basin: A Study in Kinship and Marriage. 1977, Social Time and Social Space in Lowland South American Societies (ed.). 1985, Reason and Morality, ASA Monograph 24, (ed.) 2000 and 2007, Key Concepts in Social Anthropology, with Nigel Rapport. 1999 Anthropology of Love and Anger: the Aesthetics of Conviviality in Native South America, (ed. with Alan Passes).

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Intimations of the ‘Informal Economy’

Working Papers Series #13
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

Intimations of the ‘Informal Economy’
In the Work of Henry Mayhew, P T Bauer and Richard Salisbury

John D Conroy1
Australian National University

© 2012 John D Conroy
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
www.openanthcoop.net/press

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Abstract

This paper considers the idea of informality in market exchange, as introduced into the economic development literature by Keith Hart in the 1970s. In addition to Hart (1971, 1973) it will discuss three writers who may be considered his intellectual forerunners. Each, to a greater or less degree, anticipated the idea of informal economic activity and described it in a particular historical period and place. They are the mid-Victorian journalist Henry Mayhew (London, c.1850), the libertarian economist P. T. Bauer (British West Africa, c.1948) and the economic anthropologist R. F. Salisbury (colonial New Guinea, c.1952-1963). The principal texts relied upon are Mayhew’s monumental London Labour and the London Poor (4 vols, 1851-61), Bauer’s Economics of Under-Developed Countries (1957) and Salisbury’s From Stone to Steel (1962) and Vunamami: Economic Transformation in a Traditional Society (1970).

Keywords: informal economy, informal sector, Keith Hart, Henry Mayhew, P. T. Bauer, Richard Salisbury

 

Table of contents

  1. The Idea of the Informal Economy
  2. Keith Hart and the Informal Economy in Newly-Independent Ghana
  3. The Informal Economy in History and Literature: Henry Mayhew
  4. P T Bauer and the Transition from Subsistence to Exchange
  5. Richard Salisbury and Services as ‘Leading Sector’
  6. Conclusion
  7. Bibliography

 

Outline of the project

This paper forms the introductory part of a monograph in which Papua New Guinea (PNG) is the main case study. It will also include a section on ‘original’ or ‘subsistence affluence’, along with another on traces of an informal economy in the pre-contact and colonial anthropological literature of New Guinea, and in the limited economic history material available. The question there is why the evidence of urban informal economic activity was so limited at the time of the Development Strategy report (the Faber Mission) in 1972-73, on the eve of Independence.

The final section will deal with the Faber Mission and the reception of its recommendations on the informal sector. It will review such evidence as I can find that it was (in that respect) of any continuing influence. Primarily, however, it will deal with the emergence of informal economic activity in the intervening 40 years, during which population almost trebled and a lot of other changes took place. These included the impoverishment of large sections of population despite periodic injections of mineral wealth. Subsistence ‘affluence’ has diminished progressively, urban populations have become more entrenched (‘trapped’) and less connected with rural origins, the State has developed the full apparatus of grand and petty corruption, social differentiation (‘class formation’) has proceeded a long way in both urban and rural areas, while ‘national capitalism’, such as it is, consists largely of rent-seekers rather than genuine entrepreneurs.

And yet the PNG informal economy is still ill-developed and marked more by violence than creativity. My study will look for explanations of this phenomenon by harking back to anthropology and history to understand the limited precedents for any fine-grained division of labour in a PNG informal sector, and consider the extent to which the continuation of colonial attitudes and policies by the national elite offers some explanation of what has occurred.

 

  1. The idea of the informal economy

This paper is concerned with economic activity, seen in terms of ‘formality’ and ‘informality’, in the context of market exchange2. The growth of market exchange is associated with the emergence of bureaucracy, which creates rules to give form to its own activities and to those of the regulated. In this way market activity becomes enumerated, and the status of being enumerated is a crucial marker of ‘formality’. By contrast, ‘informal’ activities occur outside the strictures of bureaucracy and indeed may transgress its requirements. Informal activities may avoid certain obligations but must also forgo at least some of the benefits of conformity with the requirements of bureaucracy.

This study commences with a discussion of the pioneering account of an informal economy, in early-independent Ghana (c. 1966), by the British anthropologist Keith Hart (1971, 1973). It will then focus on informality in market exchange, as described historically in a number of other ‘emerging’ economies. These are mid-Victorian London (c.1850) and the late-colonial dependencies of British West Africa (c.1948) and Papua New Guinea (c.1960). The paper will consider the forms associated with market exchange in these disparate settings, and the deviations from form, asimplied by the term ‘informal economic activity’, occurring in each. Some incongruity is apparent among the three ‘cases’ offered for comparison with Hart’s work, which are widely separated in time and space. Nonetheless, their authors, respectively, Mayhew (1851, 1861), Bauer and Yamey (1951, 1957) and Salisbury (1971), have strong claims to be regarded as forerunners of Keith Hart’s informal economy. They are almost certainly not the only such. Hart has himself acknowledged Mayhew, together with Clifford Geertz (1963) and Oscar Lewis (1966), among his precursors, citing, in particular, the latter’s concept of the ‘culture of poverty’ (Hart 2010, 143).

Whatever about the contributions of earlier scholars, the idea of the ‘informal economy’, as it has developed now over a period of some 40 years, originated with Keith Hart. In a recent account of its intellectual history he noted that

‘The informal economy (or informal sector) became current in the early 1970s as a label for economic activities that escape state regulation. It arose in response to the proliferation of self-employment and casual labour in Third World cities; but later the expression came to be used with reference to industrial societies, where it competed with similar epithets – the ‘hidden’, ‘underground’, ‘black’ economy, and so on’. The social phenomenon is real enough and of some antiquity, but its definition remains elusive (Hart 2010, 142).

This paper focuses on Hart’s original conception of the informal economy, and deals only incidentally with the subsequent elaboration of it by him and others in the context of ‘de-industrialization’ and globalization3. This more narrow focus is adopted because in its original form the idea has proved influential among development economists and policymakers. For example, in terms of theory it led to the re-examination of propositions in the classic paper by Arthur Lewis, Economic Development with Unlimited Supplies of Labour (Lewis 1954) as well as in Michael Todaro’s influential model of rural-urban migration (Todaro 1969). In terms of policy it was taken up by international agencies (including ILO and the World Bank) as a remedial measure for urban unemployment (see, for example, ILO [1972]). It continues to condition perceptions of the processes of urbanization, employment and income distribution in developing countries and may still be applied fruitfully to them. Nor has Hart modified his original conception in any way that would discourage its application to current conditions of development and underdevelopment.

As an introduction to Hart’s ideas it may be useful to consider his views on bureaucracy, since bureaucratic activity substantially determines the character, and designation, of economic activity as either formal or informal. Hart noted Hegel’s contention that ‘Society … should be managed by an educated bureaucratic elite in the national interest’, and that Max Weber had ‘recognized such a synthesis in Germany’s historical experience of the alliance between Rhineland capitalists and Prussian bureaucracy’ (Hann and Hart 2011, 30). For Hart, bureaucracy is an essentially positive construct, ‘invented as part of a democratic political project to give citizens access to what was theirs by right’, although in practice it is often seen to operate as ‘the negation of democracy’ (Hart 2004).

When Hart arrived in Ghana in the mid-60s, he was influenced by Arthur Lewis’s dualistic model of developing economies. As he recounted, ‘the conceptual pair ‘formal/informal’ grew out of [my] attempt to figure out what happened to agricultural labour when it migrated to cities whose markets were only weakly organized by industrial capitalism. The formal and informal aspects of an economy are linked of course, since the idea of ‘informality’ is entailed by the institutional effort to organize society along formal lines … [Thus] “form” is the rule, an idea of what ought to be universal in social life; and for most of the twentieth century the dominant forms have been those of bureaucracy, particularly of national bureaucracy, since society has become identified to a large extent with nation-states’ (Hann and Hart 2011,114-15, emphasis in original).

Another source of Hart’s formal/informal duality was found in the work of Clifford Geertz, in which national bureaucracy again played an important role. In Pedlars and Princes,

‘Geertz identified two economic ideal-types in a Javanese town. The majority were occupied in a street economy that he labeled “bazaar-type”. Opposed to this was the “firm-type” economy consisting largely of western corporations who benefited from the protection of state law. These had form in Weber’s sense of “rational enterprise” based on calculation and the avoidance of risk. National bureaucracy lent these firms a measure of protection from competition, thereby allowing the systematic accumulation of capital. The “bazaar” on the other hand was individualistic and competitive, so that accumulation was well-nigh impossible’. (Hart 2004)

The commercial impotence of petty ‘bazaar’ entrepreneurs, notwithstanding they ‘were rational and calculating enough to satisfy Max Weber on ideological grounds’, was due to their being ‘denied the institutional protection of state bureaucracy’. In consequence of this exclusion, ‘their version of capitalism remained stunted at birth’ (Hann and Hart 2011, 113). The duality of the formal and informal was produced by bureaucratic action impacting actors differentially. Hart developed these ideas in the setting of early-independent Ghana, where the state’s reach ‘only extended so far into the depths’, creating a situation in which economic activity was indeed ‘individualistic and competitive’, and accumulation difficult.

 

  1. Keith Hart and the Informal Economy in Newly-Independent Ghana

During fieldwork in Ghana over the period 1965-68 Hart worked in Nima, a slum district of Accra where 40 per cent of active males and fully 95 per cent of females were ‘not touched by formal employment’ (Hart 1973, 63). Intending to prepare an orthodox ethnography of the Frafra ethnic group, he found himself caught up in their precarious economic existence and opted instead to document their livelihoods. As rural-urban migrants, generally with little Western education and limited formal skills, most Frafra ‘got by’ on wages from unskilled jobs, earnings from self-employment and ‘transfers’.

Hart’s observations stressed high levels of ‘unemployment’ among the Frafra (in the then conventional sense of non-participation in regular ‘waged’ jobs), the inadequacy of earnings in such jobs, the consequent incidence of multiple job-holding (‘moonlighting’) among waged workers, and their frequent resort to additional, non-wage, sources of income.Those Frafrawithout access to ‘formal’ employment (as we now think of it) subsisted on earnings from casual employment and by self-employment in the production of a wide variety of goods and services. Most people in the local economy of Nima, and in similar neighbourhoods of Accra, actively sought out multiple sources of income. Many benefited from ‘transfers’ received by virtue of ethnicity and/or membership of social networks (as well as incurring their own responsibility to make such transfers). Resort to credit was pervasive and frequent, serving to smooth consumption and to meet contingencies, but impelling many into a downward economic spiral, leading to desperation and the disruption of lives. Hart (1973, 65) described their situation memorably:

‘[F]aced with the impossibility of making ends meet, the urban worker of 1966 often ran up considerable debit accounts, used some of his pay to settle a few bills, went on a short-run binge until penniless, and spent the majority of the month in penury and increasing debt, relying on extended credit facilities and a wide range of putative kin and friends to provide occasional meals, and even lodging, if necessary. The pattern of everyday economic life for these workers was thus a hand-to-mouth existence characterised by unevenness of expenditures over a pay period, flexibility of consumption units, and the proliferation of credit in all commodities. Haushalten (budgeting), one of Max Weber’s two types of rational economic activity, is not widespread in places like Nima’.

Hart stressed the unreliability of non-wage incomes in Nima rather than their inadequacy. Returns to non-wage employment varied widely from period to period, around mean levels often higher (and occasionally much higher) than unskilled wages. Because of this unreliability, men were often reluctant to surrender low-paying waged-employment, opting instead to juggle the demands of such work with the opportunistic, though sporadic, activities of the informal economy. The latter he grouped in a classification distinguishing between ‘legitimate’ and ‘illegitimate’ activities, with the notion of ‘legitimacy’ being ‘derived essentially from Ghana’s laws … coincid[ing] with the morality of “respectable” Ghanaians’. Such notions were, however, not necessarily congruent with the mores of the residents of Nima, a district ‘notorious for its lack of respectability, for the dominance of a criminal element, and for the provision of those goods and services usually associated with any major city’s “red-light district”’ (Hart 1973, 74).

Among ‘legitimate’ activities Hart distinguished numerous categories of primary (including urban agriculture), secondary (petty manufactures, artisanship) and tertiary activities, conducted by an ‘urban proletariat’ (Hart 1971) or ‘sub-proletariat’ (Hart 1973). The latter included activities at the apex of the informal economy, requiring relatively large capital inputs (‘transport operators, landlords, cornmill owners, commodity speculators’). There was a profusion of small scale distributive roles, distinguished by whether operators were itinerants from ‘upcountry’ or resident in the city, by the locus of their trading (‘market stalls, roadside booths, hawking’), by the commodities traded, and by position in the distribution chain. Traders differed in terms of their time-input and scale of operations but were typically flexible in response to opportunity. ‘Petty traders, brokers, wholesale merchants, commission agents, and occasional dealers – all these roles are played in varying degrees by large numbers of the urban sub-proletariat’ (Hart 1973, 72).

Concerning ‘illegitimate’ activities, Hart (1973, 68) noted that ‘a consideration of income opportunities outside formal employment must include certain kinds of crime. The incidence of illegitimate activity in Nima was, to my knowledge, all-pervasive’. His classification (1973, 69) of criminal ‘income opportunities’ may be summarized as follows:

  1. Services: hustlers, spivs, receivers, usurers and pawners at illegal interest rates, drug-dealers, prostitutes, procurers, smugglers, bribe-takers, influence pedlars and protection men
  2. Transfers: thieves, larcenists, peculators and embezzlers, confidence tricksters, gamblers

In considering the formal/informal distinction,‘[t]he key variable is the degree of rationalisation of work – that is to say, whether or not labour is recruited on a permanent and regular basis for fixed rewards. Most enterprises run with some measure of bureaucracy are amenable to enumeration by surveys and – as such – constitute the ‘modern sector’ of the urban economy’. The unenumerated, those who were self-employed or casual workers, constituted the informal economy (Hart 1973, 68). Yet there were multiple relationships between the formal and informal economies. For example, in terms of ‘legitimate’ goods and services, the informal economy provided a very large proportion of the daily needs of the residents of Nima and other such suburbs, but it was also a substantial ‘exporter’ of goods and services to middle class neighbourhoods. Similarly, in regard to ‘illegitimate’ goods and services, one might distinguish between the thriving local market within Nima and its dealings with the ‘bourgeois’ world of greater Accra, which was the willing recipient of many services as well as the unwilling source of certain ‘transfers’ (owing to theft and burglary, for example). Urban crime was thus a powerful agent of redistribution4.

Hart’s account of Nima demonstrated that, taking the legitimate with the illegitimate, ‘income and expenditure patterns are more complex than is normally allowed for in the economic analysis of poor countries’. In this early work Hart felt unable to resolve the issue with which he had commenced his research: whether ‘informal economic activities possess some autonomous capacity for generating growth in the incomes of the urban (and rural) poor’. Only the application of more refined tools of analysis would enable economists to understand the structure and dimensions of the urban economy and how much the informal economy, in both its legitimate and illegitimate manifestations, was contributing to it (Hart 1973, 61, 89)5.

Finally, it will be useful to relate Hart’s observations of Nima to his understanding of Weberian bureaucracy. The poor in Accra were not ‘unemployed’, in the sense this term was understood at the beginning of the 1970s. Rather,

‘[t]hey worked, often casually, for erratic and generally low returns; but they were definitely working. What distinguished these self-employed earnings from wage employment was the degree of rationalization of working conditions. Following Weber (1981), I argued that the ability to stabilize economic activity within a bureaucratic form made returns more calculable and regular for the workers as well as their bosses. That stability was in turn guaranteed by the state’s laws, which only extended so far into the depths of Ghana’s economy. The ‘formal sector’ consisted of regulated economic activities and the ‘informal sector’ of all those, both legal and illegal, lying beyond the scope of regulation. I did not identify the informal economy with a place or a class or even whole persons. Everyone in Accra, but especially the inhabitants of slums like Nima where I lived, tried to combine the two sources of income’ (Hart 2004).

Hart contended that the stabilization of economic activity within a bureaucratic framework, assuring a degree of certainty to both labour and capital, occurred only in the upper reaches of the economy of Accra. This observation may be taken as a motif for the workings of the economy of mid-Victorian London, as observed by Henry Mayhew, in which uncertainty and insecurity marked the lives of a multitude6.

 

3. The informal economy in history and literature: Henry Mayhew

Henry Mayhew was a Victorian journalist whose three volume study London Labour & the London Poor7, was published over the decade from 1851.To read Mayhew’s reports is to be reminded that the early period of industrialization in Britain involved much the same phenomena – urbanization and population movement, technological change and social dislocation – as are at work in the contemporary developing world. Victorian London had a significant and complex informal economy, supporting (as the novelist’s biographer tells us) ‘that toiling mass which we may briefly glimpse in the pages of Dickens but which he could not present in all its enormity’ (Ackroyd 1990, 678). ‘It was all there before [Dickens], on every corner in every street; and perhaps what is more remarkable still is the extent to which the poor represented not so much an underclass as a state within a state’. For Mayhew’s London was not part of that England of the ‘two nations’ depicted by Disraeli (1845). The ‘state within the state’ contained an underclass denied even such protection as the Factory Acts afforded the industrial worker or the Master and Servant Act the domestic. This was a ‘sub-proletariat’ sharing many characteristics with Hart’s Frafrain Nima8. In hindsight, both factory workers and servants should, by virtue of employment contracts and legislation, be regarded as ‘formal economy’ workers, while those denied protection by legislation were ‘informal’. Formal sector workers were only incidentally the subjects of London Labour and the London Poor.

Others had also remarked this aspect of London society. A contributor to the Quarterly Review commented in 1855 that

‘the most remarkable feature of London life is a class decidedly lower in the social scale than the labourer, and numerically very large, though the population returns do not number them among the inhabitants of the kingdom, who derive their living from the streets … for the most part their utmost efforts do little more than maintain them in a state of chronic starvation’ (cited by Jones 1971, 12).

Why this class existed in London (and essentially only in London among English towns and cities) is clarified by a reading of Outcast London, a study of the period by Gareth Stedman Jones (Jones 1971). Industrialisation and the factory system had emerged in northern cities and towns, whereas London was a commercial and financial hub and ‘a “national emporium” at the heart of the transport and distribution network’ (Jones 1971, 20). High rents in the city and its distance from coalfields rendered large-scale factory production increasingly uncompetitive, with London actually experiencing a degree of de-industrialization during the first half of the nineteenth century, although technical change enabled certain industries to survive, and even to thrive. ‘The invention of the sewing-machine in 1846 and the band-saw in 1858, and the adoption of mass sewing and cutting from 1850 provided the technical pre-conditions for a large scale ready-made clothing industry’, while ‘the use of steam power in sawmills from the end of the 1840s enormously accelerated furniture production’ (Jones 1971, 107).

Such innovations set the stage for ‘sweated’ production, maintaining competitiveness by economizing on wages and rents (the latter through rapid expansion of home-working). Innovation in management, and the control of trades by large wholesalers, facilitated ‘vertical disintegration’, breaking down production into multiple tasks suitable for semi- and unskilled labour. This gave greater flexibility to entrepreneurs and facilitated sub-contracting by ‘small masters’, although at the cost of the casualization and impoverishment of much of the remaining industrial workforce, for:

‘Once the technical problems had been solved … and the conditions of mass demand for cheap ready-made goods had been established by rising working class prosperity, manufacturers were able to take advantage of a cheap, overfilled, unskilled labour pool of women and immigrants who were prepared to work at sub-subsistence wages’ (Jones 1971, 22).

Manchester at mid-century, by contrast, was described as having been ‘the great symbol of the hopes and fears of the age’. Social thinkers had expectations for ‘the new society being forged by the Industrial Revolution’, in which much was expected of a ‘new northern factory proletariat’, among whom were emerging ‘working-class institutions embodying self-help, sobriety, and religious dissent’ (Jones 1971, 11). For comparison with London Jones quoted Beatrice Webb. She spoke of the industrial north and of ‘the other side of the process through which bad workmen and bad characters are attracted to the large town’. Webb saw this as due to an ‘outcasting force’, for ‘there are no odd jobs in a small community which depends on productive industries. Unless a man can work regularly he cannot work at all. Then a bad character is socially an outcast, the whole social life depending on the chapel and the co-op’. Jones concluded that ‘[t]he extensive survival of small-scale production in Victorian London determined that its economic structure, its social and political character, and its patterns of poverty remained largely distinct from those of other nineteenth-century industrial regions’ (Jones 1971, 32). For whereas industrialization, regulated by Victorian bureaucracy, had fostered a modern, formal labour force in the north, in London ‘the effect of the Industrial Revolution … was to accentuate its “pre-industrial” characteristics’ (Jones 1971, 26).

The world’s largest city, with over 2 million people in 1851, London was about twice the size of Paris. Its concentration of unemployed and casual labour was unprecedented. Seasonality of economic activity underlay the casualization of labour, contributing to ‘the glut of unskilled labour for which the capital was renowned’. In the ‘sweated’ trades a large part of the workforce ‘existed in ‘a casualized limbo, filling in its time between short periods of employment by invading an already overfilled general unskilled labour market’ (emphasis added). Some higher skills were transferable; for example the unemployed piano maker might turn to cabinet making, ‘but the marginal cabinet-maker could only turn to street-selling, firewood chopping or the docks’ while for the unemployed docker ‘the only solutions were either some form of casual employment, reliance upon his wife’s wages, or in the last resort, charity and the poor law’ (Jones 1971, 42-3).

In peopling his novels with the poor of these classes, Dickens ‘had no desire gratuitously to alienate his largely middle-class public, and took care to retain the social and sexual proprieties of the period’. There were ‘some things that could not be said’. That was left to Mayhew, whom Dickens knew personally and on whose work he may occasionally have drawn for colour and authenticity. As Ackroyd remarks, ‘there were terrible stories in Mayhew’s account, stories of the poor and desperate … more terrible than anything described by Dickens himself’ (Ackroyd 1990, 677). Certainly, there were degrees of desperation and poverty among the London poor and some identifiable groups were relatively better off. Upward mobility is one theme of the narrative, just as, in Nima, Hart was able to describe individuals who had accumulated capital and become relatively large operators in Accra’s informal economy.

Mayhew was more than a chronicler; he was a humanely engaged and analytical observer. He described six ‘distinct genera’ among the working poor of the streets. These included ‘sellers’, ‘buyers’ and ‘finders’. Then there was a diverse group of ‘performers, artists and showmen’ (with ‘many of the characteristics of the lower class of actors’) as well as ‘artisans or working pedlars’. These were described as ‘struggling men, who, unable to find any regular employment at their own trade, have made up a few things, and taken them to hawk in the streets, as the last shift of independence’. Finally, there was an army of ‘labourers’, engaged for the performance of a single service, or by the hour or the day, but all beyond the jurisdiction of Master and Servant legislation (Quennel 1984, 29-31).

Each of these six categories is sub-divided in extraordinary detail, showing the human diversity and ingenuity, as well as the desperation, to be found in the street economy of mid-century London. Mayhew practiced a kind of political arithmetick, attempting, in an age before social surveys and random sampling, to estimate the numbers of the poor sustained by one wretched occupation or another, calculating their earnings and contribution to gross output, cataloguing literally hundreds of trades and occupations in the process, often with wry humour. Thus a buyer of hare and rabbit skins, reflecting on the seasonality of his trade, tells Mayhew that ‘hareskins is in … from September to the end of March, when hares, they says, goes mad’ (Quennell 1984, 284). But rather than smiling at the quaintness of Mayhew’s descriptions, the modern reader might instead reflect on the spirit of inquiry and originality of thought that underlay his observations and calculations.

Mayhew has come, on the left at least, to be regarded as a kind of proto-ethnographer (Swift 2011). No doubt this evaluation owes as much to his sympathy for the underdog as to his analytical qualities. But Mayhew’s curiosity is certainly that of the social scientist. Consider, for example, his speculations concerning the origins of human occupations; in effect, a research agenda:

‘It would be … a curious inquiry to trace the origins of the manifold occupations in which men are found to be engaged in the present day, and to note how promptly every circumstance and occurrence was laid hold of, as it happened to arise, which appeared to have any tendency to open up a new occupation, and to mark the gradual progress, till it became a regularly-established employment, followed by a separate class of people, fenced round by rules and customs of their own, and who at length grew to be both in their habits and peculiarities plainly distinct from the other classes among whom they chanced to be located (Quennell 1984,317)’.

This passage, drawn from Mayhew’s discussion of the Thames ‘dredgermen’, shows an appreciation of what Hart calls ‘form’. The working lives of Mayhew’s dredgers did not conform with the emerging requirements of the industrial economy, bound by a legal and increasingly bureaucratic framework, and quite different from the ‘rules and customs’ distinguishing dredgermen as a group. These rules were of their own making, the result of historical evolution and the physical environment of the river, where particular skills and knowledge, together with some minimum capital requirements, acted to establish their conventions and limit their numbers. Unlike many others among the poor, the dredgers were not new arrivals but rather descendants of generations of watermen. They had adapted their traditional way of life to the exigencies of a new age and were as yet imperfectly incorporated into its ‘forms’.

Dredgers originated among fishermen and some still fished seasonally. As shipping and commerce on the river increased they attached themselves to the margins of this trade, using dragnets to dredge for coal and other saleable items lost or thrown overboard (‘barges are often sunk in the winter and on such occasions they make a good harvest’). Mayhew estimated that, in response to advertised rewards, as many as a hundred boat-owners between Putney and Gravesend vied to search for lost valuables. Upon intelligence of accidents or suicides, their boats would congregate in search of corpses. For recovering the dead dredgers were paid ‘inquest money’, sometimes also a reward, as well as seeking ‘other chances’, for ‘no body ever recovered by a dredgerman ever happens to have any money about it, when brought to shore’ (Quennel 1984, 323).

Of its nature opportunistic and irregular, the dredging trade brought highly variable returns, though its practitioners enjoyed greater autonomy and higher incomes than many members of the London labouring poor. On the river banks and mudflats, ‘mudlarks’ pursued more meagre livelihoods. Like the dredgers they also escaped official regulation, perhaps because society could not provide for them or because they feared society’s remedy. Many mudlarks were children or the very old, the former supplementing family earnings and the latter desperate to avoid the workhouse, together searching for scraps of coal and other salvageable items.

There were numerous other occupations described by Mayhew in which economic change and the increasing reach of the State impinged more directly upon livelihoods. These influences took many forms; some groups found their status to be defined by reference to parallel occupations, conducted within the fold of formality and yielding higher returns. For an example, consider‘the cabinet-makers … [who] consist, like all other operatives, of two distinct classes, that is to say, of society and non-society men … those whose wages are regulated by custom and those whose earnings are determined by competition’ (Quennell 1984, 546). ‘Society-men’ were employed in formal establishments under the Master and Servant Act, by masters who maintained standards (and earnings) by restricting numbers. Mayhew recorded that ‘as a general rule … I find the society-men of every trade comprise about one-tenth of the whole’. This ‘artisan aristocracy’ (Jones 1971, 338) resisted the competitive pressures for ‘sweated’ production.

Those outside the fold of guilds such as the cabinet society were ‘slop-workers’, ‘the cheap men or non-society hands – who constitute the great mass of paupers in this country’ (Quennell 1984, 548). They were employed at subsistence wages by ‘garret-masters’, described as ‘a class of small “trade-working masters”, supplying both capital and labour’. Cashflow problems, typically requiring the immediate sale of products, left them at the mercy of the ‘slaughter-house men’. This latter group was a new breed of distributors and diversified shop-keepers, emerging during the transition from an age of craftsmanship to an era of mass production for a growing middle and lower-middle class market, whose members were perhaps more price-sensitive and less discriminating. ‘Small-master’ tradesmen were obliged to ‘scamp’ their work, for ‘the slaughterers cared only to have them viewy and cheap’ (Mayhew III, Ch 7). They also felt compelled to employ growing numbers of young apprentices, displacing higher-paid tradesmen and sending many into the street occupations for survival.

Other occupations were characterized by vulnerability to the arbitrary actions of authorities, no doubt struggling to cope with the demands of change and burgeoning urban populations. For example, street people might suffer from opaque enforcement of regulations. The ambiguous legal status of street sellers (the first of Mayhew’s six ‘distinct genera’), was among the causes of the famous antagonism held for the police by Costermongers, a major and readily identifiable subgroup of the street-folk9. In London, as Mayhew observed, legal tensions surrounding the operations of street traders dated back to Elizabethan times. Traders were, in principle, free to hawk their wares through the streets, but the operations of street markets were cloaked in ambiguity; in this uncertainty lay the source of traders’ informal status. Municipal law held that no market for provisions could be held within seven miles of The City, but certain markets were nonetheless tolerated ‘by custom and usage’. Mayhew commented that ‘the right to sell provisions from stands in the streets of the metropolis … is merely permissive’. In practice, police tolerated trading from fixed stands in the absence of complaints from shopkeepers. Where ‘injury and nuisance’ to shopkeepers could be demonstrated, police closed markets and moved traders on, causing them considerable loss. Mayhew asked, rhetorically, ‘whether any particular body of householders should, for their own interest, convenience, or pleasure, have it in their power to deprive so many poor people of their only means of livelihood’. However, as he pointed out, such actions sometimes proved a double-edged sword. In the case of Leather Lane market, when shopkeepers secured its removal, the decline in their own trade persuaded them to petition its return, following which their takings were restored. As seen in many cities even today, synergy may exist between formal and informal, such that people drawn to a street by its informal trade will also patronize its shops.

To return to the notion of Mayhew as ‘proto-ethnographer’, this title may be justified by his detailed accounts of the character and habits of three notable groups in the London street economy. These were Costermongers, Jews and the Irish (with some members of the latter two groups accepted as Costermongers). Among the Costers, ‘one-half of the entire class are costermongers proper, that is to say, the calling with them is hereditary, and perhaps has been so for many generations; while the other half is composed of three-eighths Irish, and one-eighth mechanics, tradesmen, and Jews’. Others of the Irish, newly arrived from their famine-stricken homeland, were among the poorest (though better able to fend than orphans or the aged and infirm among the native English). Their desperation set an upper limit on returns in some street trades, causing them, for example, to displace Jewish traders from the low end of the used clothing and footwear markets. Many Jews in informal occupations were relatively young or newly arrived in England. These did not usually identify as Costers, nor were they accepted as such. Members of a community with a high degree of trust, the poorer and less-educated among them might make their start in relatively open and accessible branches of the street trades before taking up more promising opportunities. In Sketches by Boz (1836), Charles Dickens described such a scene:

‘The coach-office is all alive, and the coaches which are just going out, are surrounded by the usual crowd of Jews and nondescripts, who seem to consider, Heaven knows why, that it is quite impossible any man can mount a coach without requiring at least sixpenny-worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocket-book, a last year’s annual, a pencil-case, a piece of sponge, and a small series of caricatures’.

But by mid-century, after the street-Jews had been undersold by Irish traders in the vending of oranges, Mayhew’s inquiries yielded the intelligence that

‘even when the orange and hawking trade was at the best, the Jews rarely carried it on after they were twenty-two or twenty-three, but that they then resorted to some more wholesale calling, such as the purchase of nuts or foreign grapes, at public sales. At present, I am informed, they are more thickly than ever engaged in these trades, as well as in two new avocations, that have been established within these few years – the sale of the Bahama pineapples and of the Spanish and Portuguese onions’ (Mayhew I, Ch.5).

Costermongers, particularly those of the ‘hereditary’ class, were genuinely a ‘tribe’, with their own dress, argot and customs. In passages reminiscent of Hart’s description of the erratic Weberian haushalten of the improvident denizens of Nima, Mayhew provides an account of the Costermonger equivalent. Feckless by middle-class standards, intemperate, promiscuous, pugnacious and antagonistic to authority, they were not ‘capitalists’. Indeed, ‘not more than one-fourth of the entire body trade upon their own property. Some borrow their stock money, others borrow the stock itself, others again borrow the donkey-carts, barrows or baskets, in which their stock is carried round, whilst others borrow even the weights and measures by which it is meted out’ (Quennell 1984, 76).

But while Costers were frequently in debt, some were capable of improvement and became community leaders. There are strong parallels between the descriptions of upward mobility in Mayhew and Hart. Mayhew reported that ‘many of the better-class costers have risen into coal-shed men and greengrocers, and become settled in life’, a process sometimes facilitated by marriage outside the group. As an informant put it, ‘some marry the better kind of servants – such servant-maids as wouldn’t marry a rag and bottle shop, but doesn’t object to a coal shed’. For the most part, however, Mayhew observed that Costers ‘have generally no foresight’ and that ‘only an exceptional few are provident’. For such a Coster, the combination of thrift and industry

‘enables him in some few cases to become “a settled man,” … He perhaps gets to be the proprietor of a coal-shed, with a greengrocery and potato business attached to it … He may too … have a sum of money in the savings’-bank, or he may invest it in the purchase of a lease of the premises he occupies, or expend it in furnishing the rooms of his house to let them out to single-men lodgers; or he may become an usurer, and lend out his money to his less provident brethren at 1040 per cent per annum; or he may purchase largely at the markets, and engage youths to sell his surplus stock at half profits’ (Mayhew I, ‘Of the providence and improvidence of Costermongers’).

Compare this with Hart’s description (1973, 71) of upward mobility among the inhabitants of Nima. While debt and chronic insecurity were the lot of most,

‘Entrepreneurial activities in the services sector – transport operators, landlords, cornmill owners, commodity speculators, and so on – represent the apex of informal economic opportunities to the sub-proletariat. Their essential characteristic is that they are frequently part-time roles, entered by individuals who have accumulated savings by some other means and, in the absence of an advanced capital market, re-invest income under their own management in taxis and lorries, accommodation, bulk purchases of maize, and the like. Successful performance … [requires] specialised ‘know-how’ and the ability, through diversification of investments and delegation of tasks, to accommodate the considerable risks attendant on these one-man enterprises. Though income from such activities may be very high, they are often combined with a formal job’.

Hart does not mention money-lending here, though we know it to have been pervasive in Nima. It is difficult to imagine his entrepreneurs succeeding without deploying capital shrewdly through the provision of credit, as was done by Mayhew’s successful Costers. The patterns are similar, as are the activities pursued. In both, the successful draw on social networks for custom and support. One difference is the reliance on formal employment to underpin the successful Frafra entrepreneur. But perhaps, in Accra, growth of government employment in the decade after Ghana’s independence offered opportunities not available to the entrepreneurial poor in mid-Victorian London.

Mayhew’s investigations led him to conclude that the number of street people in London was some 40,000, including about 30,000 working Costermongers, of whom some 12,000 were men, while women and children numbered 6,000 and 12,000, respectively. Thus many children were economically active; Mayhew noted that ‘every coster trading through the streets with a barrow is accompanied by a boy, who helps in selling and moving the stock. In this way they learn the trade and usually become independent by the age of 16’. In addition to the Costermongers there were ‘2000 Street-Sellers of “Green-Stuff,” as Watercresses, Chickweed, and Groundsell, Turf, &c.; 4000 Street-Sellers of Eatables and Drinkables; 1000 selling Stationery, Books, Papers, and Engravings in the streets; and 4000 other street-sellers vending manufactured articles, either of metal, crockery, textile, chemical, or miscellaneous substances’ (Mayhew II, ‘Introduction’).

Mayhew believed his estimates were more accurate than the official data, claiming that street people had been grossly under-enumerated in the census of 1841. This recorded ‘only 2,045 “hawkers, hucksters, and pedlars,” in the metropolis, and no costermongers or street-sellers, or street-performers at all’. This inaccuracy was due to ‘not one in twenty of the costermongers, or of the people with whom they lodged, troubl[ing] themselves to fill up the census returns – the majority of them being unable to read and write, and others distrustful of the purpose for which the returns were wanted’ (Mayhew I, Of the number of Costermongers and other street folk). As in Nima in the 1960s, the non-enumeration of a significant class of the urban population was a marker of the informality of their economic activities. Mayhew drew attention to the ambiguity inherent in their status: They were ‘a body numbering thousands … allowed to live in the prosecution of the most ancient of all trades, sale or barter in the open air, by sufferance alone … [and] classed as unauthorized or illegal and intrusive traders, though they “turn over” millions in a year’ (Mayhew II, ‘Introduction’).

Here Mayhew was making a case for the valuable contribution of ‘hawkers, hucksters and pedlars’ to the needs of the formal economy. But, as in the case of Hart’s account of livelihoods in Nima, with its division between ‘legitimate and ‘illegitimate’ activities, he accepted also a responsibility to describe the underbelly of the economy of the London poor. There is a difference of approach, however. Hart was not censorious in his account of activities offensive to the morality of ‘respectable’ Ghanaians. He was making a serious point about the diverse source of livelihoods in Nima, the understanding of which should not be clouded by normative considerations. By contrast, Mayhew was, enlightened observer or not, nonetheless a Victorian and an ‘improver’. Hart was playing a longer game; for him the sources of inequality and injustice were to be found in ineluctable historical forces. But whatever about Mayhew’s moral stance, he was able to convey a sense of the importance of ‘illegitimate’ practices and sources of livelihood to at least some of the poor. These sources were by definition informal.

Sharp practice and adulteration abounded in the street trades, from the collection of cigar-ends by the destitute for sale and re-incorporation into the stock of ‘best Havannahs’, to the procurement of used tea leaves for resale, after drying and even (in the case of green tea) dyeing, to the use of bogus weights and measures to defraud the unwary. A persistent theme in Mayhew’s many accounts of street business is that traders, held to the meanest of margins in a brutal commerce, were apt to pass on their disadvantage. The ‘improvident’ coster, along with hiring his barrow, might also rent a ‘slang’ quart pot, containing one and a half pints rather than two. He would pay a higher daily rate than for the genuine article, as a premium ‘for the risk’ of its being detected and traced to the owner (Quennell 1984, 77). Such practices did not begin in mid-Victorian London, of course. But perhaps the ‘formality’ involved in the policing of weights and measures became more difficult to maintain in a rapidly-changing and growing metropolis.

While not as comprehensive or systematic as Hart’s catalogue of ne’er-do-wells, Mayhew’s gallery of miscreants and ‘lurkers’ is full of interest. Mayhew subjects them to the same scrutiny, and occasional humour, as marks his records of the law-abiding. For example, he gives an account of the stealers, ‘finders’ and restorers of dogs. Perhaps because of the eminence of some of the owners thus put upon by the ‘dog appropriators’ (Mayhew records ‘royalty, foreign ambassadors, peers, courtiers and ladies of rank’ among the aggrieved) the trade occasioned a Commons committee in 1844, and subsequent legislation (Quennell 1984, 229-237). Along with the earnings of the thieves, pickpockets, burglars and receivers described by Mayhew, much of this income amounts to what Hart (1973, 86) has described as the ‘transfer’ or ‘redistribution’ (within Accra) of ‘static wealth lying idle in the homes of the bourgeoisie’.

As well as being the unwilling source of such transfers, elements of ‘respectable’ society were avid, if discreet, clients of the substantial demi-monde of Victorian London, whose members were largely drawn from the ranks of the poor. Though Mayhew discusses prostitution and crime only incidentally in his initial volumes, these still contain abundant evidence of the importance of activities classified by Hart as ‘illegitimate’, as well as numerous categories of people living on their wits (for example, Mayhew’s ‘patterers’, ‘screevers’ and ‘cheap johns’, analogous to Hart’s ‘conmen’ and ‘spivs’). This paper has already referred to Mayhew’s Coster ‘usurers’, and the resort to ruinously expensive credit was a pervasive theme in his narrative.

The political fixers and ‘influence peddlars’ who feature in Hart’s pages are not prominent in Mayhew’s account, however. Whether this was a step too far for Mayhew (for his method required citing the testimony of informants and might have risked legal action or other censure) or whether London was less subject than Nima to such abuses, is open to conjecture. Peter Bauer, whose work will be discussed at length below, remarked on ‘the pervasive significance of the politicization of economic life in LDCs [less developed countries]’, an aspect of ‘the general politicization of life’ in such countries’. After Independence, many new governments moved to increase the role of the state in economic affairs, with measures such as ‘state monopoly of major branches of industry and trade’ and ‘the establishment of many state-owned and state-operated enterprises’, shoring up political support through the creation of public sector jobs (Bauer 1984, 142).

In sum, though, while making allowances for differences in context, there are indisputably strong parallels between these two ‘case studies’. ‘Illegitimate’ or illegal activities were of great importance in the informal economies of both Nima and mid-century London. As for ‘illegitimate’ informal activity, so for the legitimate; the parallels between 1960s Nima and 1850s London are persuasive and their respective chroniclers were concerned with essentially the same phenomena. Hart took the discussion further by providing a framework of analysis which continues to influence research and policy formation. For example, international institutions, which in the 1970s saw merit in encouraging the informal economy as a palliative for unemployment, now devote their energies to ‘formalizing the informal’. ‘Formalization policies’ include measures to facilitate small firms in meeting bureaucratic requirements for registration and incorporation10. Mayhew also offered policy prescriptions intended to improve the lot of people in the London informal economy and to recognize their contribution to the broader economy and society; some of these appear startlingly relevant to contemporary concerns.

Finally, Mayhew saw the importance of seasonality in the London labour market, and the connection between seasonal and casual labour, noting that both were exacerbated by the small-scale system of production and the sweating of labour. Stedman Jones concluded that ‘[i]n embryo at least, Mayhew provided a theory of the specificity of the London economy which in turn made intelligible the economic behavior of the London poor’ (Jones 1971, 263). Mayhew’s prescience is evident from his identification of themes which continue to inform our understanding of the ‘development’ process. These include the impact of technical innovation on traditional occupations, of the modernization of retailing on patterns of trading and opportunity for the poor, of the importance of informal sector production in meeting the consumption needs of the poor (as well as members of more ‘respectable’ society) and of the impact of changing legislation and regulation on patterns of informal activity.

 

  1. P T Bauer and the Transition from Subsistence to Exchange

We now turn to the emergence of the idea of the informal economy in the specialist economic literature, and consider a relatively isolated figure among early post-war development economists. The term ‘isolated’ is appropriate, since the minutiae of ‘grassroots’ economic activity among colonial peoples were then an unusual focus of research for orthodox economists11. A widely-prevailing assumption, that neoclassical economic theory could be applied to analysing the broad range of human societies, appeared to render unnecessary any close study of the specifics of particular cultures or indigenous economic systems. However Bauer’s interest in the transition from subsistence to wider exchange led him to document processes unnoticed or ignored by others. Walter Elkan (1982, 247) would later claim that Bauer’s early work ‘foreshadowed the discovery of the “informal sector”’ while Bauer’s collaborator Basil Yamey (1987, 22) also believed that ‘[Bauer] was the first economist to recognize the extent and economic significance of what has come to be known as the informal sector’.In what follows his work will be examined with a view to assessing the significance of his contribution.

Bauer was isolated also in being a notable contrarian, placing himself in the classical or Smithian tradition during the heady post-war days of interventionist development planning. Deepak Lal (2002, 75) described him as having been ‘virtually a pariah in his chosen sub-discipline – development economics’, because of his opposition to the ‘fashionable planning and dirigisme of the 1950s and 1960s’, which employed a kind of ‘priceless economics’. Lord Bauer (he was later ennobled by Mrs Thatcher) has now, a decade or so after his death, achieved the status of libertarian ikon in such circles as the Cato Institute, the Institute for Economic Affairs and the Centre for Independent Studies12.

Some of Bauer’s work of relevance to the informal economy was published jointly with Basil Yamey. In retrospect, Bauer acknowledged the importance of this partnership, although, by his customary use of the first person singular he may have encouraged some to think otherwise. This perception was reinforced by Yamey’s habitual self-effacement. The original fieldwork in late-colonial territories and the observations stemming from this (essential to my account of the emergence of the ‘informal economy’) appear to have been Bauer’s sole responsibility. Yet the principal documents relied on here also bear Yamey’s name (Bauer and Yamey 1951, 1957). Yamey’s contribution may be sufficiently evident from the text and footnotes in this study and from their separate accounts of the relationship (Bauer 1984), (Yamey 1987, 2002, 2005). Peter Bauer was eventually recognized by inclusion in the first World Bank volume on the history of development economics, Pioneers in Development (World Bank 1984), to which he made a characteristically pungent contribution. Indeed one might say of Bauer that he parlayed a relatively small corpus of empirical work into a lifelong career, and that with each retelling his description became more polished, his conclusions more emphatic and his barbs more sharp. It is also necessary to say that his anecdotes grew more familiar.

Bauer is included in this study for two primary reasons. The first is the importance of his pioneering studies of internal trade and entrepreneurial activity among the people of colonial West Africa and Malaya in the early postwar years (Bauer 1948, 1954). The second is his contestation of propositions on the occupational distribution of labour during the course of economic growth (Bauer and Yamey 1951, 1957), derived from William Petty (1690) by way of A G B Fisher (1933) and Colin Clark (1940). Insofar as this concerned the role of the service sector in development it is highly relevant to the informal economy. Bauer’s setting was late-colonial, with particular reference to British West Africa (especially contemporary Ghana and Nigeria) and, to a lesser degree, British Malaya. Colonial governments played a major role, in administration and as providers of formal employment, while European trading houses, often with plantation interests, dominated large-scale economic activity. As in other such situations, a subsidiary class of ethnic-minority traders (for example, Chinese, Indians, ‘Levantines’) acted as intermediaries with the broader population. Bauer pointed to the spontaneous and substantial expansion of smallholder plantings of export crops, especially rubber and cocoa, in West Africa and Malaya, occurring due to the enterprise and energy of native peoples. Such agricultural investment was accompanied by intensive trading and other service activities and this indigenous economic complex was his primary focus. Bauer’s study of the indigenous economy and its interaction with the national and international economies has provided an account of an intricate and fascinating set of phenomena. In hindsight, we may now choose to characterize this as an ‘informal economy’, though whether he had in mind so clear-cut a distinction is doubtful.

Bauer’s concern was to document the entrepreneurial capacities and energy of some colonized peoples and to expose the ‘hollowness’ of popular ‘stereotypes’ concerning their incapacity for planning, capital accumulation and entrepreneurship. This project was subject to caveats however; for example, economists needed to take account of such matters as ‘the effects of different systems of land tenure, or of family obligations, on agricultural productivity and the supply of labour in non-agricultural occupations’. These were issues beyond the purview of neoclassical theory, which operated at a level of abstraction such that ‘the principal long-term determinants of income and growth, such as the factors underlying the growth of capital, the size of population, the attitude towards work, saving and risk-bearing, the quality of entrepreneurship and the extent of markets, were considered as institutional forces or as facts given, as data, to the economist’ (Bauer and Yamey 1957, 10).

The indigenous economy of British West Africa was indisputably ‘other’ than that of the government, the trading houses and the ethnic intermediary class which comprised the ‘official’ economy. But it was not the degree of ‘otherness’ implied by dual-sector models, conceived in terms of widely-divergent ‘capitalist’ and ‘subsistence’ sectors. In his review of W Arthur Lewis’ (1955), Theory of Economic Growth, Bauer (1956, 633) criticized the Lewis model for its ‘too sharp’ distinction between ‘stagnant’ agricultural and dynamic capitalist sectors. This characterization, he believed, neglected the capacity for capital accumulation in the subsistence sector (evidenced, for example, by smallholder investment in commercial cropping). Similarly, it is difficult to imagine Bauer’s being sympathetic to any ‘too sharp’ distinction between formal and informal economic activity (just as Hart had emphasized the propensity for individuals to operate in both, playing a variety of roles). Bauer might perhaps have accepted the formal/informal labels as names for the end-points on a continuum, but not as ‘sectors’ on either side of a dichotomy. His colonial economy was an organic entity, amenable to analysis using a set of ‘versatile general-purpose tools’. These were ‘the basic elements of supply and demand analysis … the theory of inflation, the concepts of substitution at the margin, and of the complementary or competitive relationship between factors of production’, which would prove ‘equally enlightening whether used to elucidate events and circumstances in advanced or in under-developed countries’ (Bauer and Yamey 1957, 8).

Intimations of the informal economy are unmistakable, nonetheless, in a controversy concerning the sectoral distribution of labour, initiated by Bauer and Yamey in 1951. Commencing with a paper in the Economic Journal and elaborated in their book The Economics of Under-developed Countries (Bauer and Yamey 1951, 1957)13, they challenged a proposition associated with Colin Clark’s Conditions of Economic Progress (1940) and AGB Fisher’s Economic Progress and Social Security (1945). What came later to be known as the ‘Clark-Fisher hypothesis’ had earlier origins, in William Petty’s Political Arithmetick (Petty, 1690). Colin Clark (1984), writing in Pioneers in Development, acknowledged

‘That agriculture should show a decline in its relative importance in employment and in national product, with manufacturing showing first a rise and then a decline in favour of services, was a generalization (emphasis added) first made as long ago as the seventeenth century by Sir William Petty’.

Bauer and Yamey (1951, 741) disputed the proposition that (as they phrased it) ‘economic progress is generally associated with certain distinct, necessary and predictable changes in occupational distribution, in particular with a relative increase in the numbers engaged in tertiary activities’. They contended that a combination of data deficiencies and inadequate observation underlay this hypothesis, charging that it could not bear empirical scrutiny and indeed reflected a degree of economic determinism. Later they described the Clark-Fisher hypothesis as challenged by two characteristics of developing country labour markets. These were the ‘imperfect specialization’ of individual workers – a concept acknowledged as originating from Adam Smith – and their ‘occupational fluidity’ (Bauer and Yamey 1957). These elements contributed to a greater allocation of labour to tertiary or ‘service’ occupations during the early stages of development than was anticipated by the Clark-Fisher hypothesis. This proposition appears to have had considerable influence on the research of Richard Salisbury, who appears below as another ‘forerunner’ of Hart’s informal economy.

Imperfect specialization of labour was masked by the unreliability of conventional census data concerning occupations. In practice, however, the phenomenon was apparent from simple observation of the livelihoods of people in agriculture. ‘Many of the so-called farmers (emphasis added) spend a large part of their time in small-scale transport, porterage and trade both during the farming season and much more so outside the season. They may trade not only in the goods they themselves have produced, but also in goods purchased by them for resale’. Occupational specialization should be termed ‘imperfect’ because such people operated in both the agricultural and service sectors. Further, imperfect occupational specialization was not confined to agriculture, anymore than it was confinedtorural areas or low-status individuals. Doctors, lawyers and traditional chiefs often had trading interests alongside their primary occupations, as did government employees and the domestic servants of Europeans. Like Keith Hart, Bauer observed ‘moonlighting’ in early post-war West Africa, with wage-earning individuals also active in the informal economy.

‘Fluidity of occupations’ was cited as a second stumbling block for the Clark-Fisher hypothesis. As with ‘imperfect specialization’, this characteristic is not easily captured in official data. It was the result of easy entry to many service tasks requiring only low levels of skill and capital for their performance. Mirroring the situation of some street trades in Mayhew’s London, ‘people can generally move with little sacrifice or difficulty within a wide range of occupations in accordance with changes in prospective net advantages. These activities include various forms of small-scale trading, the supply of the less-mechanized forms of transport service, and the provision of personal services generally. Many farmers are at no disadvantage in small-scale trading provided they have the small amount of capital which is required in this relatively unskilled activity’.

Because of imperfect specialization and fluidity in occupational choice, ‘the economic activity of many people in under-developed countries is better described as the performance of a number of different tasks than as the pursuit of a definite occupation’. Yet this rich and diverse set of ‘subsidiary’ activities was typically not captured by census data even though they constituted a large share of aggregate labour time, just as ‘the trading activities of children and of many wives are not likely to find their way into the statistical tabulations’. Recording such people as employed in agriculture led to substantial under-enumeration of the service sector.

Bauer and Yamey (1957, 42) took flourishing tertiary sector employment in West Africa and some other contemporary developing economies as an instance of ‘a well known theme in economic history’, that is, ‘the crucial role of trade and transport in quickening the process of economic growth and in extending the money economy’. As for an explanation of the importance of service occupations in the aggregate allocation of labour time during that ‘quickening’, they observed that what resources are used in trade, transport and other service industries, at a given level of techniques, depends on relative costs and scarcities. ‘In an economy such as West Africa, where capital is scarce and expensive and unskilled labour abundant and cheap, the large volume of resources in distribution and transport consists very largely of labour. This tendency … permeates West African trading arrangements’ (1951, 745).

Thus, ‘once the level of economic activity has risen from that of a subsistence economy to that of an emerging exchange economy … the task of distribution may require a substantial volume of resources’. In such an economic environment ‘the indispensable tasks of assembly, bulking, transport, breaking of bulk, and dispersal’ may require a significant proportion of available labour power. Conditions in West Africa (‘dispersed farmers and holdings, poor natural communications and long distances, and the difficulties of prolonging storage in the open’) suggested also the need for substantial resources to be applied to transport (1951, 743). They invoked Adam Smith to explain ‘imperfect specialization’ in terms of the narrowness of markets. Markets were limited due to the poverty of consumers, but also to the relative poverty of traders, much of whose behavior was explained by scarcity of capital. Traders faced high transport costs and lacked capital to finance the accumulation and storage of stocks. Cheap labour was substituted for expensive capital in transporting commodities as well as by economizing on the costs of storage (‘which in effect is transport through time’). More recently, such calculation has underpinned the adoption of ‘just in time’ processes in modern manufacturing.

But if traders lacked capital, this constraint bound many consumers as well. The possession of even a tiny amount of capital offers a trading opportunity for some, in offering services to the poor which higher-income consumers would provide for themselves. Petty traders, in effect, hold inventory for the poor by dealing from a small stock in minute quantities, just as coal-dealers in poor neighbourhoods of Mayhew’s London broke down fuel into small parcels for use over a day or two. Examples, which remain valid in some twenty-first century contexts, include ‘the West African petty retailer selling perfume by the drop or cigarettes by the piece, the woman spending a full day selling a dozen mangoes in a Caribbean market, and the woman selling paraffin in small quantities from door to door in a Thai village’. Bauer and Yamey explained these as ‘examples of an intermediary performing the functions of proximate stockholder, which in a wealthier country would be performed by each consumer for himself’. Proximate stockholding might also extend to modest items of capital equipment which were, nevertheless, beyond the resources of individuals to buy for themselves. Reminiscent of Mayhew’s ‘improvident’ Costers, hiring the tools of their trade day by day, bicycles might be offered for hire to transport people or goods, or even the services of bicycle pumps, enabling petty entrepreneurs to conserve working capital.

Bauer and Yamey (1951, 745) gave other examples demonstrating the importance of services provided by ‘imperfectly specialized’ labour. These included trading in empty containers (manufactured items such as petrol drums, tins, cans, bags and bottles, as distinct from traditional containers) which had been reconditioned for re-use. These might become household utensils or other commodities, though most often they were re-used in the storage and movement of goods. In a reminder of Mayhew’s Rag and Bottle shops, ‘[t]hose who seek out, purchase, carry and distribute second-hand containers maintain the stock of capital. They prevent the destruction of the containers, usually improve their condition, distribute them to where they can best be used, and so extend their usefulness, the intensity of their use, and their effective life’. Such recycling activities were ‘highly economic in substituting superabundant for scarce resources; within the limits of available technical skill nothing is wasted in West Africa’. Neither was there much waste obvious in Mayhew’s London, where a ragged army of ‘finders’ and ‘buyers’ sought out a wide range of materials for reprocessing and re-use.

The same logic applied in agriculture: for peasant agriculturalists the scarcity of capital ‘is reflected in the absence of suitable storage facilities and of cash reserves’. This had consequences for trade and distribution. Thus, ‘each producer has to dispose of small quantities of produce at frequent intervals as they become available during and immediately after the harvesting season. This postulates a large number of intermediaries who … employ methods of transportation using relatively little capital and much labour. Donkey and bicycle transport are examples, while in some cases there is still head loading and human porterage, especially in the short-distance movement of local crops. The available transport equipment is used continuously with the assistance of large quantities of labour (subject to frequent breakdowns owing to poor roads and low technical skill)’.

Notwithstanding the importance of ‘imperfect specialization of labour’, some specialization did occur even at relatively early stages in the emergence of exchange, and in forms perhaps surprising to observers from high-income countries. Thus, ‘in many under-developed countries narrowness of markets, which discourages occupational specialization, is found together with a more elaborate or minute division of labour in certain economic activities than is usual in richer countries. Some services which in richer countries are usually performed by consumers for themselves are … provided commercially, often in large volume in the aggregate’. For example, because personal services, such as those of tailors, barbers and beauticians were relatively cheaper in such countries, ‘the better-off people of the poor country are likely to buy more of these services than their counterparts in richer countries’. For this same reason domestic servants were seen as ‘conventional necessaries for all but the poorest’ in poor countries. Again, where particular skills or training were scarce, the holders of such skills could convert them into an income-earning opportunity (as with illiteracy, where letter-writers and readers were in demand, often offering their services in marketplaces).

As development proceeds, however, ‘occupational specialization generally becomes more marked, and at the same time the fluidity of labour between occupations is reduced. Markets are extended with improvements in transport and increased purchasing power, so that specialization becomes more profitable. Moreover the increase in capital requirements and the improvements in techniques of production limit the movement of people between economic activities’. Such changes represent incremental steps away from occupational fluidity.

In terms of the occupational distribution of labour, the particular interest of Bauer and Yamey’s observations lay in pointing to the importance of ‘tertiary’ employment at very early stages of economic development, rather than at later stages as suggested by the Clark-Fisher hypothesis. It must be pointed out that their ‘tertiary’ activities were of a different order from those which Clark saw as becoming predominant with the progress of development. In summary, however, Bauer and Yamey asserted that tertiary sector employment, far from being the consequence of economic development, was a necessary element in the transition from subsistence to exchange, because:

‘in West Africa, as in other emerging economies, the indispensible task of commodity distribution is expensive relatively to available resources … the multiplicity of traders is the result of the mass use of unskilled labour instead of capital in the performance of the task of distribution. There is an extensive demand for the services of intermediaries, and there is a large section of the population available to perform these services at a low supply price in terms of daily earnings’.

Thus, pace Clark and Fisher, Bauer and Yamey concluded (1951, 747) that ‘there are severe limitations and qualifications to the view that a high proportion of labour in tertiary production is both a consequence of and a pointer to a high standard of living’. The qualification they offered to this view was based on an examination of occupational distribution during relatively early stages of the transition to market exchange – an observation of importance to our understanding of the informal economy, but scarcely a refutation of the Clark/Fisher hypothesis as a long-run proposition. In hindsight, their qualification of Clark/Fisher has not proved influential and contemporary research continues to explore the causal mechanisms of ‘the shift to services employment’ rather than the direction of that shift14. For this reason neither the brief debate in the 1950s on the Bauer and Yamey thesis, nor the considerable literature since accumulated, is explored here.

For the purposes of this paper, the importance of Bauer and Yamey’s intervention does not lie in its attempt to challenge a well-established generalization concerning growth and structural change, but rather in its pioneering account of indigenous trading and service activities. While these are observed with a sharp eye for social and cultural context, Bauer does not deal with what Hart termed ‘illegitimate’ activity. This major feature of life in Nima is entirely absent from Bauer’s account. References to petty manufacturing and the varieties of ‘transfer’ documented by Hart are also few. Bauer’s account of the informal economy appears to some degree unbalanced by his preoccupation with the role of trade and transport in the transition from subsistence.

Bauer’s argument in his discussion of occupational specialization turned on the difficulties of enumeration; this is a central criterion in defining informal economic activity. In Bauer’s analysis, increasing specialization tended to lead to what we would now see as more formalized occupational roles. Bauer’s ‘imperfect specialization’ and ‘occupational fluidity’ of labour also emerged strongly in Mayhew’s account of the ‘casualized’ labour market of Victorian London. Bauer also emphasized the potentially-multiple activities of people in situations of ‘occupational fluidity’. This emphasis was consistent with Hart’s account of people performing multiple occupational roles. Bauer, like Hart, detected a high incidence of ‘moonlighting’ among those with formal waged employment, though Hart’s emphasis on the importance of the reliability of income streams was lacking in Bauer’s account.

Whereas Hart’s narrative dealt almost exclusively with an urban informal economy, Bauer’s story gives more attention to informal activity in the rural sector, as well as dealing with the role of trade in creating rural-urban economic linkages. Bauer’s account gives rather more attention than Hart’s to the economic activities of women (leaving aside the ‘red light’ elements in Hart’s narrative). On the other hand, Mayhew provided considerably more information on the economic activities of women than either of them. Mayhew’s work, like Hart’s, dealt largely with the urban economy, though he had numerous examples of rural-urban interactions, dealing (for example) with seasonal labour and itinerant trading.

Hart’s emphasis on transfers within social networks as an urban reflection of traditional relationships, while not entirely absent from Bauer’s narrative, suggested the former’s anthropological perspective. Bauer’s application of ‘versatile general purpose [economic] tools’ provided us, for those aspects of informal activity which interested him, with a fine-grained explanation of non-agricultural livelihoods. Bauer was more positive than Hart about the economic value of informal employment (though here again his selective attention to trade and services should be remembered). Hart’s more limited economic analysis stressed interactions between formal and informal ‘sectors’, couched in terms of ‘export’ and ‘import’ transactions. Bauer’s account dealt with the colonial economy as a more organic entity – a continuum of economic activity ranging from (as we might now style it) the ‘formal’ to the ‘informal’ – but all amenable to a common framework of analysis. Much later in his career Bauer (1984, 38) was happy enough to accept Walter Elkan’s encomium, that he had ‘foreshadowed’ the ‘discovery’ of the informal sector. But while Bauer was certainly a forerunner of the idea, Elkan was correct to imply that he was not indeed its ‘discoverer’.

 

  1. Richard Salisbury: Services asLeading Sector

In 1972, the (then) Territory of Papua and New Guinea was among the earliest states in which Keith Hart’s idea of an urban informal economy was introduced into policy discussion. Hart brought the idea to Papua New Guinea (PNG) as a member of a consulting team, the ‘Faber Mission’. This had been commissioned by UNDP, to advise on economic policy for a soon-to-be self-governing PNG (Overseas Development Group 1973). On arrival, Hart was taken aback to find that informal economic activity appeared conspicuous by its absence in PNG’s few small urban centres. His recommendation that its growth should be encouraged found a receptive audience among economic nationalists, and the idea of the informal ‘sector’ achieved a degree of influence, at least at the level of rhetoric, on early planning priorities and in the constitution of the new State. This was drafted with several clauses implying the duty of government to support and encourage informal economic activities (Papua New Guinea 1975).

Papua New Guinea will, coincidentally, figure in this narrative as the country in which another forerunner of the informal economy developed his ideas, before the advent of Hart and the Faber Mission. On the basis of anthropological fieldwork in two contrasting and widely-separated districts of PNG, Richard Salisbury came to the view that service, or tertiary, activities could play the role of ‘leading sector’ in the transition from subsistence agriculture to market exchange. This paper will examine his work to consider whether, and in what fashion, he anticipated the idea of the informal economy, particularly in his account of the economic development of the Tolai people of the Gazelle Peninsula of New Britain.

At the time of Salisbury’s work with them, some ten years before the visit of Keith Hart, the Tolai were possibly the most prosperous and progressive population group in PNG. For reasons to be explained, they had achieved a relatively high degree of intra-regional trade and exchange and a number of non-traditional sources of income. Conditions for a flourishing informal economy were probably more favourable on the Gazelle Peninsula than elsewhere at the time. It will be useful to consider the extent to which informal economic activity had indeed developed there in the late-colonial period and, if so, the degree to which Salisbury appreciated its significance. First, however, it is necessary to introduce the two studies on which Salisbury’s ideas were founded.

The Siane people of the Eastern Highlands of New Guinea and the Tolaiof the Gazelle Peninsula, on the island of New Britain, both experienced rapid social and economic change after the Pacific war. Salisbury lived among the Siane in the period 1952-53, quite soon after the introduction of steel tools had revolutionized aspects of their agriculture and social relations. The Siane were at an early stage of transition from a ‘pure’, non-monetized subsistence economy (Salisbury 1962), whereas the Tolai, with whom he worked between 1961 and 1963, were further along that transition path, with an agricultural system combining subsistence and export crops. Tolai experience of international trade and the monetized economy, colonialism and Christianity had begun much earlier, during the 1870s (Salisbury 1970).

The introduction of the steel axe to the Siane released labour-time, which ‘was used for politicking, ceremonials, legal disputes, and fighting’. These proved to be elements in a process of ‘political consolidation’ which occurred, for reasons specific to each case, among both the Siane and the Tolai. In each of these societies, larger social groupings coalesced around emergent leaders exercising more effective political control. This in turn led to ‘organizational innovation’ and ‘the development of new consumer demands’ (Salisbury 1970, 10-11). In his view, increasing levels of political activity, combining with capacity to make decisions at the local level, produced in each of these societies a socially-beneficial consolidation of political authority, from which further economic progress could flow.

In a little-known paper published in 1971, Salisbury drew together findings from his 1962 Siane study (From Stone to Steel: Economic Consequences of a Technological change in New Guinea) and his 1970 Tolai publication (Vunamami: Economic Transformation in a Traditional Society). The 1971 paper shows some congruence with the ideas of other ‘forerunners’ of the informal economy and with those of Hart himself. Titled Development through the Service Industries, it contended that ‘under certain conditions [the service industries] may be the dynamic sectors of an economy’. Salisbury explicitly rejected the view that ‘following Colin Clark’s schema of development’, services ‘are looked for … as properly emerging only after primary and secondary industry have achieved certain levels of production’. In fact, in both of his PNG cases, ‘service industries have proved the leading sector, in the Tolai case for almost one hundred years’ (Salisbury 1971, 57). These views echoed Peter Bauer who, as we have already seen, rejected the ‘Clark-Fisher hypothesis’, contending instead that services were crucial from the very beginning, ‘in quickening the process of economic growth and in extending the money economy’. In the very last sentence of From Stone to Steel, Salisbury (1962, 213) offered his Siane study as a building block towards understanding ‘the complex mechanisms which Bauer and Yamey have called the Economics of Under-developed Countries’. This may fairly be taken as acknowledging an intellectual debt.

Nor was this the only such debt. Salisbury commenced his anthropological career as an unabashed formalist, crediting the influence of the neoclassical economist and methodologist Lionel Robbins (1935). In the spirit of Robbins, Salisbury (1962, 3-4) set out to describe activities ‘in which [the Siane] appear to organize their behavior in terms of a rational calculation of the quantities of goods or services produced, exchanged or consumed, in such a way as to allocate scarce means to meet competing ends’. Keith Hart, himself no formalist, would later comment that Stone to Steel had demonstrated ‘that a formalist premise was not incompatible with rich and nuanced ethnographic arguments’ (Hann and Hart 2011, 68).

In his 1971 paper Salisbury attempted a theoretical model of the role of the service sector in development, to generalize the empirical findings of his Siane and Tolai studies. The model is described as emerging from ‘a social evolutionary perspective’, a branch of social theory given to identifying ‘stages’ in the course of human progress. Many writers, from Adam Smith to Karl Marx, and from Lewis Henry Morgan to Walt Rostow, have discerned such stages. From the work of Marshall Sahlins (1958), Salisbury drew the observation that ‘in generally undifferentiated subsistence societies the first full-time specialist occupations to occur are political and religious ones’. Further, in such societies, ‘the actual proportion of the labour force employed in service production would be much higher than the figures of full-time specialists would indicate because of part-time involvement in politics and religion’ (Salisbury 1971, 57). This sounds very much like Peter Bauer’s explanation of errors in colonial labour force data resulting from ‘imperfect specialization’.

Salisbury concluded that, if trading or gift-exchange were also regarded as tertiary activity, the proportion of subsistence ‘manpower’ employed in services among the Siane may have been as much as 20 percent. Ceremonial gift-exchange is a means by which aspirants to political leadership in Melanesia strive for status and prestige. Such exchanges were a thoroughly traditional element in the process of Salisbury’s ‘political consolidation’. For the Siane and the Tolai, increased levels and frequency of gift-exchange were a culturally-appropriate means of enjoying the additional leisure time made available by labour-saving innovation. While a 20 percent allocation of labour-time to this and other ‘services’ might seem high in a subsistence agricultural economy, Bauer and Yamey would not have been surprised by such a finding. It was substantially greater than the share of ‘manpower’ engaged in manufacturing, including craft-goods (Salisbury 1971, 57).

Salisbury compared his case-study data for services with statistics for the historical growth of service sectors in a number of industrial economies. He interpreted these to support an argument that ‘in a context of social welfare … the volume of services generally available within the society is a better measure of “real development” than is an index based on money or on quantities of goods’ (Salisbury 1971, 58). From this assertion he developed a somewhat convoluted and eclectic argument, derived from the ‘development of under-development’ school of political economy, and incorporating the ‘agricultural involution’ of Clifford Geertz. In Salisbury’s view, ‘under-development’ occurs when subsistence economies are diverted from what is, in some sense, the ‘normal’ (that is, organic or correct) path of development. An extended quotation here may be the best way to convey the flavour:

‘[U]nderdevelopment is itself a process that takes something away from non-developed countries like New Guinea or nineteenth century Africa (e.g., Frank 1967). Such countries absorb, or are absorbed by, complex technologies and political structures but undergo a reduction in the local provision of services. The process of under-development is one that makes simple but labour-efficient agriculture more labour-intensive (c.f., Geertz 1963b), absorbing a larger proportion of the labour force, but taking the provision of services away from the rural or poorer areas, and centralizing them in either capital cities or metropolitan countries. This centralization … retards the “normal” pattern of development and differentiation within rural or colonial areas’ (Salisbury 1971, 58).

So the Siane and Tolai would, in the absence of the centralizing forces of ‘under-development’, proceed along a ‘normal’ (that is, decentralized) path in which village ‘services’ (whose definition we shall shortly examine)form the leading sector. Political consolidation and the retention of decision-making authority at the local level are crucial elements in this scenario. But, if made subject to centralizing forces, Tolai and Siane would likely fall prey to what Clifford Geertz, writing of Java, had described as ‘agricultural involution’. So bald a paraphrase probably does rough justice to Salisbury’s argument, but further comment will be withheld until his application of it to Papua New Guinea has been discussed.

One of the more interesting aspects of Salisbury’s work was his detailed measurement of Siane and Tolai labour use. By preparing ‘time budgets’, he was able to measure how people who might otherwise be regarded simply as subsistence cultivators actually apportioned their time between various activities. Such an approach, had it been employed by Peter Bauer in West Africa, could have illuminated his discussion of the ‘imperfect specialization’ of labour and the dangers of using official data as a guide to its sectoral distribution. Salisbury was able to show (1971, 59) that among the Tolai most subsistence cultivators (and especially men) ‘usually work part-time, often voluntarily and without pay, at what may be called service activities, providing entertainment, education, organization and assistance to their neighbours where specialized agencies to provide them do not exist’. This is an important clue to Salisbury’s understanding of the ‘service’ sector. It was clear from Salisbury’s time budgets that official data tended to ‘overestimate the proportion of labour self-employed in agriculture’ and ‘underestimate the proportion of service work performed’ (1971, 59).

For the Siane, whose subsistence production was non-monetized, Salisbury collected relatively straight-forward time budget data (measured as ‘labour cost’ in terms of time). For the Tolai his task was more complicated, though also more illuminating, due to their use of traditional ‘shell-money’ currency. This circulated alongside Australian currency, but (1971, 59) ‘with different implied rates of exchange in different spheres of trade’. This carried the advantage that ‘subsistence production consumed locally can be compared either quantitatively or by cash value with store-bought foods. Imputed wage rates (in shell-money) can be calculated for traditional service activities’ (1971, 59). He was able not only to measure Tolai time inputs as between various activities, but also to establish approximate income differentials between subsistence, service and other forms of employment.

Salisbury’s vision of the role of services in a subsistence economy undergoing transformation, and the nature of the services he had in mind, is further clarified in his conclusion to the 1971 paper:

‘In countries where there is an approximate internal self-sufficiency in foodstuffs, encouragement of local (and particularly rural) self-help projects in education, marketing, artistic endeavour, housebuilding, athletics, or leisure generally, service industries may well turn services into a leading sector, may absorb unemployment, provide incentives to labour-saving innovations in productive activities, encourage entrepreneurship, facilitate investment and make changes in the average standard of living in such societies, without the need for large additional outside investments. Development through service industries can be a pattern for grass-roots development’ (1971, 65).

Salisbury envisaged many of these services being provided by local government- and church-related entities, as a dividend of the ‘political consolidation’ process, and flowing from the energies of political and community organizers. At the local level, ‘the process of economic development can be seen as involving both technological improvement and the desire by the people to provide increased services for themselves’ (1970, 351). This process occurs in an emerging public sphere, based on newly-created local institutions. Nonetheless, as we shall see, Vunamami is replete with instances of private, for-profit informal enterprise, whether based on groups or individuals. Moreover, his Tolai local government enterprises often had more the character of informal public-private partnerships than a corporate form recognizable to Western eyes. With the exception of the Tolai Cocoa Project, to be discussed below, such activities generally lacked the element of formality bestowed by bureaucratic intervention.

The role of services in the transition from subsistence is a major theme of Vunamami. The Tolai experienced four successive instances of labour-saving agricultural change over the period 1875-1960 (Salisbury 1971, 60). Each of these permitted either the production of a given quantum of output with less labour input, or the expansion of output for the same level of labour input. The four changes were presented as ‘sequences’, a term used by Salisbury in both his Siane and Tolai studies, and equivalent to ‘stages’, as commonly found in the social evolutionary literature. Indeed Salisbury (1962b, 338) explicitly compared his sequences with Rostow’s ‘stages of growth’. In the first sequence, commencing about 1875, Tolai took the opportunity to exchange surplus coconuts for trade goods with Europeans. In the second, commencing during the 1890s, they began to expand their plantings of coconut palms for this trade. In the third, from the late 1930s, Tolai adopted the hot-air copra dryer to add value to their crop. Fourth, and most recently before Salisbury’s arrival, from the late 1950s they adopted cocoa as a new export crop, together with associated mechanized processing. The effect of each of these changes was, broadly speaking, to release a larger proportion of labour inputs to be applied to service activities.

Rather than the discrete movement of individuals from one occupation to another, it is more accurate to think in terms of changes in the proportions of aggregate labour input,as individuals adjusted their own labour inputs between multiple activities. Labour-saving change, occurring in a situation where (apparently) there was little demand for increased material output, would have produced ‘technological unemployment’ if workers had not been able to diversify, spending more time productively in service activities. While there was some increase in the ownership of material goods, the most notable effect was non-material. ‘“Prosperity” was evidenced more by greater leisure and a varied quality to social life than the ownership of material goods, although this did increase also’ (Salisbury 1971, 60). In this context, ‘leisure’ appears to have included engagement in group activities, such as ceremony and exchange, in local government, and in church and community affairs (described above as the dividends of political consolidation). While these may not be regarded as ‘leisure activities’ in a Western individualistic sense, their potential for building social capital suggests their value in the social systems of the Siane and the Tolai.

As Salisbury explained in Vunamami, this shift to leisure ‘would occur only if existing demand for food and subsistence requisites were already met – in other words, in a relatively affluent society’ (1970, 11). Labour was not unlimited in supply; in fact it was scarce, relative to the natural resource endowment and productive potential of the Tolai lands. Salisbury’s data for land-use and labour inputs in Vunamami supported the contention that the Tolai were ‘affluent’ in subsistence terms. Thus, for 1961, he reported that ‘Vunamami, thanks to its women, still is … virtually self-sufficient in food crops, at a cost of only fifteen and a half acres of land and 11 percent of the labour of its farmers’, while ‘the remaining agricultural labour of Vunamami, and the remaining acreage, were about equally divided between copra and cocoa, between planting [ie, expansion of commercial crops] and cropping’ (Salisbury 1970, 146).

That activities, deemed unprofitable at the margin by Tolai, were abandoned when more rewarding opportunities arose was attributed by Salisbury to their ‘employment situation’. ‘With an elastic demand for labour (even self-employed labour) in service activities, which absorbed available labour, and no local shortage of food supplies, people were happy to forgo drudgery where they could’ (1971, 60). This situation encouraged investment in, and the movement of labour to, activities for which demand was elastic. In terms of proportions of aggregate labour input, measured by time-budgets, there was a movement of Siane labour from subsistence agriculture to services (Salisbury 1962, 152). Demand for ‘self-employed’ labour is derived from demand for the output of self-employed service workers. In referring to an ‘elastic’ demand for self-employed labour, Salisbury appeared to mean there was no shortage of relatively remunerative outlets for the energies of any workers ‘displaced’ from subsistence activities by technical change. He contrasted this fortunate situation with a more constrained case, that of land shortage where unemployment and food shortages exist. In such situations, ‘workers can always be found to move into relatively unproductive or low-paying jobs vacated by upwardly-mobile workers. Under these conditions technological innovation does not restructure the whole economy but merely adds a new sector to an old-style one’. In this case, new and more productive economic activity is simply superimposed on a stagnating traditional sector beset by Geertzian ‘agricultural involution’.

Salisbury concluded (1971, 60) that ‘full employment and self-sufficiency in food supplies’ are ‘pre-conditions’ for the applicability of his model. Under the ‘affluent’ circumstances of the Tolai, labour tended to flow from primary production to service industries, where returns were higher. Salisbury’s data for income relativities revealed the incentives underlying these shifts. Taking the wage on expatriate-owned plantations as a base, a Tolai farmer drying and selling his copra earned about two and a half times the cash wage of the labourer (suggesting why few Tolai worked on plantations). Even the least skilled ceremonial dancers or clerical workers earned about double the plantation cash wage, while members of Tolai fishing crews earned about as much as the plantation wage, though in more congenial circumstances. At the other end of the scale, ‘the richest men in both shellmoney or cash are top-flight artists, or political and financial organizers’ (Salisbury 1971, 61).

Salisbury (1971, 61-2) contrasted the situation of the Tolai, in an affluent mixed economy of subsistence and cash-cropping,undergoing transition to market exchange, with that occurring in some cash-cropping peasant societies. These were typified by monocrop export production systems and reliance on imported food staples. This was a situation of ‘over-specialization’, characterized by ‘steadily declining wage-rates, lack of local services, extreme vulnerability of the local economy to changes in world-market prices for its product, and an inability to innovate or to diversify the economy….’ Such circumstances led to agricultural involution, which Salisbury believed might be avoided if local service activity could be maintained, and with it the flexibility necessary to diversify economic activity.

Salisbury’s discussion of involution and its application to PNG is not entirely satisfactory. The agricultural involution described by Clifford Geertz derived from the particular conditions of ‘wet-rice’ cultivation in colonial Java and Bali, where peasant farmers grew irrigated rice on land they were also forced to lease, in a system of periodic rotations, to large commercial sugar plantations. This rice cultivation system was distinguished by ‘its marked tendency (and ability) to respond to a rising population through intensification … absorbing increased numbers of cultivators on a unit of cultivated land’. Geertz specifically ruled out the possibility of such involution in shifting agriculture, such as Tolai subsistence gardening: ‘such a course is largely precluded to swidden farmers … because of the precarious [ecological] equilibrium of the shifting regime’ (Geertz 1963b, 32).

Nonetheless Salisbury saw a kind of agricultural involution as an ever-present threat to the Tolai, should their path to development become blocked by ‘centralization’ and an inability to continue transferring labour into productive service activities. The Gazelle had been in danger of succumbing during a stagnant period from 1921 to 1935, when ‘increasingly direct administration from Australia and a lack of technological innovation brought Tolai society into an incipient phase of involution. Both technological and political change were needed to reverse the process’ (Salisbury 1971, 65n). Adopting cocoa as a new export crop and investing in fermentaries for post-harvest processing provided the necessary escape. Complementary political development also occurred, as Tolai became involved increasingly in a broad range of community activities, creating local-level institutions and building social capital. Absent such beneficial change, however, and with continuing population growth, the ‘precarious’ ecological equilibrium of Tolai subsistence agriculture would have been disturbed. Conditions on the Gazelle would guarantee a quite short road to over-population and falling incomes for the Tolai, unless significant innovation in food crop production became possible.

Salisbury saw a further dire possibility (1971, 64). He warned of the simultaneous dangers of ‘agricultural involution in rural areas and service development in the capital’. Urban centralization of services was inimical to progressive rural communities and was, in his analysis, causal in the emergence of what he understood as agricultural involution. But declining rural living standards would also cause service provision to become ‘low-productive and technologically involuted’. For the idea of an ‘involution of services’ Salisbury acknowledged discussions with a colleague, the economist Benjamin Higgins (himself a colleague of Geertz in Indonesia in the 1950s). Paraphrasing Higgins, Salisbury noted that ‘service industries of low productivity in many under-developed countries absorb large proportions of the manpower, but disguise under-employment without removing it. They then create what might be called “an involution of services” – taking in each other’s washing – leading to increasingly labour-intensive technologies, and none of the economically stimulating effects described in this paper’ (Salisbury 1971, 65n).

Courtesy of Ben Higgins, Salisbury had now identified two forms of involution. He had also distinguished two informal service sectors, one rural and productive, the other urban and marked by a degree of poverty and disguised unemployment. The former could, under the right conditions, flourish in a society unconstrained by shortage of land for subsistence. The latter would emerge from an increasingly land-short subsistence economy from which people were forced to migrate to urban areas. But this was a warning rather than a prediction of outcomes. Aside from the community-level services which provided the dynamic of his model, he gave numerous examples of private informal economic activity among the Tolai, none of which appears to have developed involutionary characteristics by 1961. Rather, these activities enabled many people to profit from rising income levels in their own communities and to benefit from proximity to the thriving urban centre of Rabaul. This could be done while retaining security of access to one’s own land and resources, although some peri-urban populations (in particular in the village of Matupit) were beginning to experience land shortage and were adopting new sources of livelihood in consequence (A L Epstein 1963).

Although the scale was much smaller, there were some parallels between the late-colonial economies of Salisbury’s Gazelle and British West Africa, as described by Bauer and Yamey (1957). In both the native peoples had been quick to take up opportunities for export cash-cropping (though large, foreign-owned plantations were relatively more important on the Gazelle). Large expatriate trading houses dominated the formal economies of both, while a subsidiary class of traders (in the case of the Gazelle, the Chinese) acted as intermediaries with the local population. A relatively large expatriate population in Rabaul (at the time, the second-largest urban centre in PNG) provided market opportunities for the Tolai. Early informal economic opportunities had arisen from the rich agricultural base, and in particular from product specialization due to the ecological diversity of the Gazelle region. Even in pre-contact times this had fostered a system of trade and marketplaces, multiplied by external influences from the 1870s on. Subsistence households on the Gazelle engaged in a substantial trade in traditional foodstuffs, initially based on seasonality and the availability of different varieties of staple foods from a range of sources. By 1961 Salisbury’s observations led him to the conclusion that this ‘earlier interdependence of different ecological areas’ was being replaced by a new set of relationships at the Rabaul and other markets. For example, people in peri-urban villages of Rabaul were increasingly reliant on wage-labour and the purchase of food crops, while rural villages had ‘individuals who specialized in producing bulk crops for the market, and who themselves purchased from other producers the vegetables they needed for subsistence’. Thus, if peri-urban villagers could be classed as ‘proletarians’, some rural villagers had become ‘commercial farmers’ (Salisbury 1970, 214).

In Salisbury’s account of Vunamami, women were dominant as sellers in the marketplaces of the Gazelle though sales by individuals were typically small and (underlining the ‘affluence’ of the Tolai subsistence economy) market attendance was valued as much for the opportunity to socialize as for profit earned. Transactions between Tolai were largely conducted in shell money, and since this could be exchanged for a wide range of traditional commodities and services, it seems legitimate to classify such trade as informal economic activity. Typically, much of vendor earnings was spent immediately, to buy other varieties of food for household consumption. Transactions made with Europeans, Chinese and other non-Tolai yielded cash, and since the production of vegetables for profit was ‘normally a male affair’ this cash would usually be surrendered to husbands.

Men were in general more profit-oriented than women, often initiating plantings of subsistence and introduced crops for market. Some entrepreneurs contracted for the bulk supply of foodstuffs to commercial plantations and institutions (schools, missions, hospitals), bulking up consignments from individuals and trucking produce on commission. They performed intermediary functions which appeared still to be lacking from the marketplace trading of women. Outside the markets, there was some street trading in Rabaul while at public occasions such as sporting events, vendors selling cigarettes, buns, soft drinks and sweets were active.

Other informal economic activities were traditional, and usually conducted for shell money. These included hiring traditional specialists (composers of songs and dances, canoe builders, makers of musical instruments, also ritual specialists who performed rituals of benefit to communities and were paid by them. Mortuary rites had become larger in scale, as had ceremonial associated with male cults. Specialists in magic and ritual, including the workers of spells, may also have continued to operate in 1961, though Salisbury’s informants were reticent on this subject.

Tolai entrepreneurs had established processing facilities for the export crops, copra and cocoa. While the bulk of Tolai cocoa was processed in the fermentaries of the Tolai Cocoa Project (itself a dividend of the ‘political consolidation’ on which Salisbury laid such store), some plants were owned individually and by small groups. Established with government assistance, the Cocoa Project had formal governance and access to commercial bank funding. Due to the bureaucratic intervention which had made these facilities available, the Project had the characteristics of ‘formal’ enterprise. On the other hand, private fermentaries were informal in character, as were the more numerous private copra dryers, for which capital and technical requirements were less onerous. In addition to processing their own produce, owners allowed other growers to use these for a fee. Trucking was tried by many individuals and groups; ownership of vehicles conferred prestige and the hope of profit, though typically inadequate provision was made for capital replacement. Nonetheless, as in Hart’s Nima, some men succeeded in maintaining their vehicles and operating profitably. Small carpentry contracting was a widespread private business, relatively lucrative though sporadic and combined with agriculture and other activities. Contractors normally preferred to quote construction costs using the client’s own materials, limiting their investment to tools and the hire of labour. Pig raising had become a commercial activity, with most customers from among the Chinese community, while many households raised a few chickens for sale. Small ‘trade’ stores were common, though often short-lived or spasmodic in operation, with maintenance of working capital and credit control the principal problems. Beer was obtained and re-sold illegally and a local banana liquor was distilled. Commercial pati (parties) were frequent events, with music and drinking, and could be quite profitable for a shrewd entrepreneur.

Despite this modest profusion of informal ‘micro and small enterprise’ (to use present-day jargon) there was little evidence in 1961 of progress to larger-scale operations. Salisbury (1970, 275) commented that the ‘lack of avenues for productive investment’ was an important deterrent to business growth in Vunamami. ‘The progression of an entrepreneur from petty marketing, to copra-drying, to truck ownership, was one that was readily achievable – so much so that an oversupply of trucks had already occurred and an oversupply of drivers seemed imminent’. But market forces did not appear to force people to branch out; ‘savings remained tied up in inactive bank accounts … or were employed in duplicating facilities used only by the local community’. The stimulus for a new sequence of Tolai economic growth had not yet become apparent. Salisbury thought it might lie in the development of new and larger investment vehicles (of which the Tolai Cocoa Project was an instance), operating over extended markets and mobilizing capital from wider groupings of Tolai. This would depend on the bureaucratic capacity to devise and regulate new forms of business entity which could ‘give shareholders security of investment equal to that which they currently obtain by their informal powers of sanctioning [local] managers’ (Salisbury 1970, 276).

The capacity of the Tolai to accumulate capital had been demonstrated in their first three growth sequences, during which innovations were self-financed from subsistence resources and earnings from employment in the monetary sector. This achievement reminds us of a persistent theme in the writings of Peter Bauer, the capacity of subsistence agriculturalists to finance their own investment (Bauer and Yamey 1957, especially pp131ff). Salisbury (1971, 62) provided convincing evidence for this claim, calculating that ‘for Tolai net investment is about 20 per cent of total output in all its various forms – labour for planting of cash-crop trees, labour and cash for construction, cash for machinery, cash and stocks for working capital, shell money, cash and taxes for social infrastructure, etc’. Even so, the planting and processing of cocoa beans in the fourth sequence required the Tolai to find external finance, for which the patronage of colonial bureaucracy was required. As Salisbury reported, ‘only the last stage required large-scale cash investments, for which bank credits became available when local savings were exhausted’ (1971, 60).

There can be little doubt that Salisbury recognized early manifestations of the informal economy phenomenon, occurring in and around Rabaul in the early 1960s, and was able to explain their emergence. Insofar as Salisbury discerned an informal economy in Hart’s sense of the term, it was primarily a rural informal economy. Moreover, unlike Hart’s urban informal sector, it was not driven by the spur of rural poverty. For reasons of geography (proximity to Rabaul) and infrastructure (the well-developed road system of the Gazelle) this rural informal economy was quite well articulated with the urban centre. There is a strong sense in Salisbury’s account of a thriving set of rural-urban relationships in which the informal economy is an important element. Further, Salisbury should be credited with having recognized the possibility of a future ‘involution of services’ (as suggested by Ben Higgins). In Salisbury’s view, consistent with the centralizing processes which would bring this about, such an informal economy would occur primarily in urban areas, (and would be driven increasingly by the threat of poverty).

Salisbury saw private, for-profit service activities among the Tolai as an element in their economic progress, moving from subsistence agriculture with limited intra-regional trade based on ecological diversity, to mixed subsistence and export-cropping with an emergent service or tertiary sector. True, Salisbury’s attention was directed primarily to communal (that is, politically-inspired) service provision as the dynamic element in his model, while his discussion of the private informal economy had something of the character of obiter dicta. Considered simply as a listing and description of informal economic activity among the Tolai at the time, the study of the peri-urban village of Matupit by A L Epstein (1963) is a more comprehensive account. But Salisbury’s conceptual framework, the focus on the service sector, per se, and its role in development gives his work its particular value for our purposes.

Salisbury set the discussion in a context of structural change in the Tolai economy, drawing on Colin Clark’s notion of the growing importance of services, while echoing Bauer’s objection to the classification of subsistence cultivators as simply ‘farmers’ when in fact they devoted (on his reckoning) perhaps 20 percent of their time to service activities. Thus, in the matter of the informal economy Salisbury’s intellectual debts, principally to Bauer and secondarily to Clark, are manifest. Regarding services, the originality of his argument lies, first, in applying Bauer’s logic to a novel set of circumstances, second, in his careful measurement of the uses of labour-time, third, in his recognition of the possibility of an ‘urban involution’ of services, and, finally, in his attempt to incorporate a political dynamic which had no part in Bauer’s thesis. To say that the argument is sometimes laboured, and that his formalist/social evolutionary machinery creaks rather audibly in places, is not to deny the power of the Siane and Tolai studies as records of ‘economic transformation in a traditional society’ (to recall the subtitle of Vunamami).

 

  1. Conclusion

This concluding section draws together the ideas of the ‘quartet’ – Hart, Mayhew, Bauer and Salisbury – to examine points of congruence and divergence and give credit to each, as seems appropriate. Hart’s conception of the informal economy arose from his capacity to see, with great clarity, certain realities associated with the getting of livelihoods in Nima. His vision was not obscured by categories devised for the regulation of an economy governed by particular ‘forms’. Neither was his vision coloured by judgments, drawn from the norms of ‘respectable’ society, of the propriety of the livelihoods he observed. As viewed from the streets of Nima, the ‘forms’ of the economy, as ordained by authority, were best interpreted as a vision of a world only partially realized – the world as it might become, rather than as it was in 1966. Whether or not Hart himself shared any such vision, he rendered a service by pointing to the discrepancies between vision and reality, and by questioning the categories imposed by theory and bureaucracy on an unruly actuality. Understanding and accounting for such discrepancies is surely a prerequisite for any purposive program. We do not find this same appreciation of the significance of bureaucratic intervention in the work of those other writers selected here as Hart’s ‘precursors’.

Central to the narrative of each was how people gained their livelihoods informally, outside the ‘official’ frameworks of the economies in which they lived and worked. Although differences in historical setting, environment and other circumstances operated to distinguish each case study, our task is to consider the degree to which genuine commonalities emerge from these accounts. All dealt with societies in transition, but while Mayhew was concerned with a period of gathering industrialization, political change and social dislocation, the others were placed at various points along a path from subsistence agriculture to market exchange, and at various stages of political development. The provision of services played a central role in each of these disparate accounts of informal economies, though with different degrees of emphasis on the role of the service ‘sector’ per se.

Salisbury and Bauer both accorded special status to services, with the former dubbing them the ‘leading sector’ and setting out a model of development based on the progressive accretion of capacity for service delivery on the foundation of an ‘affluent’ subsistence economy. For our purposes his obiter dicta, descriptions of the Tolai service economy, are the more interesting elements of his contribution. Bauer also privileged services, singling out transport and trade as crucial in the transition of economies from subsistence agriculture to market exchange. Both Bauer and Salisbury engaged with Clark and Fisher’s celebrated generalization concerning the increasing role of services in the course of economic growth. Bauer pointed to the under-enumeration of service activities in agricultural societies during the transition from subsistence, due to what he described as ‘imperfect specialization’. Salisbury, following Bauer, added empirical weight to this analysis by measuring the time-budgets of individual Tolai ‘farmers’, confirming Bauer’s results. Salisbury nonetheless accepted the broad sweep of the Clark/Fisher ’hypothesis’, which underpinned his ‘leading sector’ proposition, whereas Bauer regarded it as having been undermined. However Bauer’s view has not prevailed in the continuing economic debate, which accepts the reality of a shift to services and focuses instead on the causal mechanisms underlying the shift. Bauer did not falsify Clark/Fisher, rather he offered an intriguing qualification to the hypothesis touching on the transition from subsistence, and in the process provided a pioneering account of the economics of the informal sector. Neither Bauer nor Salisbury was concerned explicitly with ‘form’, as such, though readers coming to their work from Hart will find themselves in familiar territory. But this is also true of Henry Mayhew, from whose rich body of observation Hart might almost (like some latter-day Marcel Mauss) have derived the elements of his ‘informality’ construct without troubling to visit Africa.

Important environmental differences affected the societies described by the quartet, influencing the nature, and in particular the urgency, of economic activity. At one extreme, Salisbury’s Tolai pursued a relatively small range of livelihoods, buffered by the ‘affluence’ of the subsistence sector which provided the base for their economy. While he considered the possibility of an involution of urban services, Salisbury believed this could be avoided. At another extreme, Hart’s rural-urban migrants, the Frafra, suffered ‘extreme pressure on the land at home’ (Hart 1970, 105). For many of them, returning to the subsistence sector was not an available option. Making allowance for the radically different context of mid-Victorian London, we may still imagine why refugees from Ireland and Eastern Europe, artisans displaced by technological change, and the indigent elderly facing the severities of the workhouse might feel obliged to ‘hustle’ with a degree of desperation similar to that ascribed by Hart to many of the Frafra. The term ‘sub-proletariat’, which Hart applied to the Frafra in Nima, seems equally apposite to Mayhew’s London poor.

The circumstances of Bauer’s West Africans are rather more ambiguous. Unlike Hart, Salisbury and Mayhew, he drew upon the experience of an enormous geographic region and a population both substantial and heterogeneous. His generalized ‘West Africa’ resembled Salisbury’s Gazelle insofar as it still had a land frontier for the expansion of export cropping. However it also contained population sub-groups suffering land shortage, Hart’s Frafra among them. Much later, Michael Lipton would criticize Bauer’s analysis, charging that Bauer’s ‘classical’ prescription, that ‘enterprise, trade, enlargement of markets’ would act as ‘engines of development’, was persuasive only because he drew his generalizations from ‘lucky places’. Bauer’s analysis, based on experience in colonial West Africa and Malaya, had produced an optimistic scenario biased by their favourable environments (Lipton 1984). This may be a just observation, but for present purposes it is worth noting that Bauer’s West Africa had an economy where opportunity (in the guise of an expanding frontier and rapid growth of commercial agriculture) co-existed with deprivation among sections of the population, such as Hart’s Frafra. That low-cost labour was readily available to fill the niches of opportunity created by a flourishing export agriculture helps to explain the flowering of Bauer’s intricate and dynamic informal economy. By contrast, Tolai labour costs were relatively higher in 1961, providing fewer opportunities for such development on the Gazelle Peninsula.

Certainly, areading of Bauer does not suggest the desperate or involutionary character evident in at least some aspects of informality, as documented by Mayhew and Hart. This may simply reflect an optimism founded on Bauer’s trust in the ultimate success of the ‘engines of development’ posited by Smithian economics. In any event, both Bauer and Salisbury were enthusiastic supporters of the informal economy as they recorded it, whereas Hart remained unconvinced whether its net value to the economy was positive or negative. Mayhew, like Hart, reported positive contributions of the informal economy, both to higher income groups and to the poor themselves, but was nonetheless scathing of a social order that could permit such injustice.

Comparisons between the four bodies of work discussed here bring out contrasts, not only in geographic location but also in the specific locus of research. Hart introduced an urban informal economy, though there is enough in his account to convey a sense of the rural hinterland from which the Frafra came and with which they maintained economic and social relationships. Both Bauer and Salisbury dealt for the most part with rural informal activities, with the former describing the role of trade and transport in opening up chains of distribution deep into the African interior (though there are also numerous discussions of urban activities). Salisbury conveyed a sense of close economic relationships between the rural villages of the Gazelle and their quite accessible district town. There is in both cases a stronger sense of rural-urban relationships than appears in Hart’s work and the reader is entitled to conclude from the work of Bauer and Salisbury that the concept of informality may be extended fruitfully into the countryside. Mayhew’s observations confirm this; he gave numerous accounts of London pedlars making rural rounds, of traders seeking materials in the countryside, and of rural folk in town for trading. Much of this circular movement was seasonal in nature and was complemented by seasonal movements of labour, extending as far afield as Ireland.

A defining characteristic of the informal ‘sector’, the non-enumeration of informal workers and activities, was stressed by all four, and all were critical of the deficiencies of official data. The existence of ‘imperfect specialization’ and ‘occupational fluidity’ as underlying this problem was documented by frequent references in all studies to the multiple sources of income typically enjoyed by operators. Such fluidity leads to complexity and in the four cases there are substantial differences in the degrees of complexity observed. Not surprisingly, the Tolai informal economy revealed a comparatively small number of roles or livelihood activities, reflecting perhaps its recent emergence from a relatively undifferentiated subsistence condition. Intermediary functions and other occupational diversity were correspondingly underdeveloped. Other factors, including relatively limited demand for non-traditional services and good infrastructure (the latter limiting the scope for informal transport and storage options) may also have contributed to this comparative lack of complexity. Mayhew’s London revealed perhaps the most fine-grained and complex system of livelihoods, while both Hart’s Frafra and Bauer’s West Africa demonstrated considerable complexity.

A somewhat disappointing aspect of Hart’s account of Nima is the limited attention he gave to women in the informal economy (aside from ‘red light’ activity). This is surprising since the ‘Mammy’ traders of West Africa were well-known for their importance in marketing and distribution15. Bauer had a somewhat fuller account while Mayhew’s thoroughness is evident in his recording of many livelihoods peculiar to women, as well as those in which they competed with men. Salisbury gave particular attention, as we have seen, to the market trading of women on the Gazelle. He documented, in meticulous detail, their contribution to the subsistence agriculture which undergirded the changing rural economies of the Siane and the Tolai, while his discussion (in From Stone to Steel) of the impact of technological change on women is notable.

As might be expected of anthropologists, Salisbury and Hart tell us more about the importance of traditional (or quasi-traditional) mechanisms of mutual support and exchange than is available in the accounts of either Bauer or Mayhew. In Hart, this was often associated with patron-client relations. Given his emphasis on the unreliability of income streams in Nima, personal transfers and access to credit were important for consumption-smoothing, indeed for survival. For Salisbury, traditional exchange relationships, and the status rewards accruing to their successful manipulation, provided the motor force for much social change (and especially ‘political consolidation’) among the Siane and the Tolai. Mayhew has much more to say about credit than any of the others and despite the tribal solidarity of his Costermongers, we are left with the impression that in mid-century London ‘consumption-smoothing’ required access to usurers as often as to relatives. Indeed, many Costers accessed credit on a daily basis, simply to go about their trades.

In regard to illegal or ‘illegitimate’ activities, we learn almost nothing from Bauer or Salisbury (leaving aside the latter’s few references to banana ‘hootch’, ‘sly-grog’ and pati). Mayhew is reliably encyclopedic on the subject, from a socially-concerned and normative standpoint. But only Hart really confronts the issue of ‘pervasive’ illegitimate activity on his patch. Indeed the legitimate/illegitimate distinction is his, occurring in the context of a non-judgmental listing of informal occupations in Nima. This is done to show ‘how things work’, as an illustration of the phenomenon of multiple income sources, and as a negative example (in an accounting sense) of the economic flows between Nima and middle-class Accra. This suggestion, in effect for a flow-of-funds chart for Nima, is another sense in which Hart applies the term ‘transfers’. A related, but analytically distinct, phenomenon is the activity of influence-pedlars and political ‘fixers’, to whom Hart gave detailed attention. Aside from deploring the ‘politicization’ of economic life in developing countries Peter Bauer was uninformative on this subject, while Mayhew preserved a discreet silence. Salisbury, however, put ‘political consolidation’ at the centre of his theoretical apparatus. But while Hart was non-judgmental in regard to political fixing, Salisbury (from the perspective of 1961) appears to have viewed it as a constructive force.

All four observers discussed here produced accounts of continuing interest, providing, to a greater or less degree, insights into our contemporary experience and propositions of continuing explanatory power. Mayhew alone had no pretension to theorizing or generalization beyond his time and place, yet his enduring impact flows – these words are used without ironic or pejorative intent – from a virtuous polemicism. Salisbury certainly did pretend to theorization, but in his case the ‘pay-dirt’ lies hidden in the details rather than in the thesis. His rather cumbersome ‘model’ of service-led growth gained no traction, but nonetheless minutiae and footnotes in his argument (his ‘obiter dicta’) throw shafts of light onto the contemporary situation of PNG. Peter Bauer’s analysis was informative and stimulating. He certainly purported to generalize, and Lipton was no doubt correct to criticize his reliance on those colonial territories most promising for the application of the nostrums of classical economics. But whatever about the ‘Baverian’ worldview, as now celebrated in conservative think tanks, his application of a relatively simple set of conventional economic tools to the mechanics of the informal economy, reinforced by a sharp eye for social and cultural context, provided many satisfying explanations and insights.

Bauer might have been (as Basil Yamey believed) the first economist to see the scope and economic significance of the activities of the informal ‘sector’. But it was left to Keith Hart to recognize them as a phenomenon in their own right, and to provide an appropriately interdisciplinary framework for their analysis. Nowadays Hart evidences quite some ambivalence about this concept he introduced forty years back, and which continues to dog his footsteps. Observing its capacity for renewal, and adaptation to a wide range of circumstances and to changing times, he has come to see the informal economy as ‘a remedial concept’, serving to reconcile orthodox economic analysis with reality. It is as applicable to the remaining ‘socialist’ regimes (Cuba, North Korea) as to the market economies of the industrialized world and the ‘state capitalist’, ‘transitional’ or ‘emerging market’ systems of the developing world, for

‘As long as there is formal economic analysis and the partial institutionalization of economies around the globe along capitalist or socialist lines, there will be a need for some such remedialconcept as the informal economy. Its application to concrete conditions is likely to be stimulated by palpable discrepancies between prevalent intellectual models and observed realities’ (Hart 2007, italics in original).

 

Bibliography

Ackroyd, Peter (1991), Dickens, London, Minerva Mandarin

Bauer, P T (1948), Report on a visit to the Rubber Growing Smallholdings of Malaya, Colonial research Publications (Great Britain, Colonial Office) #1

Bauer, P T (1954), West African trade: a study of competition, oligopoly, and monopoly in a changing economy. Cambridge, CUP

Bauer, P T (1956), ‘Lewis’ Theory of Economic Growth: A Review Article’ American Economic Review, 46(4), 632-41

Bauer, P T (1984), Remembrance of Studies Past: retracing first steps, in Meir, Gerald M and Dudley Seers, Pioneers in Development, New York, OUP for the World Bank

Bauer, P T and Basil Yamey, (1951) ‘Economic Progress and Occupational Distribution’ Economic Journal, 61 (244) December, 741-755

Bauer, PT and BS Yamey (1957), The Economics of Under-Developed Countries. Cambridge, CUP

Clark, Colin (1940, and successive editions), The Conditions of Economic Progress, London, Macmillan

Clark, Colin (1984), Clark, ‘Development Economics: the Early Years’, in Meir and Seers (eds), Pioneers in Development, 59-77

Disraeli, Benjamin (1845 [1998]), Sybil, or the Two Nations, Oxford, OUP

Elkan, Walter, T C I Ryan and J T Mukui (1982), ‘The Economics of Shoe-shining in Nairobi’, African Affairs, 81 (323), April, 247-56

Epstein, A L (1963), ‘The Economy of Modern Matupit’, Oceania, 33(182), 182-215

Fisher, A G B (1933), ‘Capital and the Growth of Knowledge’, Economic Journal, 43 (171), September, 379-389

Fisher, A G B (1945), Economic Progress and Social Security, London, Macmillan

Frank, Andre Gunder (1967), ‘The Sociology of Development and the Under-development of Sociology, Catalyst, Summer, 20-73

Geertz, Clifford (1963a), Pedlars and Princes, Chicago, University of Chicago Press

Geertz, Clifford (1963b), Agricultural Involution, Berkely and Los Angeles, University of California Press

Hann, Chris and Keith Hart (2011), Economic Anthropology, Wiley

Hart, Keith (1970), ‘Small Scale Entrepreneurs in Ghana and Development Planning’, Journal of Development Studies, 6(4), 104-120

Hart, Keith (1973[1971]),‘Informal income opportunities and Urban Employment in Ghana’, paper delivered to Conference on Urban Unemployment in Africa, Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, 12-16 September, 1971 (Excerpted in Jolly, Richard, Emanuel de Kadt, Hans Singer and Fiona Wilson (1973), Third World Employment: Problems and Strategy, Harmondsworth, Penguin, pp66-70

Hart, Keith (1973), ‘Informal Income Opportunities and Urban Unemployment in Ghana’, Journal of Modern African Studies (March)

Hart, Keith (2002), ‘World Society as an Old Regime’, in C. Shore and S. Nugent eds Elite Cultures: anthropological perspectives, Routledge, London. Accessed online at The Memory Bank http://thememorybank.co.uk/papers/world-society-as-an-old-regime/

Hart, Keith (2004), ‘Formal Bureaucracy and the Emergent forms of the Informal Economy’, online at http://thememorybank.co.uk/papers/emergent-forms/ ,subsequently published as Hart, Keith (2006), ‘Bureaucratic form and the informal economy’ in B. Guha-Khasnobis, R. Kanbur and E. Ostrom (eds) Unlocking Human Potential: Formality and Informality in Developing Countries, Oxford, OUP

Hart, Keith (2007), ‘The Informal Economy’ In Eatwell, John, M. Milgate and P. Newman (eds) The New Palgrave: A Dictionary of Economic Theory and Doctrine Vol. 2 , Macmillan, London pp. 845-46

Hart, Keith (2010), ‘Informal Economy’, in Hart, Keith, Jean-Louis Laville and Antonio Cattani (eds), The Human Economy, Cambridge, Polity Press, pp 142-153

Hill, Polly (1963), Migrant Cocoa Farmers of Southern Ghana, New York, CUP

IEA (The Institute of Economic Affairs) (2002), A tribute to Peter Bauer. London, IEA

ILO (International Labour Organization) (1972), Employment, Incomes and Equality: A strategy for increasing productive employment in Kenya. Geneva, International Labour Organisation

ILO (International Labour Organization) (2007), The Informal Economy: enabling transition to formalization (ISIE/2007/1), Geneva

Jones, Gareth Stedman (1971), Outcast London: a Study in the Relationship between Classes in Victorian London, Oxford, Clarendon

Lal, Deepak (2002), ‘A Dissident Vindicated’, in Institute of Economic Affairs, A tribute to Peter Bauer, London, IEA, pp 74-77

Lewis, Oscar (1966), La Vida; A Puerto Rican Family in the Culture of Poverty, San Juan and New York, New York, Random House

Lewis, W. Arthur (1954), ‘Economic development with unlimited supplies of labour’, The Manchester School, v.22, 139-191

Mayhew, Henry (1851 – 1862), London Labour and the London Poor, a cyclopaedia of the condition and earnings of those that will work, those that cannot work, and those that will not work (4 volumes)

Mayhew, Henry (1861), London Labour and the London Poor, Vol I, London, Griffin, Bohn and Company, University of Virginia E-text at http://etext.virginia.edu/toc/modeng/public/MayLond.html

Mayhew, Henry (1861), London Labour and the London Poor, Vol II, London, Griffin, Bohn and Company, Tufts University Digital Collections at http://hdl.handle.net/10427/14951

Mayhew, Henry (1862), London Labour and the London Poor, Vol III, London, Griffin, Bohn and Company, Tufts University Digital Collections at http://hdl.handle.net/10427/15186

Meir, Gerald M and Dudley Seers (1984), Pioneers in Development, New York, OUP for the World Bank

Overseas Development Group (1973), A Report on Development Strategies for Papua New Guinea (The ‘Faber Report’). Port Moresby,The International Bank for Reconstruction and Development as Executive Agency for UNDP

Papua New Guinea, Independent State of (1975), Constitution of the Independent State of Papua New Guinea

Petty, William (1690 [1989)), Political Arithmetick, London, in Hull, Charles H (ed), Economic Writings of Sir William Petty, Cambridge, CUP

Quennell, Peter (1984), Mayhew’s London. London, Bracken. [An abridged edition, edited by Peter Quennell, of Mayhew, Henry (1861 [1984]), of London Labour & the London Poor (3 Vols)]

Robbins, Lionel (1935), An Essay on the Nature and Significance of Economic Science, (2nd rev. edition), London, Macmillan

Rostow, WW (1960), The Stages of Economic Growth: A non-communist manifesto. Cambridge, CUP

Sahlins, Marshall (1958), Social Stratification in Polynesia, Seattle, University of Washington Press

Salisbury, RF (1962), From Stone to Steel: Economic Consequences of a Technological Change in New Guinea. Melbourne, Melbourne University Press

Salisbury, RF (1970), Vunamami: Economic Transformation in a Traditional Society. Berkeley, Univ of California Press

Salisbury, RF (1971), ‘Development through the Service Industries’, Manpower and Unemployment Research in Africa, Vol. 4, No. 1, pp 57-66

Schettkat, Ronald and Lara Yocarini (2006), ‘The Shift to Services Employment: a review of the literature’, Structural Change and Economic Dynamics, 17, 127-47

Swift, Philip, ‘The “Perils of the Nation”: The Activist Anthropology of Henry Mayhew’, Open Anthropology Cooperative at http://openanthcoop.ning.com/profiles/blog/list?user=24e7gjmbznk3j

Todaro, MP (1969), ‘A model of labor migration and urban unemployment in less developed countries’, American Economic Review, 59, 138-148

Weber, M (1981), General Economic History, New Brunswick NJ, Transaction Books

WTO and ILO (World Trade Organization and International Labour Organization) (2009), Globalization and Informal Jobs in Developing Countries, Geneva

Yamey, Basil (1987), ‘Peter Bauer: Economist and Scholar’, Cato Journal, 7 (1) Spring/Summer,21-27

Yamey, Basil (2002), ‘Collaborating with Peter Bauer’, in IEA (2002), pp 96-99

Yamey, Basil (2005), ‘Peter Bauer, an Unusual Applied Economist’, Cato Journal, 25, 3, pp 449-453

 

Notes

1 John Conroy is an economist, not entirely unreconstructed although he still calls himself a ‘development economist’. He spent the 1970s in Papua New Guinea, finishing as Director of the PNG Institute of Applied Social and Economic Research. After six years in Indonesia, during the 1980s, he ran the Foundation for Development Cooperation through the 1990s, specializing in microfinance and ‘financial inclusion’. He abandoned that field in disgust after its invasion by private equity and is now a visiting fellow at the Crawford School of Economics and Government at the Australian National University.

2 I am grateful for discussions with Ron Duncan, Scott MacWilliam, Peter Drake and Andrew Elek; also to Michael Bourke and other participants in the Crawford seminar at ANU in August 2011, at which a preliminary version of this paper was presented. Most particularly I am grateful to Keith Hart for patiently fielding all the balls I have tossed up over the past several years.

3 For an early application of the concept to industrial societies by a sociologist, see Pahl (1984). For a spirited application to the contemporary world economy see Hart (2004).

4 Hart’s use of the term ‘transfers’ in this connection is somewhat confusing; ‘illegitimate’ transfers are to be distinguished from interpersonal transfers among members of kin- or social groups.

5 A more positive evaluation occurs in a scenario in which Hart suggested the processes of the Lewis model (Economic Development with Unlimited Supplies of Labour) might assure the eventual absorption of surplus urban African labour into formal employment, while being supported in the interim by ‘the inherent economic dynamism of concentrated urban markets, which [as in Nima] generate an almost infinite range of activities based on commodity exchange’ (Hart 1982, 162).

6 I am grateful to Keith Hart for having referred me to Mayhew in 1972.

7 In this study, reference is made to a Mayhew compilation edited by Quennell (1951 [1984]) and to online sources for the original three volume version (cited as Mayhew I, II and III). I have not drawn on volume IV, published in 1862, since Mayhew was not its sole author. Vol. IV was devoted to the London petty underworld, described adequately for our purposes in the first three volumes.

8 For which reason I adopt Hart’s usage here; he changed his description of the Nima underclass (as noted above in Section 2) from a ‘proletariat’ (Hart 1971) to a ‘sub-proletariat’ (Hart 1973). The former might be appropriate in a Two Nations framework, but the latter fits the reality of Mayhew’s London quite as well as it does Hart’s Nima.

9 Material in this section is drawn from Mayhew I, ‘Of the markets and trade rights of the Costermongers and of the laws affecting them’, ‘Of the removals of Costermongers from the streets’ and ‘Of the variety of street-folk in general and Costermongers in particular’ .

10 See for example ILO (2007) and WTO and ILO (2009).

11 Polly Hill (1963) was an honourable, if later, exception to this generalization.

12 Bauer has a posthumous Facebook page and was the subject of tribute volumes by Cato (in the US) and the IEA (in the UK) before his death. The term ‘ikon’ is appropriate, since some of the tributes paid him border on hagiography.

13 Most of the citations in this section, concerned with the sectoral distribution issue, are drawn from Chapter 3 of the 1957 book, except where the 1951 paper is cited explicitly.

14 See Schettkat and Yocarini (2006) for a review of the literature on ‘the shift to services employment’. On the basis of the empirical evidence they concluded that ‘Employment in the advanced economies shifts with a remarkable regularity towards services as income per capita rises … ’ (Schettkat and Yocarini 2006, 142).

15 Hart (pers. comm. 16 August 2011) has responded to this comment by noting that his study was of a particular ethnic group. ‘There are few women in my account because they were almost entirely absent from the Frafra migrant community in Nima which consisted of a sea of transient young men loosely attached to a few older men with established families’.

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What Did Kant Mean by and Why Did He Adopt a Cosmopolitan Point of View in History?

Working Papers Series #12
ISSN 2045-5763 (online)

What Did Kant Mean by and Why Did He Adopt a Cosmopolitan Point of View in History?

Thomas Sturm
Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona

© 2012 Thomas Sturm
Creative Commons License
Open Anthropology Cooperative Press
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Forthcoming in: Kant and Philosophy from a Cosmopolitan Point of View: XIth International Kant-Congress. Ed. by Stefano Bacin, Alfredo Ferrarin, Claudio La Rocca & Margit Ruffing. Berlin: De Gruyter.

NOTE: This version represents the pre-print version. This material is intended for purposes of education, research, scholarly communication, or critical commentary, all in conformity with “fair use” and the established practice of authors’ providing single preprints and offprints for noncommercial use. Any other use is unauthorized and may violate copyright.

 

Introduction

It is widely held – and not false – that Kant’s philosophy of history expresses the Enlightenment hope for a stepwise progress of humankind towards freedom or morality. However, we are nowadays suspicious of models of a stadial development of human history, especially teleological ones. Furthermore, Kant’s model of historical development is burdened with problems of its own, concerning its epistemic status, and its position within his philosophy in general. To deal with these issues, scholars have mostly focused on connections between Kant’s philosophy of history and his ethics or his views about teleology. They have downplayed or neglected another context, namely, the theories of historiography that he was faced with. I shall show how Kant reacts to debates about a theory and practice of historiography highly influential in his time, especially in his German environment. It was called “pragmatic history”.

In part I, I indicate what major versions there existed of this approach. I then outline three crucial problems that emerged with the requirement, set up by many pragmatic historians, of a stage model of humankind’s development. Among other things, I shall point to how the debate about the meaning of ‘pragmatic history’ became connected to the idea of a ‘cosmopolitan viewpoint’ in history, an issue that was discussed particularly between August Ludwig Schlözer and Johann Gottfried Herder. In part II, I report on Kant’s reception of pragmatic history, and what he found lacking in the most important versions of it – namely, an appropriate understanding of human nature, which he himself developed more fully in his lectures on pragmatic anthropology. I shall thereby try to clarify how his own “cosmopolitan” idea of the development of human nature through history is likewise entangled with the notion of pragmatic history, and that his notion of a cosmopolitan idea itself has three different aspects, responding to the three problems outlined. Thus, relating Kant’s philosophy of history to contemporary debates can make his views more intelligible than merely analyzing their connection to other parts of his critical philosophy.  

I. Pragmatic History and Models of Human Historical Development

1. What Is ‘Pragmatic History’?

By the 18th century the study of history is growing quickly not only in terms of institutions and literary output but also in terms of the level of the debates about its theoretical and methodological presuppositions. In the German countries, this debate takes often shape under the heading of a “pragmatic” orientation. To mention but a few examples, eighteenth-century authors before Kant write pragmatic histories of the Jesuits and Protestants, the rulers of Braunschweig, the school reform in Bavaria, of literature, medicine, the souls of humans and animals, and even of sleep. And many historians at the time have a serious intention with this. As the Göttingen professor Johann Christoph Gatterer, the most influential organizer of historical research in the eighteenth century, writes, in “history, pragmatic is just what in the proper sciences is called systematic”.[1]

But which requirements pragmatic historiography need fulfill becomes controversial. In the debate, the following four requirements become introduced stepwise:

(i)             Most conceptions of pragmatic historiography take it for granted that the object of investigation is human action, particularly in more or less widely conceived areas of social life (at certain times and places).

(ii)           In methodological terms, a history can be pragmatic if it studies the causes, particularly the motives or intentions of human agents.

(iii)          A historical study can be called ‘pragmatic’ if it is tied to a universal history of mankind – either by helping to write that history or by presupposing it. Being “universal” does not necessarily mean that it has to cover all historical details, but at least the major factors and/or stages of human history.

(iv)          Finally, history can be called ‘pragmatic’ if practical consequences or lessons for human (particularly social) action can be derived from it.

These elements are not mutually exclusive. However, some pragmatic historians require only some of these features, while others demand that all be satisfied; furthermore, some authors claim that a certain requirement is more important than others; and, occasionally, some requirements are developed and discussed more closely and thereby become understood in different ways.

For instance, in the early eighteenth century, Johann David Kö(h)ler claims that a historical study is already pragmatic if it treats of public matters, especially the official and social deeds of rulers, and if it offers practical orientation in civil life, having in mind specifically political action and the design of public affairs.[2] But no later than in the 1750s, such a meaning of “pragmatic history” becomes viewed as overly narrow. This is accompanied by a growing awareness that there might be a pragmatic historiography of the “highest level” or in the “truest understanding” of the term, which has to be distinguished from lesser degrees and incorrect meanings.[3] To begin, a number of authors stresses that pragmatic histories must also inform readers of “impelling forces” (Triebfedern)[4], motives, and other causes.[5] Gatterer himself, who voices this point with particular emphasis, does not claim that previous historians had never sought out “causes and effects, means and intentions”.[6] Thucydides and Polybius clearly did. Gatterer’s main criticism is directed at the genres of mere annals, chronicles, and genealogies, and the accompanying conception that history merely records particular facts of the past. The causes behind historical events seldom coincide with periods or commencements of rule, and outcomes often extend beyond the dates covered by annals.

Gatterer moreover argues that the “highest level of what can be considered pragmatic history” can only be achieved by developing a universal history, by embedding historical investigation in “the idea of the overall connection of things in the world (Nexus rerum Universalis)” – that is, causal explanations in history must be embedded in a system of world history:

For no occurrence in the word is – as it were – insular. Everything is connected, is produced, is induced, and in turn produces and induces. The affairs of the noble and the lowly, individual persons and all of them together, private life and the world at large, indeed, even those of reasonless and lifeless entities and humans; all are intertwined and interconnected.[7]

While these requirements are all repeatedly emphasized by the majority of authors, requirement (iv) remains relatively negligible for Gatterer, unlike for others. He hints at it in one of his earlier writings[8], but later on clearly rejects the view that it would be constitutive of the idea of pragmatic history.[9] He also makes fun of the view, held by several authors, that one could derive practically useful conclusions from mere annals, chronicles or genealogies.[10] One might also think here of Lord Bolingbroke’s well-known dictum that “history is philosophy taught by examples”.[11] Obviously, Gatterer denies that such views help to raise the rank of history – to approximate it to the bona fide sciences.

While Gatterer becomes the most influential German historian of his times, his conception of pragmatic history does not remain undisputed. For instance, the Church historian Johann Matthias Schroeckh (1733-1808) favors a combination of all four requirements: A truly pragmatic history should focus upon human actions, provide causal explanations, develop and use a system of universal human history, and attempt to draw practical lessons on the basis of the first three requirements.[12] Also, other authors raise questions about various requirements. Some already discuss the possibility of giving causal explanations in history, while others are concerned about whether pragmatic histories ultimately have to study humankind as a whole, and whether such histories – if they aim at practical conclusions at all – should instruct particular individuals or groups or humankind as a whole.

2. The Requirement of a System of Universal History

Of special relevance here is the call for a system of history as a whole (requirement iii). How should or even could one write “the” complete history of humankind’s development? Most authors agree that it will not suffice to collect and order all existing special studies, and then continue them. That had been tried before. Schroeckh emphasizes that causal explanation demands various kinds of weighting. It is not easy, he writes, to describe the universal historical “Nexus” in a way that gathers and lists all causes and outcomes. It is not necessary, for instance, to note every historical detail or every slight causal connection. On the contrary, it is the difficult task of the historian to select the facts relevant for an adequate explanation of events. As Gatterer remarks, one has to identify and structure the “revolutions” of human history. Only these will help to identify the really important causes of human actions in history.[13]

His colleague at Göttingen, August Ludwig Schlözer (1735-1809) works out this approach in his Vorstellung seiner Universal-Historie (1772-73). He claims that one needs a unifying viewpoint in order to be able to select and order facts and turn them into a system:

World history can be imagined from a double perspective: Either as an aggregate of specialized histories, a collection of which, if it is complete, constitutes a whole in its own way; or as a system, in which the world and humanity constitute the one entity, for which from among all the parts of the aggregate some are preferably selected and ordered purposefully.[14]

 Furthermore, Schlözer demands that for this we need to single out factors that “interest not individual nations or classes of the human race, but that are significant for the cosmopolitan [Weltbürger], for man as such”.[15] More specifically, he claims that Roman history – from the city’s founding, the formation and division of the world empire, to its decline – provides the best focal point:

[Roman history] is the overall guiding thread [Leitfaden] that throughout various concurrent courses of almost innumerous peoples prevents chronological confusion. Rom deserves this honor: For which empire of the world has had greater influence on the fate of the world?[16]

3. Three Problems with the Requirement of Universal History

While the requirement for a structured system of universal history has its attractiveness for authors at the time, it has several problems.

(I) A first problem concerns an assumption about human nature, and it can best be explained by the impact of Hume. He does not, neither in his History of England (1754-62) nor elsewhere, use the term ‘pragmatic history’. Yet, German reviews praise the History as an example of pragmatic work and applaud Hume’s skill at “using his knowledge of human nature to enlighten and promote the usefulness of history”.[17] Two of Hume’s philosophical theses on human nature and history – to be found in the Treatise and the first Enquiry – are of particular importance here. He claims, first, that the historian may and should presume that human nature is constant, or subject to unchangeable causal laws. Second, he advances the methodological claim that by studying history we can discover these laws:

Mankind are so much the same, in all times and places, that history informs us of nothing new or strange in this particular. Its chief use is only to discover the constant and universal principles of human nature, by showing men in all varieties of circumstances and situations.[18]

Pragmatic historians often follow Hume on these points.[19] But this raises problems for their views. Many of these historians also stress that human history includes “revolutions”, necessitating a system of the most important developments. Also, as one reviewer of Hume’s History points out, impartiality is seen as vital to causal explanation: In order to reveal true causes, it is crucial to assess the past not in terms of maxims of the historian’s time, but in terms on those that held in the period and place under investigation[20]. However, these points only make sense given that modes of human conduct change substantially over time. Moreover, if pragmatic history should be used to draw practically relevant conclusions, then such conclusions may repeatedly lead to new principles for conduct – which threatens the Humean claim of the constancy of human nature as well.

(II) Second, how ought one to structure human history as a whole? If you take dominant nations as in Gatterer’s and Schlözer’s proposals: Should universal history first depict their histories and then turn to the subordinate countries? Or should the mutual influence of countries on one another be examined together?[21] Moreover, besides dominant nations, natural, economic, technological and intellectual factors are important too. Schlözer himself stresses that earthquakes, floods and epidemics, or also “the discovery of fire, bread and alcohol, and so on, are facts equally as important as the battles at Arbela, Zama, and Merseburg”.[22] Can all the factors be arranged within a single system of human history? In a review of 1772, Johann Gottfried Herder complains that Schlözer merely presents a plan lacking clear execution. In 1774, Herder furthermore suggests that what one reads “in almost all so-called Pragmatic Histories of the World is nothing but the disgusting tangled mass of ‘the time’s prized ideals’”.[23] In other words, Schlözer’s cosmopolitan orientation may in the best case be useless and in the worst case be the expression of an ideology.

(III) Finally, what is the epistemic role and status of the stage models of human history? The views here are quite divided. The outlines by Gatterer, Schlözer, and others are shaped by tangible tasks of empirical history. Claims about dividing the past into epochs, or questions of chronology are viewed as subject to empirical scrutiny. However, even the very same authors characterize their historical ideas and frameworks as “conjectural” or “philosophical”. This indicates that their function and status is not clear.

To sum up: One can see that the shift towards pragmatic history, reasonable as it was when compared with other traditions of history writing, led into serious new predicaments.

 

II. Kant on Pragmatic History and the Development of Humankind

4. Kant’s Reaction to Pragmatic History

Now to Kant. First, a bit about his standpoint towards pragmatic history. Since the mid-1770s, he presents his views especially in his annual lectures on anthropology. Here, he praises Hume’s History for not confining itself to chronicles of wars and rulers, but relating to humanity in general.[24] Also, Kant is familiar with the Enquiries. And in his early statements, one can see Kant as understanding and sharing the idea of pragmatic history along Humean lines: as a study of individual and social intentions causing actions, ideally useful for a practical instruction of agents in the social sphere. At least until 1775-76, he also accepts the ontological thesis that human nature is constant, linking it even to his own conception of anthropology. At the same time Kant becomes also interested in the genre of histories of the stadial development of humankind, including the idea of genuine change in human history.

In the 1780s, he suddenly scathes pragmatic historians for lacking the knowledge of human nature they pretend to have:

… since the authors of many history books have little knowledge of human nature, they have no idea of pragmatic history and much less of how to write it.[25]

I will explain in a moment what he means. Before this, I need to briefly comment on a related passage in the Groundwork. Here, Kant first distinguishes between pragmatic principles as leading to prudence, and notes that there are two different notions of prudence: Weltklugheit and Privatklugheit. The first is the competence to use other human beings for one’s purpose, the second is the competence to order one’s purposes such that one approximates one’s own happiness. He also says that Weltklugheit should serve Privatklugheit, because knowing how to manipulate other persons but not doing so for furthering one’s own well-reflected purposes isn’t very bright. But all this expresses not his fully considered opinion on what ‘pragmatic’ means but, rather, a report on widely held views. Just one page later he gives his own viewpoint:

It seems to me that the proper meaning of the word pragmatic could be determined thus most precisely. Pragmatic are called the sanctions which do not properly follow from the law of states as necessary laws, but from the precaution for general welfare. Pragmatically written is a history if it makes prudent, that is if it instructs the world how to reach its advantage better, or at least as well as its preceding world.[26]

So what he wants pragmatic history to do is not to teach us how to use other human beings simply for our personal purposes. But what would be wrong with that (leaving moral concerns aside here)? And what does he really have in mind with the „general welfare“? His answers stem from the background of his then developing anthropological views about what it means to be a citizen of the world. This then leads him to a specific notion of a cosmopolitan standpoint in history.

5. Kant’s Response to the Three Problems of Universal History

Let me explain this by reference to Kant’s response to the three problems of the various approaches to universal history described earlier on (section 3 above).

(I) First, Kant comes to reject a naïve view of the constancy of human nature. He does so by means of assumptions concerning basic factors of the dynamics of social interaction developed in his anthropology lectures. Six basic claims are necessary here.[27]

(1) Human dependency upon society. Human beings need education, and later on other forms of social cooperation to achieve our goals, to improve action possibilities and to uphold our self-regard.

(2) Human egoism. At the same time, unfortunately, human beings are mostly driven by self-interested inclinations. We do not trust each other; we are jealous; we try to manipulate and exploit one another. The conjunction of (1) and (2) Kant famously calls the “unsocial sociability” of humankind.

(3) The first-person point of view. That such things are possible is rooted in other, basic human facts. There is an important difference between our having of mental states and our having of physical states. Not only can we note that we are in such-and-such a mental state – say, that we feel a pain or have a desire. Unlike mere animals, we can be happy or sad about that, or we can view these states – and those of other persons as well – with a critical eye, reflect upon and change them. This requires a first-person point of view upon first-order mental states: To know that one is unhappy about a certain pain, and that one wishes that the pain goes away, requires knowing whose pain it is. Also, egoism and self-regard as well would be impossible without such a first-person point of view.

(4) Prudence and learning to adopt the third-person point of view. But what can we do about the dilemma of our unsocial sociability? Kant’s answer: If I want to act prudently, I have to learn that others have that egoism as well, and that it can be useful to take into account their first-person point of view.

(5) Invention of new social roles and rules. Thereby, however, social interaction becomes easily extremely complex. Not only do I perceive others as having egoistic motives and as having abilities for hiding such motives; they perceive me in the same way. Hence, our basic purposes of receiving respect and support must not be exerted too obviously, and we must be able to find new ways by which to pursue our goals prudently. This leads to iterated forms of role-playing in society, to a concealing and dissembling of egoistic intentions before others.

(6) New roles and rules become “another nature”. In this interaction, humans therefore develop new rules of interaction, or “another nature”.[28] But that means that our actions do not simply fall under rules as if they were natural laws; rather, we follow certain rules with a greater or lesser amount of rational deliberation. We can thus be producers instead of being mere products of our development.

From all this derives a first sense of cosmopolitanism in Kant’s, which is related to human nature: We are citizens of the world in the sense that our nature is partly plastic, and more specifically that we ourselves produce our rules of action and, thereby, our social world. This is a fact that holds, in principle, for each of us, and which each of us better recognizes in social interaction – instead of expecting to extract more superficial kinds of egoistic prudence from history.

(II) How does this notion of cosmopolitanism relate to the project of universal history? Kant – like Schlözer – claims that the historian needs a guiding “idea”, and again characterizes this idea by claiming that it centers on the human being as a “citizen of the world”. But, unlike Schlözer, Kant gives this notion a distinctive and not implausible meaning: the knowledge about the plasticity of human nature and its conditions is the knowledge he finds lacking in many pragmatic historians.

In Idea Kant then first outlines basic features of human social dynamics and explains afterwards how an adequate universal history would have to look like. It should start with ancient Greek history, for the contingent reason that only here a real source-based historiography could start. But the further steps should not look at dominant people and then wonder how to include other important factors; they should focus upon the development of forms of society that reduced aggression and war (such as the introduction of international commerce), introduced different elements of a republican constitution (the French Revolution becoming later on the outstanding “sign” of such a history), and that may lead to the establishment of a league of nations. This is obviously a second, richer notion of cosmopolitanism, but one presupposing the first. It flows from the former in the sense that such institutions help us to realize more fully the possibilities inherent in our nature, and to cope with our unsocial sociability.

(III) Finally, what about the epistemic role and status of this cosmopolitan idea? The answer is not surprising. No universal history should or even could aim a sum-total of all past events. Instead, by using the idea as guiding thread – another notion already to be found in Schlözer, as cited above, but not clarified by him – helps to find concepts and principles for selecting, linking and organizing historical knowledge in a certain way. The idea thus has a regulative function. Still, history seen from that perspective can be connected to empirically discoverable occurrences and developments.

There might be other perspectives, of course; but these have to be brought to the fore first. Kant emphasizes the sketchy nature of the Idea essay, it being “only one of the thoughts that a philosophical mind (that incidentally must be well-versed in history) might also toy with from a different standpoint”.[29] Kant does not claim that the propositions he sets forth about the development of human capacities, the mechanism of unsocial sociability, and the resulting sequence of forms of social or political order of humankind are already to be taken as full-blown developmental principles of history. Rather, he explicitly aims to provoke contemporary historians to develop better ideas and frameworks. This is further evidence that his views should be seen as responding to contemporary debates rather than internal problems of his own philosophy only.

 

Conclusion

It would be a misunderstanding to view my foregoing considerations as a complete defense of Kant’s views. I tried to add an important facet to the existing interpretations. What this contextualization cannot explain (and, a forteriori, defend) are the strongly teleological claims of his views on human history, or their exact relation to his ethical theory. Even then, critics might either reject the very demand for a grand-scale model of human history, or at least claim that Kant’s sketch is useless for, say, current historical research.  But note that I have tried to reduce his claims about human social dynamics to their most simple, largely innocent basic points. Given this, and given the epistemological modesty of his claims about human development, perhaps things look better for a kind of reflection about the question of how we could give meaning to the fragmented masses of historical knowledge.

 

Notes


[1] Gatterer, Johann Christoph: “Vorrede von der Evidenz in der Geschichtkunde.” In: Die Allgemeine Welthistorie die in England durch eine Gesellschaft von Gelehrten ausgefertiget worden. Ed. by F. E. Boysen. Halle. 1767, vol. I, 1-38, here 12.

[2] Kö(h)ler, Johann David: Lectorem benevolum programmate de historia pragmatica. [Altdorf.] 1714.

[3] See Anonymous [Abbt, Thomas]: “Hundert und ein und fünfzigster Brief. Anmerkungen über den wahren Begrif einer pragmatischen Geschichte.” In: Briefe, die neueste Literatur betreffend 9 (No. 151, 1761), 118-125, here 119; Gatterer, Johann Christoph: “Vom historischen Plan und der sich darauf gründenden Zusammenfügung der Erzählungen.” In: Allgemeine historische Bibliothek 1 (1767), 15-89, here 84; Anonymous: “J. M. Schröckh, Christliche Kirchengeschichte.” In: Königsbergische Gelehrte und Politische Zeitungen (No. 79, September 30, 1768), 315f.

[4] Anonymous: “Hundert und ein und fünfzigster Brief”, 118f.

[5] See e.g.: Köster, Henrich Martin Georg: Über die Philosophie der Historie. Giessen. 1775, 9 and 14.

[6] Gatterer, “Plan”, 79f.

[7] Gatterer, “Plan”, 84f.

[8] Gatterer, “Plan”, 27.

[9] Gatterer, Johann Christoph: “Ueber die Philosophie der Historie, von H. M. G. Köster.” In: Historisches Journal 6 (1776), 164-166.

[10] Gatterer, “Plan”, 77f.

[11] Bolingbroke, Henry St. John: “Letters on the Study and Use of History” (1735). In: The Works of Lord Bolingbroke. Ed. by H. G. Bohn. 4 vols. London. 1844, vol. II, 173-334, here 177.

[12] Schroeckh, Johann Martin: Christliche Kirchengeschichte. Frankfurt a.M. 1768, vol. I, 251-278.

[13] Schroeckh, Kirchengeschichte, 264-275; Gatterer, “Plan”, 86-88.

[14] Schlözer, August Ludwig: Vorstellung seiner Universal-Historie. 2 vols. Göttingen. 1772-73, vol. I, 14. – Schlözer rejects to characterize his approach to universal history as a pragmatic one, at least in the sense of giving practical lessons to the reader – these, the reader should draw himself (ibid., vol. I, 26).

[15] Schlözer, Vorstellung, vol. I, 30. Similarly Schroeckh, Johann Martin: Lehrbuch der allgemeinen Weltgeschichte. Berlin. 1774, 24f.

[16] Schlözer, Vorstellung, vol. I, 80f.

[17] Anonymous: “D. Hume, Geschichte von Großbritannien. Dt. Übers.” In: Neue Zeitungen von gelehrten Sachen 59 (July 23, 1764), 467f.

[18] Hume, David: Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding and Concerning the Principles of Morals (1748-51). Ed. by L. A. Selby-Bigge (3rd ed. by P. H. Nidditch). Oxford. 1975, 83f.

[19] See, e.g., Gatterer, “Plan”, 84f.; Schlözer, Vorstellung, vol. I, 15 and 19; Schroeckh, Kirchengeschichte, 275-278.

[20] Anonymous: “D. Hume, History of Great Britain, Vol. 1.” In: Göttingische Anzeigen von gelehrten Sachen 147 (December 8, 1755), 1350-1354, here 1350f.

[21] Köster, Philosophie der Historie, 55-62.

[22] Schlözer, Vorstellung, vol. I, 29f.

[23] Herder, Johann Gottfried: “A. L. Schözers Vorstellung seiner Universal-Historie.” In: Idem: Sämtliche Werke. Ed. by B. Suphan. Berlin. 1877ff., vol. V, 436-440. – Idem: Auch eine Philosophie zur Geschichte zur Bildung der Menschheit (1774). In: Ibid., vol. V, 555.

[24] V-Anth/Fried, AA 25: 472. These references point to the German original in the Academy edition (Kant, Immanuel: Gesammelte Schriften. Ed.: Vol. 1-22 Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften, vol. 23 Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, vol. 24ff. Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Berlin 1900ff.).

[25] V-Anth/Mron, AA 25: 1212; see also V-Menschenkunde, AA 25: 857f. – As to how far Kant knew the works of relevant historians, see Sturm, Kant, 332-338.

[26] GMS, AA 04: 417, footnote.

[27] For detailed textual evidence for the following points, see Sturm, Kant, 429-446.

[28] Anth, AA 07: 121.

[29] IaG, AA 08: 30. 

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