Académique Documents
Professionnel Documents
Culture Documents
Special Issue
The Religious Lives of Amazonian Plants
Guest Edited by
Robin M. Wright
________________________________
Contents
________________________________
Editors’ Introduction:
The Religious Lives of Amazonian Plants
Robin M. Wright and Bron Taylor 5-8
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Editors’ Introduction:
The Religious Lives of Amazonian Plants
_____________________________________
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
6 Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture
so they are treated this way in the songs the Napo and Pastaza Runa
women sing to their garden plants.
Swanson and his sister, Dr. Lisa Madera, grew up in the Ecuadorian
Amazonian Province of Pastaza and so provide us with an understand-
ing that goes far beyond the years of study that anthropologists normally
take to know a little of what is behind the veil of ethnographic percep-
tion. Madera’s contribution focuses on the Aguarico use of the ‘visionary
vine’, ayahuasca. The central question she raises is how does ayahuasca
transform the telling and retelling of the Christian story? Or, as she says,
the ‘Gospel according to ayahuasca’, as told by the Aguarico Runa. She
then traces local phrasings of the Gospel according to Santo Daime, a
Christian sect centered on the ritual use of ayahuasca which originally
emerged out of the upper Amazon in the 1920s and later spread through-
out Brazil and into other parts of the world. Finally, she compares the
Gospel of ayahuasca as told by a Santo Daime center in Santa Catarina
state, Brazil, leading us into the vision of an eco-utopian movement
again stimulated by the same entheogenous plant.
Both Drs. Jonathan Hill and Robin Wright explore sacred plants
among the Wakuenai indigenous people of the Venezuelan Amazon,
and their kin, the Walimanai, or ‘Baniwa’, of the Brazilian Northwest
Amazon. Hill’s piece is structured as a musical opera in three major
movements that he calls ‘The Gift’, ‘The Secret’, and ‘The Meal’, each
corresponding to a social transformation: from ‘wild’ nature to consum-
able and exchangeable cultural items. All three can be synthesized
through the production of a certain flute, unique to the Wakuenai, which
encompasses the three meanings and highlights aspects of religious
identity. Hill’s article is especially appropriate for this issue of the
journal which celebrates the 100th anniversary of the birth of Claude
Levi-Strauss; it was, after all, from the French Master’s insight into the
meanings of myth and the relation of myth and music that we now
understand more fully how Nature/Culture transformations are forged.
Wright’s intensive work over twenty-two years with Walimanai
(‘Baniwa’) shamans and chanters has led to a profound understanding of
the entheogen called pariká, another ‘teacher plant’, which, like ayahuasca,
reveals the sacred world to the seeker. Pariká transforms the shaman’s
vision and thought into a powerful creative act much like the Creator’s
in the beginning-time. The article explores plants as distinct markers of
cosmological epochs, as gifts from deities to humanity; and as deities
who are sacrificed in fire and from whose bodies the instruments of
social reproduction and domestic food production are made. Wright
concludes by commenting on the theory of Amerindian perspectivism,
from the point of view of the entheogens, which do not clearly fit the
model since the sacred plants are gifts from the deities to humans not
objects of prey–predator relations.
When wrapping up this special issue we learned of a remarkable event
in Ecuador that signaled a shift in efforts to extend rights to non-human
nature. On 5 October 2008, this Latin American country overwhelmingly
passed a new constitution that included this innovative language:
Natural communities and ecosystems possess the unalienable right to
exist, flourish, and evolve within Ecuador. Those rights shall be self-
executing, and it shall be the duty and right of all Ecuadorian governments,
communities, and individuals to enforce those rights.
References
Kendall, Clare. 2008. ‘Ecuadorians to Vote on Constitution Making Its Nature a
Rights-Bearing Entity’, The Guardian, 24 September 2008. Online: http:// www.
guardian.co.uk/environment/2008/sep/24/equador.conservation (accessed 27
September 2008).
Naess, Arne. 1973. ‘The Shallow and the Deep, Long-Range Ecology Movement: A
Summary’, Inquiry 16: 95-100.
Nash, Roderick. 1989. The Rights of Nature: A History of Environmental Ethics (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press).
Stone, Christopher. 1972. ‘Should Trees Have Standing? Toward Legal Rights for
Natural Objects’, Southern California Law Review 45: 450-501.
———. 1987. Earth and Other Ethics: The Case for Moral Pluralism (New York: Harper &
Row).
________________________________________
‘We Come from Trees’: The Poetics of Plants
among the Jotï of the Venezuelan Guayana
________________________________________
Egleé L. Zent*
Lab. Human Ecology, Instituto Venezolano de
Investigaciones Científicas, Caracas 1020-A, Venezuela
elzent@ivic.ve
Abstract
This paper explores the pervasive role of plants in the lives of the Jotï, a
group of 900 people from the Venezuelan Guayana. In contrast with other
Amazonian people for whom plants play relatively minor roles in spiritual
spheres when compared to animals (e.g. the Ese Eje, Aguaruna, or Yano-
mami), among the Jotï plants pervade their religious universe, assuming
fundamental and polysemic dimensions. Plants constitute active agents in
Jotï biological, cultural, and spiritual production and reproduction. Plants
are prominent within all aspects of Jotï society, making it difficult to estab-
lish strict separations between subsistence and ideological spheres. This
issue is explored here using a broad concept of religion including four
interrelated concerns: protology, anthropogony, ecogony, and eschatology.
Embedded in this text are three aspects: (1) the contemporaneity of phyto-
myths in daily lives; (2) the centrality of plants in the fabrication of
humanity; and (3) the relationship of the phyto-world to what some
Amazonian scholars refer to as ‘the symbolic economy of alterity’.
* I am thankful to Robin Wright for inviting me to write in this volume and for
his kind and proficient editorial help. I am grateful to the Jotï for their kindness,
friendship, and willingness to help in the data collection, and for sharing their homes
and taking care of me on their lands. Immense thanks to Stanford Zent, my academic
and life partner. Thanks also for the financial help received from the Instituto Venezo-
lano de Investigaciones Científicas and the Wenner Gren-Hunt Fellowship (Gr 7518).
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
10 Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture
Introduction
This paper discusses some ways in which plants permeate the Jotï uni-
verse beyond the material sphere. The main argument is that plants are
actors in the reproduction of the Jotï ethos, spiritual performances, and
integral lifestyle. This paper is organized along Robin Wright’s definition
of Religion as consisting of ‘cosmogonies, cosmologies, theories of the
nature and relationships among beings in the cosmos, and eschatology’
(Lecture, University of Florida, 23 August 2007). A slightly modified
notion used here considers religion as productive poetics embracing
those four interrelated areas of praxis and ideology: (1) protogonies, the
order that explains the origin of the cosmos and surroundings (per-
ceptible or imperceptible) and the entities that dwell therein; (2)
anthropogonies, the discourse that explains human creation; (3) ecogony,
the elucidation of the interrelationship and dynamics between the enti-
ties of the biosphere and their current function; and (4) eschatology, the
declaration of closure, the individual, and social end or potential tran-
scendence of selves in the afterworld. Poetics refers to the modes in
which these matters are ‘woven into the fabric of everyday life’, a merged
arrangement of ‘empirical observation’ and ‘a fanciful embellishment of
the inexplicable’ (Whitehead 2002: 2). The focus is on the significance
and value of plants interdigitated in ritually marked stages of Jotï
dynamics in the four areas mentioned.
The reconstruction of plants’ roles in the Jotï universe presented here
is based on the testimony of over 55 Jotï (of varying ages and genders) as
well as on a decade of personal observations of the behavior of the Jotï
people in different communities (<500 persons). This research was origi-
nally focused on techno-ecological, cognitive, and behavioral aspects of
the Jotï (Zent and Zent 2004a, 2004b). Gradually, subjective and religious
dynamics expressed through Jotï notions of body, personification and
socialization were incorporated (Zent 2005). These dynamics in turn
offer the central logic for understanding the Jotï lifestyle, such as repre-
sentations of constant events of interchange and communication among
the entities of the universe exemplified by hunting, gathering, garden-
ing, and fishing. Plants generate, catalyze, and provide the meaning of a
large portion of these dynamics.
The theories subsumed in this article are eclectic, associated with the
symbolic economy of alterity (Viveiros de Castro 1996). Alterity is used
here as a synonym of Otherness, how a given culture defines and identi-
fies itself, as opposed to its most significant and different Others
(enemies, affines, animals, etc.).
Ethnographic Background
My data here are drawn from broader ethnoecological research con-
ducted with Stanford Zent among the Jotï, an indigenous group from the
Venezuelan Guayana, since 1996. In 1969 the Jotï were the last of
Venezuela’s thirty indigenous groups to come into contact with the
Western world. Most of the 900 Jotï are monolingual, of a language
apparently affiliated to the Saliva family (Zent and Zent 2008b). Both the
Jotï and their homeland, the Sierra Maigualida (Amazonas and Bolívar
states), were virtually unknown to scientists, which stimulated our inter-
est in developing a research project with an interdisciplinary approach.
Maigualida is a mountainous formation of rugged terrain about 300
kilometers long and almost 7000 square kilometers in land area, reaching
its highest altitude of 2400 meters at Cerro Yudi. The entire mountain
range is covered by dense and high forests (pluvial, riverine, premon-
tane, montane, and gallery forests), except above 2000 meters where
tepui flora prevails (Zent and Zent 2004c). Most of the 25 Jotï communi-
ties maintain to a large degree their ancestral subsistence strategies,
although they have been exposed to a varied degree of contacts (with
missionaries, scientists, tourists, miners, other Amerindian groups,
soldiers, etc.), which in turn have triggered disparate cultural changes
among them (Zent 2005; Zent and Zent 2008b). Despite recent changes in
their settlement patterns due to this contact (see Zent and Zent 2004a),
the Jotï still spend more than half of the year trekking between tempo-
rary campsites.
In Maigualida, the Jotï live traditionally in small, dispersed, and iso-
lated communities of about five to thirty-five people, although their
population has been concentrated in two Christian missions (Kayama
and Caño Iguana,1 Catholic and Protestant respectively) and today at
least 65% of the Jotï live in one of them. However, even in these commu-
nities the Jotï are organized in mobile, egalitarian, and temporary bands
with loose kinship rules (Zent and Zent 2008b). Jotï subsistence ecology
consists mostly of the hunting and gathering of wild resources during
frequent overnight forays and longer seasonal treks, intermingled with
shifting agriculture and some fishing. Their settlement pattern consists
of temporary shelters during the annual cycle, although each group
might retain a sort of base camp where erratically tended gardens are
kept. Gardening practices are one among multiple foraging strategies in
an environment characterized by seasonally unstable and spatially
daily lives; (2) the centrality of plants in the fabrication of humanity and
the reproduction of culture; and (3) the relationship of the Jotï phyto-
world to the symbolic economy of alterity.
No records of Jotï history exist prior to their Western contact in the
early 1970s. Furthermore, Jotï oral traditions reflect minimal concern
about documenting their history. Therefore, little can be said about the
Jotï past except through information recalled in mythological discourses.
Inasmuch as myths and narratives are as dynamic as life itself, they
constitute a prominent tool to understand the past as interpreted and
enacted in the present. Myths are receptacles and expressions of history
(Hill and Wright 1988). Phyto-myths—those myths where plants are
dynamic, agentive actors—provide significant insight into the Jotï ethos
and past. Contrary to being stagnant, Jotï are acutely aware of changes,
particularly those that have occurred during the last decade of their
lives. Ancestral discourses and behaviors that pervade the Jotï ethos are
re-played through new contexts (schools, church, nucleated communi-
ties, cities, etc.), through novel medias (written texts, taped histories,
etc.), and through using recently adopted tools (GPS, computers, etc.).
They sustain and reproduce the right way of being a Jotï in the current
world. Parallel to embracing changes, the Jotï have demonstrated a
remarkable interest in incorporating old customs and narratives into
new, changeable settings. The fabrication of bodies is a synthetic exam-
ple of these processes: a statement of both difference and continuity. Jotï
bodies are the outcome of multiple structured interactions (symbiotic,
predatory, mutual, competitive, material, symbolic, etc.) in which plants
are vigorous and determinant in the final product. Interaction is used
here as equivalent to communication and social networks (Zent and Zent
2008a) among entities: plants, animals, hypostatic beings, people, and so
on. Not just matter but also immaterial and essential components of
humanity are fabricated with particular vegetal species whose incorpo-
ration or exclusion is pivotal to determining future successful relation-
ships with entities in the universe. Use of a myriad of plants is reflected
in the daily ritual incorporation of vegetal matters into the body, a
broader practice of introducing essences in the bodies that constitutes
the self, and that we have translated and conceptualized as ‘essence
interpenetration’ (Zent and Zent 2008a).
Essence interpenetration (au woi, au jkwa, au dïlï) is a set of practices
that requires the direct application of fragments of mostly organic and a
few non-organic components to the body. It consists of the individual
performance of primarily nasal but also oral and corporal ablutions,
libations (au wai), concoctions (au jkwa), inhalations (au iño jkwa lamau),
and partial or total body baths (au dïlï, au ibï) with parts or portions of
Protogony
As in most Amerindian cosmogonies, nothing in the Jotï cosmos is
generated ex nihilo (Viveiros de Castro 2004: 477). Physical perceptual
reality originated through transformations of something already existing
in a different form. The Jotï’s cosmos structure is similar to that of other
Amerindian groups (Yekwana, de Civrieux 1980; Nukak, Cabrera,
Franky, and Mahecha 1999; Makuna, Århem et al. 2004) and involves
three layers or tiers of life and reality: jkyo above (sky), jne in the middle
(earth), and jne jkwa below (underworld). Prominent, emergent trees
found in Maigualida flora support these oval tiers: jkyo is buttressed by
several trees, the most commonly mentioned being nïn alawini (Vitex
capitata Vahl), jkyo alawini (Vitex sp.), jnujtiyebo jele (Amphirrhox longifolia
[St. Hil.] Spreng), and jkawale jkajka (Caryocar microcarpum Ducke); jne is
sustained by four individual trees of the same species which vary
according to the speaker: muye jyeï (Copaifera officinalis L.), nïn alawini
(Vitex capitata Vahl), jkawale jkajka (Caryocar microcarpum Ducke), and
kyabo jyeï jkajka (Qualea paräensis Ducke). Finally, an intricate root system
of these trees lies in jne jkwa, the most stable tier and the location of
widespread abundance and happiness. Running water moves under and
around the spatial span that mediates the spaces between the ovals of
jkyo, jne, and jne jkwa. The water and the tiers float in endless motion.
The beginning of conscious time is attributed to the third and current
cosmic creation generated after the last chaos or total destruction of the
former cosmos. The narrative recalls that the primordial being ikyejka ja
(the hard one, a trickster being), tired of the disproportion and abuse of
power among the overpopulous jkajo jadï, cut down the trees that sustain
the biospheres causing the collapse of the earth and the shaking of the
sky. The underworld remained motionless and unchanged in its own
cycles and flows. Along with jkyo ae, ikyejka ja shaped the earth out
of amorphic chaotic matter. Likewise, plants were instrumental in
Anthropogony
Similar to other Amerindian peoples, the Jotï do not believe that human-
ity is an exclusive, essential quality or condition of a single life form
(Hallowell 1960; Viveiros de Castro 1992, 1998). A myriad of beings are
humans: many plants, animals, mushrooms, stars, the sun, the moon,
topographic features (rocks, soils, etc.) are not merely animated, but
rather humans in a different morphological appearance. Humanity is the
common or original condition of them, or their shared ultimate reference
point. Likewise, humans are the most susceptible, and even predisposed,
to change their surroundings constantly while producing the dynamics
of life. For Jotï there is no tension between humans as objects (Homo
sapiens) and subjects (endowed with agency sensibility, sensitivity):
Jtawï bo jotï
It all happened during the last chaos, at which time the current cosmos
was destroyed and recreated. Jtinewa, the sun (a very big and tall person)
stopped his walk at the zenith in the midday point. He had forgotten his
trail. A single but incomplete wise man, jkajo ja, lived in the earth alone
in his ïnë ja dodo (lit. the ‘wrapper or skin of meat’) or body. Ikyëjka ja had
predated his ijkwö ju (lit. ‘heart, blood’) and all his jnamodï (lit. ‘spirits’ or
animus selves). Jkyo ae came down to earth after noticing that jkajo ja
pretended that a muli jwëjlo (bract from the Socratea exorrhiza’s palm;
other versions claim jkolowa [Attalea sp.]) was a woman. Both went to
look for a jobei jtawï (tree that sings) and found jtïjtïmo jyeï (Apeiba sp.;
other versions recognize jkwijkwi jyeï or nïn jluwe jyeï) and, crying out,
cut off a piece of wood of approximately 60 centimeters. Then jkonoto jatï2
(a couple of wise bird-man and woman, Psarocolius decumanus) gave jkajo
ja indications to carve the first woman, ñamulie3au, out of that stick. The
she-life sprouted from inside the trunk; first her heart, then, gradually,
the rest of her body (times range between nine days to nine months
according to the narrator). The wood sang and the first woman was born
looking towards the direction where the sun sets. Jkonoto au (the wise
woman) placed the baby over a mat and gave her a bath with some plant
leaves, seeds, and flowers of agreeable scent. Jkonoto mali (the wise man)
took jkajo ja for jkyo balebï (to hunt, fish, gather, explore, and go out in the
forest) and returned a few days later with a mass of organic matter with
which to bath the baby girl. They cried out welcoming the first female
nïn Jotï. The child grew up quickly and when she menstruated for the
first time, they celebrated abstinence, isolation, and silence, then climbed
a mountain to perforate her nose and thereafter they painted their
bodies, took herbal baths, and practiced ablutions. Life was blown into
the primordial couple through their two sons, ñamulie jañye (first son)
and jtujtea jañye (younger son) who transformed into the complete, true
humans when bathed by their mother with a piece of the first mushroom
(yakino)4 that sprouted from her leg.
2. Some narrators mentioned ñowalibujka jadï, moali, moali yaya jadï, or moali bujka
jadï (eternal wise woman and man). Also cited were jkajwiye moali (protectors of
peccaries) or a generic couple of jkajo jadï (wise light persons).
3. Jotï do not use personal names. Ñamulie means literally ‘first’, whereas au
translates woman but is not recognized as a personal name but as a description.
4. There is no consensus about what kind this first mushroom was; usually a
generic one is mentioned. Allegedly, from this first mushroom sprang and diversified
all existent fungi throughout the world.
who use clothes). Since people are finite and thus require endless pro-
duction, uli yowale jadï are still in the underworld, fabricating humans in
the same way (Zent and Zent 2008a).
Whereas the first myth attributes agency to wild plants, the second
gives it to domesticated ones. In the first myth, there is consensus among
all interviewed regarding the structure, sequence of events, characters,
and the co-existence of three different wild species as the wood-material
used to create the first woman. Thus, there is consensus about the fact
that Jotï come from trees and even about the fact that three species of
trees created the true humankind, and from those trees sub-groups of
Jotï ascend and are organized thereafter. Such awareness mirrors aspects
of the social composition, dynamics, and ascendancy of Jotï sub-groups,
since the three trees jtïjtïmo jyeï (Apeiba spp.), ajlikwete lue jyeï (Inga bour-
goni Aublet), and jkiwi jyeï (Caraipa densifolia Martius) are considered the
generators of their sub-groups. This divergence of species varies accord-
ing to the self-ascription of the speaker claiming a unique ascendancy: ‘I
come from alikwete lue jyeï whereas my wife comes from jtïjtïmo jyeï’, for
instance. Jotï recognize at least three trees that sing, which vary as the
proper species according to the person. Consequently, they distinguish
three, and not one, events of creation marking an endogenous social
differentiation within the ethnic group. A form of non-extreme alterity is
highlighted by an essential tree-origin; the attributes of each case define
a subtle differential character among subgroups that is only revealed in
critical situations (such as potential conflicts). Explicitly, the ascendancies
of the three groups are considered as ways to ponder the most conven-
ient spouses or to avoid incest. Furthermore, the tree’s tropical genera
are diversely represented in Venezuelan Guayana by a meaningful num-
ber of species, Inga with thirty-nine (Steyermark, Berry, and Holst 2001:
616), Caraipa with thirteen (Steyermark, Berry, and Holst 1998: 13), and
Apeiba with six (Gentry 1993: 820). This intra-genera diversity mirrors the
intra-ethnic group diversity of which the Jotï are also very aware.
In some instances, traces of history may be encrypted in the mytho-
logical narratives to indicate potential migrations of new groups or
dynamics of interaction. This seems to be the case with the second myth
in which the raw material involves a domesticated genus introduced
purportedly less than 500 years ago from Southeast Asia. Meanings of
Musa x paradisiaca attest to the agile cultural appropriation of alien
material becoming ‘traditional’ non-antique components. The domesti-
cated Musa is made up of many varieties, similar to human ethnic diver-
sity since it is held responsible for all people in the world (including
some nïn Jotï). More extreme alterities are established in this narrative,
exogenous and endogenous ones respectively.
Beginning of Life
The conception of a person occurs when fluids from a man and a woman
(semen and blood) are mixed. A woman’s pregnancy, similar to what
occurs among other Amerindians, does not guarantee the birth of a
human. Rather humanity must be fabricated with the culturally deter-
mined series of sociological techniques (Seeger, Matta, and Viveiros de
Castro 1979). The first body part to form inside the womb is the heart. As
part of the couvade rituals (followed by parents and some community
members to substantiate the making of a human child), certain plants
should be contextually consumed (corn) whereas others should not be
eaten (short banana, long yam) to avoid malformations and predations
to the fetus and to protect it from corporeal transformations. Plants are
also used at the start of the process of individuation or separation of
baby from the mother. Following the procedure used when the first
woman was born, the umbilical cord should be cut with a sharpened
bambusoid grass (jtawibo jwajwa [Guadua sp.] or jwana jwajwa [Arthros-
tylidium sp.]). After the severing of the umbilical cord, the father must
wash the placenta with the bark of some secret trees and wrap it in
monocot leaves (nïjnëo wawa [Monotagma laxum K. Schum.], jtawe jwajwa
[Calathea spp.], or dökö [Calathea spp.]). The following morning, he buries
the wrapped placenta superficially on the roots of certain (usually
undisclosed species) soft wooden trees and asks the primordial being
jkyo ae to take it.
A crucial and definite power of plants in the development of individ-
ual human life is associated with the jnamodï: invisible components of
human beings that insufflate human intelligence, volition, knowledge,
and sensibility and serve as the seat of health (Zent and Zent 2007).
Jnamodï are both fabricated and given in three liminal moments of the
person: at birth, during adolescence, and during some specific training.
Three days after the baby is born, the father goes deep into the forest and
simultaneously requests and fabricates the first jnamodï for his child.
Proportional to his shamanic knowledge and according to the sex of the
newborn, the father looks for a large number of leaves, vine fluids, barks,
roots, flowers and fruits of diverse plants (yewö tawï, jkwii hele, luwilo,
jtamu adé, jkyo jtuku, jne jkwa, jani jkalïwëkï, juluwëka jnejkana, maina jtuku
aiye, malawa, alawini, etc.), mushrooms (uli jkwayo yakino, awëla wede
yakino, etc.) and arthropods (spiders, scorpions, ants, etc.).5 He chews up
those elements and makes a mass that he introduces into a basket woven
specifically to store the mass. The generative role of plants in this com-
plex moment is undeniable: the newborn’s father fabricates spiritual and
intangible components (jnamodï) of his baby with compounds of many
(mostly botanical) species while simultaneously requesting from jkyo ae
the jnamodï. The process is double: the mass assembled by the baby's
father (including his saliva) makes up the jnamodï bonded by jkyo ae into
the basket. On the morning of the fourth day, the baby’s father returns
home and the baby’s mother rubs and bathes the newborn with the
compound of substances amassed by the father. These essences
penetrate, protect, and connect the newborn forever with each of the
species that were part of the compound: they act as vehicles through
which the jnamodï penetrates the new being, providing strength, health,
and life. Thereafter, all members of the residential unit are whipped with
certain leaves on their legs and arms. Each of the newborn’s parents
bless portions of a set of different plants and then take separate baths
with them (Zent and Zent 2007).
Infancy
During the first two years of life, at least three processes occur wherein
plants introduce their agentivity to a person: as tools through body para-
phernalia, painting, and dreaming. At approximately five months of age,
the parents tie a woven band of cotton around the infant’s waist that
marks his/her perceptual difference as human being in relation to other
entities. Usually the person wears that band until puberty as the sole
item of ‘clothing’. At ten months of age and through celebrating at a com-
munal party, the children are introduced to the jkwarajka or woven beads
in order to protect the person’s interior self. Jkwalajka are comprised of
mostly seeds and bracts of wild and domesticated plants (uli and jani
jnajtae), bird feathers, bird and mammal claws and bones, fish cartilage,
portions of bottle caps, coins, buttons, glass, and so on. Jkwalajka is placed
onto infants’ chests in the shape of an X, and, as they grow, beads cover
their arms and legs (Zent and Zent 2008a). Moali ja, a deity, taught Jotï to
use beads at the beginning of times as a distinctive feature of humanity,
happiness, and personhood. People use beads at all times but especially
in the forests. Beads make their wearers jti ja: beautiful, good, and
healthy; they ward off predators such as awëladï,6who do not use and are
repulsed by these adornments (Zent and Zent 2008a). At about ten
months old the infant is introduced to the complex practice of maluwe
duwidekae, or body painting, which was taught by jkëmabakä jadï in
primordial times. Colorful or black vegetal, mineral, or animal essences
adorn but especially protect the infant body and are based on different
species of wild trees such as mou jtawï (Protium spp.), jtokolo jtawï
(Himatanthus spp.), and malu jtawï (Trattinnickia spp.), and the cultivated
shrub jkulilu (Bixa orellana L.). Gradually, as the Jotï enter into adult life,
maluwe duwidekae is practiced more intensely and frequently. Beads and
body painting act as tools aiding the wearer to appropriate essential
attributes of the organisms from whence they came.
Before the infant is able to consume most edible items, s/he is intro-
duced to dreaming. Dreaming is an art learned through the body by the
penetration of essences of unique plants. Before two years of age, the
person must be bathed with jlojkodï and ibuju mäli leaves. The compul-
sory prescription of the bath is determinant: the child’s tender body
must be penetrated by those leaves’ essences in a certain time period of
her/his development or s/he will never be a dreamer. Plants here are
more than agentive: they make possible or impossible an exceptional
competence. The plants teach the jnamodï three arts: to communicate
with other beings including ancestors and jnamodï while traveling in
dreams, to hunt/explore the forest, and to heal, restore, and cure.
Dreams provide a fundamental perspective of the life sphere; contrary to
playing a role secluded from habitual life, they offer clues to guiding
daily existence (Zent and Zent 2007: 99). Overall, to dream properly is to
consolidate a lifestyle that could not otherwise be enacted without the
agentivity of plants.
At approximately ten years of age, childrens’ ear lobes are perforated
in order to wear small cane plugs which are believed to help in the
development of the listening skills of their bearers.
Adolescence
Far from being exclusively material tools, plants are instrumental at the
onset of adolescence when the individual’s consolidation of personhood
is marked through a ritual that entails spatial, corporeal, symbolic, and
behavioral elements established during primordial times (López 2006).
Plants are prominent throughout three structural stages found in this
initiation ritual: restrictions and teachings, corporal marking and depart-
ing, and hyperactivity and intemperance (van Gennep 1960 [1909];
Viveiros de Castro 1979: 36). The initiates are allowed to eat just one
cultigen (corn, plantain, manioc); they sleep in new hammocks made
with wejtolo jyeï (Cecropia spp.) inside a little shelter built at the middle of
the family house with palm leaves of ulu ji (Attalea maripa Mart.) and
bajte ji (Oenocarpus spp.) that spatially isolates them. The initiates stay
there between seven days and three months (it varies according to the
speaker) until they depart to a mountaintop to pierce their superior nasal
septum with jani bajte ji’s darts (carved from the midrib of Oenocarpus
bacaba Mart.). While walking to the mountain they protect their head
with a muli ji hat (Socratea exorrhiza Mart.) to hide their presence from
ñëjto ja (rainbow-predator person) and to avoid the penetration of any
harmful substance. Returning from the mountain and nearing home, the
hat along with the fiber of the little shelter used during isolation and the
hammock is put on a termite nest and burnt under a hardwood tree
(alawini, iyëjka jyeï, muye, manio, jtuwomelekejke) while the initiates pro-
duce loud noises (shouting, tree beating). A few days later, a small piece
of wood is introduced in the nasal hole hidden inside the nose and this
will stay there for the rest of that person’s life. Common wooden plugs
are made from Rinorea pubiflora, Licania apetala, and Pseudolmedia spp.
Thereafter, the initiate heads off noisily to the forest, practices ablutions
and libations with specific plants, takes a bath, and ornaments her/his
body (necklaces, body painting, etc.) to get ready for the final phase of
the ritual: a communal festival to return to sociality and request jnamodï.
The festival starts seven days before the actual congregation of people
when the initiates’ kin request permission for a ceremony dedicated to
the jkyo aemodï, known as Masters in Amerindian literature (Reichel-
Dolmatoff 1971; Overing and Kaplan 1988; Århem 1996a; Whitehead
2002; Cormier 2003). On the eighth day, they head to the forest while
dancing and singing to cut off and hollow out a tree trunk (preferably
jtijtimo jyeï, the same tree of human creation; alternatively, jwani jyeï
Jacaranda sp. or jtabali jyeï Ceiba spp.) to act as a receptacle for the fer-
mented beer made out of sweet potatoes or manioc. Paraphernalia is
fabricated for all participants with leaves, seeds, and fruits of different
species of palms and trees. The initiate drinks, dances, and sings all
through the night. The next morning s/he is introduced to tobacco and is
allowed to eat various foods. A week of rest follows after the festival and
then the initiates go to the forest. After the nasal perforation, the initiate
is incorporated as a complete human into social, cosmological, and
potentially eternal life. An adult who dies without having endured the
initiation ritual is doomed to extinction since s/he will be eaten by jlojkoi
uli ja (a huge person-predator, hypostasis of a lizard). The ritual closes a
cycle of human completeness and marks the beginning of the Jotï’s life in
symbolic, spiritual, and behavioral spheres.
Ecogony
After adolescence, the person is considered an adult ready to start a fam-
ily since he/she should have the knowledge to guarantee the production
and reproduction of cultural and biological life. Only after the celebra-
tion of the rite of passage is the initiate allowed to interact properly with
many species without jeopardizing the life of community members.
Adulthood
Some central ideas permeate daily events in which the awareness of the
interconnectedness of entities in the biosphere is crucial. The subject
(individual or social) constitutes the causal foundation that triggers most
dynamics in the Jotï universe. The subject-person is simultaneously
receptor and transmissor of multiple visions of her/his surroundings.
These perspectives are given by her/his inherent characteristics (species-
specific, body-specific), and in turn defined by her/his habitus (bundle of
affections). Both subjects and surroundings exist in constant motion.
were bored, the plant-person walked away from the Sun’s abode to Earth
and chose where to live (their habitats) and how to look (their habit).
Most of the current mammals and birds as well as cultivated plants were
people who decided to transform as desired into actual species. These
metamorphoses took place after humans transited and sang, from the
interior of an emergent tree trunk (Qualea sp.) to the outer forests. Thus,
connections between life forms perceived as people-plants-animals-fungi
are direct: humanity is an essential component shared by many life
forms that interact daily today. Indeed, some people claim to have kin-
ship relationships with various plants and animals species.
The generation of life depends upon an ecocentric ethics and it is
pragmatically reflected in the effort to maintain connections through the
material and spiritual transference among the spheres of sensible life and
social domains. All biota are ontologically interlinked as well as prag-
matically dependent upon each other. For example, our data account for
45 mammal species (in 15 biological families) and 53 bird species (in 20
families) hunted by the Jotï with the help of tools fabricated with 61
botanical species (in 33 families), whereas we have recorded over 100
species of mostly plants but also some mammals, fish, arthropods, and
mushrooms involved in the essence interpenetration associated with
subsistence ecology practices that guarantee successful interactions (Zent
2005). Likewise, Jotï collect parts of over 220 wild plant species to eat and
11 help them to alleviate thirst while they are distant from water sources,
285 plant species are used to build shelters and houses, 36 botanical
species aid them to fish, 193 are employed for technological ends, and 15
botanical species are used to clean and bathe their bodies (Zent and Zent
2004a, 2004b). The biospheric link is constantly consolidated through the
essence interpenetration practice supported by applying systematically
their knowledge in terms of ecology (species natural histories and inter-
actions, distribution and movements of populations, anthropogenic
impacts, etc.), technology (fabrication or trade tools, skills, traditional
ecological praxis and wisdom, etc.), sociology (gender relations, kinship,
interchange, trade, camping, socialization, etc.), and religion (cosmology,
health, myth, rituals, dreams, ceremonies, taboos, essence interpenetra-
tion, etc.) (Zent and Zent 2004a, 2004b, 2008b).
Interactions have various dynamics involving characters that change
their roles according to the context and the venture: mutualism, amen-
salism, commensalism, symbiosis, and predation including forms of
parasitism (Zent and Zent 2008a). For instance, the hunters’ seduction of
game starts, just as it occurred in primordial times, with the multi-fac-
eted practice of maluwe duwidekae, body painting with a compound based
on vegetal resins (Protium spp. or Trattinnickia spp. and Mabea spp. for
male hunters and Aphelandra spp. or Psychotria spp. for female hunters),
seeds, leaves, and pieces of the inner bark of some trunks (jkwajtakä) that
includes processed parts of arthropods, mammals, birds, and fish,
sometimes even mineral substances. But especially, the body paints are
mixtures of plants able to communicate with other entities (Himatanthus
articulatus, Zingiber sp., Bixa sp., Protium aracouchini, Copaifera officinalis,
Trattinnickia lawrancei, Trattinnickia burserifolia, Protium crassipetalum,
Protium tenuifolium, Mabea sp., Garcinia sp., Hibiscus abelmoschus, Ecclinusa
guianensis, etc.). A permanent interchange and transfer of qualities and
essences, both material and non-material, is enacted among the life
forms that sustain the ethics of belonging, dependence, and affection.
Eschatology
The ultimate destiny of humankind and the world were revealed in
primordial times.
Death
Ikyejka ja cut the trees that supported earth at the beginning of times, but
night did not exist since the Sun remained motionless in the zenith. Con-
cerned, the first son ñamulie jañye, encouraged by his parents, climbed up
the sky and tried to convince the Sun, jtinewa, to walk behind him so that
he could, once more, learn the oval trail around the three life-tiers.
Unable to persuade jtinewa, and lacking other seductive strategies,
ñamulie jañye killed him with a wooden lance. After many days of dark-
ness the sun was reborn as a tiny halo of light, which came out from the
coals of the minuscule core of the first sun’s heart. The Sun grew up fast,
and during his maturation ñamulie jañye taught him the whole circuit
around which he must walk everyday and how to be a proper nïn Jotï (to
make baskets, blowguns, mats, lances, houses, and hammocks, and to
perform rituals, songs, stories, dances, etc.). Then ñamulie jañye
descended to earth in the shape of a bat. The cycles began again after the
Sun started walking, and with them, many night-creatures became
known. Life was in abundance and regained motion (Zent and Zent
2008a). However, no one on earth followed the mortuary rituals required
when the Sun died, provoking irreversible consequences for humans:
they lost immortality and the opportunity to be jluweoäï (eternally
young, shedding the skin like crabs or snakes), which forced ñamulie
jañye to open the path that all people must follow after death towards
the Sun’s abode. The first people were afraid. With darkness on earth,
many predators came and surrounded their home (yewidï [lit. powerful
predator jaguars] and awëladï) and people remained quiet and silent,
even after the peoples’ first son (probably transformed into a jaguar)
begged them to open the door for him. The chain of potential outcomes
is again the product of interlinked (ecological) occurrences of diverse
actors and does not consist of isolated events crafted as dogmas or
cryptical whims of a powerful entity or a few deities. A crucial goal
attributed to one of the first complete men, ñamulie jañye, is announcing
the destiny of humankind and the potential end of this era if humans did
not reproduce the Jotï lifestyle (Zent and Zent 2008a).
After death, the person’s soul walks to where the Sun is born (i.e. to
the East). The voyage is marked by potential predatory events, the nature
of which depends upon facts that involve plants—such as whether the
deceased wears a wooden plug in her/his nose, consumes tobacco, and
whether the mourners fulfill the funerary rituals. Likewise, the final
destination varies (underworld, sky, under some mountains, etc.)
according to which of the three trees of the primordial Creation myth the
deceased came from. Three components of the person—body, heart, and
jnamodï—endure transformations after death, the viability of which
depends upon the mourner’s fulfillment of the mortuary rituals. Failure
to complete the funerary rituals may result in predation and fatal
substantial contaminations (chronic diseases).
As with the birth and adolescence rituals, the three stages characteriz-
ing the mortuary rituals also involve generative plants: (1) restrictions
and isolation, (2) body markers and depuration, (3) hyperactivity and
intemperance. The corpse is washed with vegetal and animal substances
before being buried, frequently in areas with abundant subsoil plants. It
is wrapped in a mat or a hammock made of wejtoro jtawï (Cecropia spp.)
or cotton fiber, before it is placed into the hole. Large sticks are crossed
on top and along the body, and over them are placed leaves of jkanawa
wawa (Phenakospermun guyannense Endl. ex Miq.). Besides the body, the
mourners place items they believe the deceased will use to complete the
journey (food, lance, blowgun, paints, necklaces, etc.). Thereafter, mourn-
ers go away to avoid awëla’s attacks (diseases, kidnapping, frightening,
etc.) and seek to protect themselves by eating certain mushrooms and
decorating their bodies (painting with vegetal substances such as
jkalawine, Erechtites sp., jkulilu Bixa spp., Protium spp., muye jaï, alawini
jyeï, balana, etc.). Protection is acquired forever once a mushroom (awëla
yakino) mixed with water is rubbed on the piece of wood that is used for
the first nasal perforation. After burial, the group’s house is burned, and
a new shelter is built about an hour’s walk away. For around three
months, the mourners, and especially those who touched the corpse,
must wash their hands, take baths, vomit, and make ablutions with cer-
tain plants. They must also provoke ants to bite their arms, hands, legs,
and chest and wash their scars with particular vegetal substances (vary-
ing according to sex and age) while positioning themselves on top of the
ants’ nests so as to allow the blood mixed with the vegetal fluid to enter
the nests. The mourners scarify their bodies and mouths with specific
leaves letting the blood drip on several ants’ nests. They abstain from
consuming wild products. Those who buried the corpse cannot touch
children for a month until they have taken a warm bath with specific
plants (jtokwawa, jtijti, jkulilu, jtikiwili, jtuku jedö, mailaj tuku, wejkana, jedö
najte alejtö). Gradually, during a six-month period, the mourners eat one
food type after another until they can offer a feast in the new house.
On his final voyage, the deceased must cross a river at the end of the
world. Jlojkoi uli ja, the biggest predator, is waiting for all dead persons
midway across the river: he eats all who lack the nasal wood plug, and
only grants passage to the Sun’s abode to those who have the piece of
wood in their noses. Good spirits receive the survivors in the Sun’s home
where the dead person turns into a spirit.
Funerary rituals do not just protect a soul from cosmic final predation
but allow the continuation of the Jotï lifestyle while maintaining health
and connectedness with all life forms, thus avoiding cultural and
biological extinction.
Conclusions
Similar to other Amerindian people, Jotï myths disclose the standard
guidelines of the right lifestyle. Plants are central to Jotï poetics, both in
their narratives and everyday life. Phyto-myths are repositories of reli-
gious wisdom that conceal the proper ways of being human in the cos-
mos. Phyto-myths that explain Jotï protogony, anthropogony, ecogony,
and eschatology act as moral decalogues, articulating practices in the
dynamics of Jotï ecological ethos and ethics (ideal bio-spheric behaviors).
These dynamics are perceived through daily cultural poetics or perform-
ances linking praxis and ideas, primordial and everyday time.
Plants are at the base of life among Jotï, constituting a critical link in a
circular conception of relations among living beings. Of the examples
cited above, significant examples of the role played by plants are as
follows:
1. The cosmos structure is maintained, supported, and sustained by
more than twenty plants.
2. Human beings were generated from plants, whereas most
animals, plants, and mushrooms were originally people. Thus,
this origin in vegetal substance continues to have consequences
for the Jotï ethos today.
and partial or total baths) with portions of some plants, mushrooms, and
arthropods, s/he sharpens her/his capacity to see, hear, smell, being in
the world of the senses. The practice enhances and purifies the body and
establishes effective and affective links with the different organic spheres.
The bath (essence interpenetration) with the first mushroom given to the
first man is the metaphor that summarizes the metamorphosis practiced
through the penetration of substances (such as is observed in the fabrica-
tion of jnamodï, the practice of hunting-magic, the use of tobacco, the
carrying of nasal wooden plugs, etc.). The penetration of essences
symbolizes the potential metamorphosis after essential body contact/
penetration with organic matter takes place.
Finally, plants are fundamental to following the most crucial human
purpose in the cosmos: to maintain and reproduce total interconnection
of life forms. This interconnection is perceived as the only possible strat-
egy to preserve the universe’s existence. This cosmogonic responsibility
is the marker par excellence of humanity, which is measured by the unique
Jotï lifestyle. Hunting, gathering, fishing, and singing are all part of a
continuous vital interchange. Humanity’s fragility is also the Jotï’s major
strength: their hyper-consciousness of the latent possibility of chaos, the
cosmic collapse and destruction that inappropriate human behavior
could trigger by cutting the trees that sustain and support the Cosmos.
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_______________________________________________
Singing to Estranged Lovers:
Runa Relations to Plants in the Ecuadorian Amazon*
_______________________________________________
Abstract
This article examines Runa relations to plants in the Ecuadorian Amazon.
By analyzing ritual songs to plants as well as gardening behaviour, it
argues that plants are treated like dangerous lovers or difficult children. To
find out why this should be the case, it then examines Quichua and Shuar
language accounts of the origins of plant species. These accounts suggest
that plant species evolve from a previously human state in which the
plants were lovers or children who became estranged. The estrangement is
triggered by a particular fault called quilla in Quichua. The meaning of this
key term includes both ‘laziness’ and ‘sexual looseness’. The resulting
emotional estrangement then hardened into a physical transformation
giving rise to a new species. Although the fault called quilla is overcome
through the transformation, the resulting plants continue to be treated as
though they were moody children or lovers prone to withdraw from the
gardener. The article concludes by suggesting that treating plants as high-
maintenance lovers leads to a kind of gardening that is more costly in
terms of time and dedication than most women can afford under
conditions of modernity.
* I would like to thank Michael Uzendoski, Bron Taylor, and Robin Wright for
their insightful comments on earlier versions of this article. Conversations with Janis
Nuckolls also helped to shape the ideas developed here. Finally, I would also like to
thank my wife Josefina Andi for her assistance with the sometimes difficult Quichua
translation of the texts included in the article.
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
Swanson Singing to Estranged Lovers 37
1. ‘For them [the Aguaruna] the garden, like the forest, is a spiritually charged
realm that poses dangers to the unwary or imprudent… To a scientific observer, the
Aguaruna horticultural system is remarkably productive and resistant to the climactic
fluctuations, plant diseases, and pests that make plant cultivation so risky in tempe-
rate zones. Not so for the Aguaruna gardener, who feels that without magical interven-
tion the success of her crops is always in doubt’ (Brown 1986: 97).
2. For example, Descola cites an Achuar hunting song that addresses the woolly
monkeys as ‘little brother-in-law’ (1986: 261).
3. Quichua-speaking people (Runa) on the Pastaza and upper Napo Rivers are
not primarily descended from Andean migrants but are rather Amazonians (mostly
Zaparoan and Achuar/Shuar) who have undergone a language shift. They share more
rituals, origin stories, and customs with the Achuar/Shuar than with any other
language group (including Quichua dialects of the sierra). In his early work, Norman
Whitten demonstrated close kinship ties between the Achuar and the Runa living in
the Rio Pastaza valley (1976). Although his early work portrayed the Napo Runa as
distinct, he later extended his portrait of Pastaza Runa kin networks to include the
Napo headwater region (Whitten and Whitten 2008). The work of Muratorio (1991)
and Uzendoski (2005) tended to strengthen the view of the Napo Runa as culturally
distinct from the Pastaza Runa. Although space does not permit me to argue the case
here, from long residence in both the Pastaza Runa (1961–65, 1971–73, 1996) and the
Napo headwater Runa areas (summer and winter breaks from 1997–present) as well
as a comparison of texts, material culture, and dialects, I have become convinced that
the two are best treated as a single cultural continuum.
4. Clara Santi, the key Pastaza Runa resource for this article, exemplifies the
fluidity or relations between the Pastaza and Napo valleys. Although she speaks in
Matiri Spirit Man. Matiri is the Quichua name of a plant in the Clavija
genus of the Theophrastaceae family. Clavija is a deep forest plant that
bears clusters of yellow fruits about the size of a grape. These fruits con-
sist of a large pit surrounded by a thin, crispy skin with the thickness of
a tangerine pealing. This pealing is considered to have a medicine (jambi)
that hunters consume to dull hunger and attract game while out on long
hunts in the forest. According to Clara Santi, ‘When you walk in the
forest with hunger, when its fruits are smooth and ripe, you take them
and you suck on them, breaking, breaking, breaking, their thin skin. You
suck on these when you walk with hunger. The hunger goes away. It is a
medicine’.
The matiri plant is said to have a personality or runa within it called
Matiri Runa. To harvest the matiri fruit, the medicine gatherer addresses
a song to this persona hidden in the plant. As Clara put it, ‘This is one
you sing to. You are to sing to it’. Clara then sang her matiri song which
goes as follows:
the Pastaza dialect her mother was from Ahuano on the Napo. Clara spent some of
her childhood years living in the home of her Napo Runa grandfather Asua Juanchu
Grefa. There she was exposed to many influences (including one of her grandfather’s
four wives who came from the Rio Ucayali in Peru).
The purpose of the song is to persuade the plant man to allow the
singer to take some of his medicine away with her: ‘I will go taking his
spirit with me’, she sings. ‘He is the man who stands there saying “Take
me”, That Matiri Man’. The reason that the song is necessary is that the
medicine works well only if the plant cooperates and gives its medicine
willingly to the healer. Simply taking the plant will not produce an
effective medicine. Getting the plant to give its medicine willingly is a
delicate matter, however, because the plant is thought to be tempera-
mental, guarded, and prone to withdraw from relationships. The song,
which is sung to the matiri plant by a female singer, portrays the Matiri
Man both as a seductive lover and as a skilled hunter.
By portraying matiri in this way, the song represents the guardedness
or inaccessibility of the man behind the matiri medicine as a kind of male
sexual coyness. Once portrayed in this light, the female singer knows
how to behave toward the plant in order to coax him to cooperate. She
attracts him with love songs like she might any evasive but attractive
man who is vulnerable to women. Since hunters chew his fruits when
they go out hunting, it is with Matiri Runa’s power and personality that
they endure hardship to bring back game to give to the women they
love. Hence Clara’s love song to matiri portrays Matiri Runa himself as a
hunter and seductive lover who brings back game to seduce his love.
The song builds on traditional patterns of courtship and love in which
men hunt to give game to women in exchange for love, sex, and asua
(manioc drink). Giving game to a woman is a recognized act of
courtship, much like giving red roses.6 In this case, the game that is given
5. ‘Engañara’ is a loan word from Spanish engañar (to deceive) which in this
context means ‘to seduce’. The suffix ‘–ra’ is a Pastaza Quichua third-person singular,
past tense marker, although it looks like a Spanish third-person singular, future tense
marker.
6. I use the example of roses to suggest the idea that Amazonian men are
romantic and not just exchanging products (meat for chicha) and much less meat for
sex. Nevertheless, comparing game to roses has its limits. While roses are given to a
woman as an individual, game is given to a woman understood to be part of an ayllu
is a bird (pishcu). The word pishcu may have a double entendre because it is
a common term for the male organ frequently used by women in jest.
The double entendre is made more probable by the context. ‘Drinking his
little fruits, sitting there to give the bird (he killed) to the woman he
loves so that what he wants will happen. He seduced her. That is how
Matiri Man is’. Since in the larger context the song is about the relation-
ship of the Matiri Man to the singer herself, it is likely that Clara is refer-
ring to herself as the woman that the Matiri Man is trying to seduce.
What Clara hopes to receive from the Matiri Man is his medicine. Hence,
the bird given to the woman probably ultimately refers to the Matiri
Man’s medicine, here compared to the stereotypical male gifts of game
and sex.
By singing teasingly to him in this way, the female singer turns the
tables on him. By flattering the male plant with her song, she seduces
him into giving her his medicine. In the beginning of the song, Matiri
Man is the one in control, seducing women. By the end, however, he is
the ‘man who stands there saying take me’ and Clara concludes, ‘I will
go taking his spirit away with me’.
The second song is addressed by Clara Santi to Huanduj Man (Brug-
mansia suaveolens). Like matiri, Brugmansia suaveolens is the source of a
medicine (jambi) that the singer hopes to acquire. The soft stems of
Brugmansia are split open and left outside overnight to expose them to
the dew. The pulp is then scraped out and ingested to produce visions.
The flowers and leaves are used as poultices for wounds and for acts of
ritual cleansing called pichana in Quichua or limpias in Spanish. Brug-
mansia is also planted around homes as a protective border against
witchcraft. Yachajs (shamans) who drink ayahuasca (Banisteriopsis caapi)
claim to see the Brugmansia borders glowing in the dark.7
In introducing this song she said: ‘Ok. I am going to sing about the
how the Huanduj Man went taking me to bathe me in the fragrance of
his flowers. I stand inside the fragrance of the opening of [his flowers]. I
am going to sing of the huanduj flower, the Napo River flower. That is
what I am going to sing, the huanduj flower’. Her song goes like this:
or extended family. Unlike the gift of roses the gift of game is also evidence of a
suitor’s masculinity developed in complex relation to the forest. For another explora-
tion of the love, sex, and meat/manioc relationships, see Gow 1989.
7. Ritual healers called yachaj (literally ‘one who knows’) regularly drink a bitter
tea made from steeping the ayahuasca (Banisteriopsis caapi) vine together with chagruna
(Psychotria viridis) to alter consciousness so that they can communicate with the supai
(spirit) world.
the plant as the Huanduj Spirit Man. Her identity as the Huanduj Flower
woman is derivative from her relationship to the Huanduj Flower Man.
The Huanduj Man is by nature hidden because he is a spirit not visible
to the human eye. To describe the hiddenness of the Huanduj Man,
Clara draws on the physical appearance of the flower itself. The long
tubular flowers hang downward so that the stamen and other internal
parts of the flower are invisible unless one leans over and peers up
inside the flower. As they hang downward the flowers look like a tall
pointed hat with a wide brim at the bottom. Clara describes herself as
the woman who stands peering under this hat. In line 58, she takes his
hat and looks inside. In line 59, her peering inside of him is turned
around so that it becomes his peering into her eyes.
Another observable quality, the aroma of the huanduj flower, is used in
the song as a symbol of the Huanduj Man’s flirtatious attraction. In the
daytime huanduj flowers have little or no aroma. But at night they
mysteriously open and give off a pungent aroma that seems compelling
and irresistible. Clara describes this opening as the Huanduj Man put-
ting on his hat. In her song she compares the experience of this attractive
aroma to the experience of being teased, laughed at, and flirted with by
an elusive man wearing a hat. ‘The Huanduj Spirit man laughs wanting
to take me’. She says of herself ‘I am the woman who stands smelling’.
She becomes the Huanduj Flower Woman by bathing herself in his
attractive aroma.
Although the huanduj is beautiful, being carried away by its aroma is
not an unambiguously good thing. The Huanduj Man, like the spirit
world in general, can also bewitch and kill. The singer’s relation to the
huanduj is portrayed as a journey. The journey is an erotic contest of
power in which either she will take him or he will take her. The goal is to
know him and receive his gifts without being carried away, losing
control and possibly being killed by him. Near the beginning of the song,
she articulates what she sees as the real danger of engaging him: He
might take her away to place her on the head of the island.
The relationship is portrayed as a contest between intense attraction
and the will to resist. In lines 30 and 31, she describes herself as the
woman who stands turning back and forth. The Quichua word kihuirisha
here refers to restlessness in which she is continually pulled toward the
Huanduj Man but then turns back. ‘He won’t be able to overcome me,
the strong Santi woman’, she concludes.
The songs examined above display a more complex emotion than one
might have expected to be generated by plants. Certainly plants are
beautiful but how do they generate the passion of a great human love?
Certainly plants can be poisonous but how can they generate the
8. Photographs of all the plants treated in this article can be viewed in the
Ethnobotany Database at http://andes.asu.edu (accessed 4 March 2009).
9. By using the word ‘personalities’, I mean to suggest that a plant or animal
species has something like a psychological history or memory of estrangement formed
by the distinctive events of its origin. Although the events occurred while the species
was still human, their effects on the subjectivity of the species lingers on as a forma-
tive factor in its contemporary behavior. It is this lingering effect of the past history of
domestic relations that allows the species to become a partner with a human being in
a complex and ambivalent relationship of attraction, coyness, seduction, and
resistance. By using the word ‘personalities’ I do not mean to suggest, however, that
individual plants have their own psychological histories.
americana is the source of a black dye that is also used as body paint and
has many ceremonial uses. The narrative cycle of the sisters Manduru
and Huituc is central to the creation story of Quichua-, Achuar-, and
Shuar-speaking people south of the Rio Napo. In a series of loosely
related stories, it narrates the sexual experiences of two human sisters
who move from one man to another until they eventually become the
plants Bixis orellana and Genipa americana. As we have seen, Clara Santi’s
songs have presented two plant species as male lovers. By examining the
stories of the sisters, Manduru and Huituc, it may be possible to gain a
deeper insight into how Runa understand the past love life of plants.
This in turn may provide insight into the present status of plants as
potential objects of human love songs.
I will present a Quichua-language segment of this story narrated by
Luisa Cadena.10 According to Cadena, before becoming plants, Manduru
and Huituc were human sisters about to marry brothers. Manduru, the
older sister (and in some versions both sisters), had a series of affairs.
While married to a man who later became the squirrel, she had a secret
affair with a man who became the dolphin accepting fish from him and
giving him manioc. After a series of other affairs, the two sisters entered
into a relationship with two brothers who later became swallow-tailed
kites. The two brothers offered fish to the girls and sent them to bathe
their future mother-in-law. They warned the girls not to bathe her in hot
water but the girls playfully did bathe their future mother-in-law in very
hot water, melting the old lady. As a result, the girls were abandoned by
their potential husbands. The story then continued as follows:
10. Luisa Cadena has served as a primary resource for Janis Nuckolls’s work
(1996). Cadena is a Quichua-speaking woman form Montalvo whose parents were
Zaparoan speakers from the Andoas area on the Pastaza. I am indebted to Janis
Nuckolls for making it possible for me to record Luisa Cadena in the context of
Arizona State University’s Andes and Amazon Field School during July of 2008.
signified by the verb. Hence the verb ‘quillana’ means ‘to be lazy’ while
‘quilla-chi-na’ literally means to make someone else be lazy. In
contemporary Quichua, however, ‘quilla-chi-na’ is also the verb which
means ‘to flirt’, ‘to bother’, or to ‘seduce’. Hence, in Quichua, to flirt or to
seduce necessarily also means ‘to make lazy’ because seduction distracts
a man or woman from attention to the task at hand.
Because the behavior described as quilla leads to the breakdown of
marriage, the word must be understood by contrast to the Quichua ideal
of marriage. In Quichua thinking, marriage (and by extension human
society as a whole) is based on a sensuous exchange of disciplined female
work for male work. Most typically women give men asua (manioc
drink) in exchange for fish and game. In order to understand the contrast
to quilla, it is important to see that this exchange is both sensuous and
the result of highly disciplined work on each side.
Asua embodies self-disciplined female sensuality. Each woman has her
own manioc garden which she cares for as if it were her own baby. From
the manioc roots that grow there, she makes her own brew of asua.
Because the manioc is chewed to increase fermentation her saliva gives
the asua an intimate quality.11
For the man’s part, hunting is like a martial art that is successful only
with great balance and endurance. To stay up all night hunting, to be
successful, and then to bring home game to a beloved woman is an
admired expression of mature masculinity. In response, the woman
mixes asua in a mucahua (ceramic bowl) painstakingly adorned with pat-
terns from her dreams, painted with a brush made from her own hair.
The woman holds her bowl to the mouth of the returning hunter moving
it sensuously while he drinks sometimes with movements reminiscent of
a kiss. While he drinks the woman who has waited for him, caring for
his children, looks into his eyes and sings a love song composed just for
him. The result is a sensuous and intimate exchange between a man and
a woman. In this ideal exchange the female partner is called a chagra
mama (garden mother) and the man an aicha yaya (meat father).
An aicha yaya or chagra mama of this kind are characterized as shinzhi
(strong) because they have the strength to endure in their work without
being overcome by distractions, whether from hunger, tiredness, curios-
ity, or sexual desire. They are also described as iyaiyuj (intelligent) and
sabiru (clever) because they do not allow impulsive distractions to cloud
11. In recent years, the practice of chewing manioc to start the fermentation
process has declined, particularly in the Napo region. Most young women now use a
little fermented mash left over from a previous brew as a starter to ferment a new
batch.
the preferred form of marriage was one man married to two sisters.13
Hence, in Shuar versions, the two sisters, Manduru and Huituc, move
together from man to man. According to Pelizzaro’s text (as well as Luisa
Cadena’s unpublished version), Manduru and Huituc lived with a man
named Kunamp/Ardilla (Sciureus sp.) who had very prominent front
teeth. Although the girls appeared to be working hard carrying the corn
from their gardens, they were unable to control their tongues and loudly
made fun of their husband’s teeth. The annoyed husband promptly
imprisoned the girls in bamboo, ending the relationship (Pellizzaro 1988:
181-86). Another man, Paushi (curassow) according to Cadena, or
Sicuanga (Ramphostos cuvieri the toucan) according to Whitten (2008), cut
them free but instead of pursuing stable alliances with these men, the
girls move on to more unsuitable encounters.
The two sisters then arrived at a home of an older woman who invited
them in to wait for her son. Her son, she told them, was a great warrior.
Instead of asking questions the girls allowed desire for marriage to cloud
their judgment. At first the sisters prepared steamed fish for this man in
the hopes of getting married. Then, unable to stick to their intentions, the
girls ate the food themselves and fell asleep. Upon waking they sensed
that someone had molested them. As they lay watching they saw the
woman feeding her son by the fire. To their surprise he was not a war-
rior at all but the moth boy Katarkap sitting by his mother in the night, a
long penis wrapped around his neck.14 After feeding him, the mother
placed her son on a stool beside the girls’ bed. Without giving game to
the girls’ family or receiving manioc drink, the boy sought to penetrate
first one sister and then the other. This time, however, the girls were
sleeping with their skirts tucked tightly between their legs and he was
unable to penetrate them through the cloth (Pellizzaro 1988: 87-94).
Leaving the home of Katarkap, Manduru and Huituc finally meet a
good man, Nayapi (Elanoides Forficatus; Quichua: Tijeras Anga), who
offered the girls fish and game and was willing to marry them. Because
Naypi was on his way to a long hunting trip he sent the girls to wait for
him in his home where he asks them to take care of his mother. The girls
lose their way, however, because they are tricked by a man who later
became Tsuna, a large deep forest tree with a very foul smelling sap.
Instead of arriving at the home of Nayapi, they mistakenly arrive at the
home of Tsuna. Tsuna’s mother invites them to help her make asua while
they await her son who, she says, is a great hunter (and whom they think
is Nayapi). After the girls are in bed, the son comes home. The woman
and her son noisily chew on a little crab, commenting loudly that they are
chewing the bones of a large animal killed by the son. The girls thought
that he was indeed the great hunter. Tsuna climbed into bed between
them and spent the night caressing first one and then the other. In the
morning the girls found themselves covered with a disgusting secretion
that reminded them of sap of the Tsuna tree. Instead of making love with
the hunter, they had been seduced by the tree man Tsuna. The foul smell
of his sap was in their eyes, in their armpits, in their nostrils, and in all of
the places where he had kissed them. Although they bathed, they could
not completely get rid of the smell (Pelizzaro 1988: 103-10, 151-63).
Finally, still smelling of their night with Tsuna, the girls arrive at the
home of Nayapi and are invited in to wait by his mother. In return for
his gift of fish, Nayapi had asked the girls to perform the female task of
bathing his aging mother with lukewarm water. In Runa thinking, a cari
mama or husband’s mother is a respected figure for a cachun or daughter-
in-law. Loving care of a cari mama is a central part of female labor. Yet
instead of bathing their cari-mama carefully in lukewarm water, the girls
playfully and deliberately scald the old woman with hot water as a kind
of joke, melting her and causing her son to withdraw from the marriage
(Pellizarro 1988: 110-20). In a Quichua version collected by Foletti-
Castegnaro, the girls do bathe their future mother-in-law carefully at
first but are then overcome by curiosity to see what would happen if
they bathed her in very hot water (1985: 99-103).
The girls then fled from Nayapi to the home of a young man named
Machin/Tsere who later became a capuchin monkey (Cebus capucinus).
In a narrative style reminiscent of erotic comedy, the narrator tells how
Machin invented an array of schemes designed to satisfy his sexual
curiosity. First, he invented lice, hoping that the girls would ask him to
delouse them so he could play with their hair. Instead the girls learned
to delouse each other. Machin then invented fleas, hoping they would let
him search their bodies for the pesky creatures. Finally, Machin invented
scabies and other skin diseases in the hopes that the girls would ask him
to cure ailments in their private parts. The girls, however, learned to heal
each other (Pellizzaro 1988: 167-74).
Eventually, though, the girls succumbed to Machin’s seduction when
they were unable to resist curiosity. Machin had busied himself rolling
fiber into string. Curious, the girls asked him why he was making string.
Machin offered to tell them on the condition that they let him kiss their
breasts. Dying of curiosity, the younger sister Huituc exposed her breasts
first. Machin kissed one breast and then another. Still he still would not
tell what the string was for, so Manduru exposed her breasts too. After
kissing Manduru’s breasts, Machin finally told the girls his secret. To
avenge the death of his mother, Nayapi had commissioned Machin to
make the string so that Nayapi could make smoked meat out of Huituc’s
body (Pellizzaro 1988: 122-23).
Hearing this, the girls continued their flight. They soon realized,
however, that they had nowhere else to go. They had become estranged
from men, and men had become estranged from them. Through their
acts of quilla, they had alienated the aicha yaya Nayapi who wanted to
marry them and who might have sustained them with fish. In addition
they had become disenchanted by quillas like Katarkap, Tsuna, and
Machin. These men only sought to seduce them offering nothing in
return. In short, Manduru and Huituc had had a series of misadventures
in which different men had had sex with them, not so much because the
girls wanted sex, as because they were tricked into things, could not
resist curiosity, fooled around, or were too lazy to pay attention. Now
distanced from human men, they were no longer capable of entering into
a productive marital union.
Manduru and Huituc therefore withdrew from the human race to
become plant species. As with all of the transformation stories, there is
continuity between who the women were before and what they become.
The older sister who had a hairy vulva becomes Bixis orellana, a plant
with a hairy red pod containing seeds that yield a red paint symbolic of
blood. The younger sister becomes Genipa americana, a plant with a
smooth hairless pod that yields a black paint.
As a result of the transformation, Manduru and Huituc ceased to be
quillas. Instead of wandering, they became stationary. Manduru, the girl
who wandered most, became stationary in the chagra, or garden, the
place of female work. The word quilla, it will be remembered, means
both ‘lazy’ and ‘sexually loose’. Instead of being promiscuous and avoid-
ing work, the transformed vulvas of Manduru and Huituc now produce
valued gifts. Manduru produces a red paint while Huituc produces a
black paint.
Once they become plants, Manduru and Huituc become agents for
transforming their human ex-lovers into elegant and productive animal
species. Squirrel man painted himself red with manduru to become the
Amazonian red squirrel. Nayapi painted his chest black with genipa to
become the swallow-tailed kite. Sicuanga, the toucan, painted his feathers
black with huituc and red with manduru. The curassow painted his feath-
ers black with huituc. Through the women’s transformation into plants,
their men too were transformed into the various species of animals and
again passed the tree on his way home, he was startled to find a woman.
‘That woman was a beautiful woman, a good looking young woman’.
The hunter was overcome with fear but she put him at ease, saying ‘You
said to me “tan tan tan, do me”, well now do me then’.15 After making
love, the woman turned back into the atan and climbed up the tree with-
out letting go of his penis. When his penis stretched out tremendously
the man panicked and cut it off with a machete. The pieces were
eventually thrown into the various rivers where they became anacondas.
In the Achuar version of this story there are two hunters rather than
one and the hunters are named Timiu, Lonchocarpus species, and Masu,
Clibadium surinamense (Descola 1994: 280-81). Although the Achuar
version does not mention the sound of the frog, in a Shuar version both
brothers joke together about the frog’s erotic call expressed in Shuar as
‘kaka kaká kaká’ (Pellizzaro 1979: 115). When the woman appeared, the
older brother (Timiu in the Achuar version) resisted, sticking to the task
of hunting while the younger brother Masu succumbed to the seduction
of the atan woman. It was his penis that was stretched out and thrown
into the rivers to become anacondas. In Quichua such joking is called
quilla-chi-na (flirting, seducing, literally: ‘making someone to be quilla’).
A shinzhi aicha yaya (strong hunter) would have resisted the temptation
to make sexual jokes about the forest. The idle sexual joking had conse-
quences which spiraled into the sexual encounter and finally into trans-
formation. The two brothers became the plants Masu, a weak fish poison
that can only kill minnows in relatively still shallow water, and Timiu, a
potent poison that can kill larger fish. Just as Clara Santi sees Matiri as a
strong hunter, one could also interpret the plants Masu and Timiu as
fishermen because they are used as fish poisons. While both could now
be seen as aicha yaya plants useful in the male task of fishing, Masu is a
weaker fisherman because as a human lover he was more of a quilla,
while Timiu is a stronger fisherman because as a human man he was
more able to control his sexuality.16
15. ‘Irgumusha, ñukara shina tan tan tan rawai nisha rimawakakangui nisha, kunaga
rawai nisha rimashka… Chi warmiga sumaj warmi ashka, ali malta warmiwa’ (unpublished
oral narrative by Camilo Andi recorded and translated on the Napo by Tod Swanson).
16. It is only in the Achuar version that the hunters turn into the plants Masu and
Timiu. Although the material culture of fishing with the two plants is the same in
Shuar and Runa communities, no Shuar- or Quichua-language origin stories for these
plants have been collected to date. In all three language versions, the cut penis
accounts for the origin of anacondas. Since the Achuar are the least acculturated, it is
possible that the plant transformation ending may have been present in the other
languages and was subsequently lost.
17. The story of the manioc baby is widely diffused in the Pastaza Runa and
Achuar/Shuar communities where she is called Nunguli or Nunkui (Brown 1986: 97-
132; Descola 1994: 191-215; Foletti-Castegnaro 1985: 35-41; Pellizzaro 1978; Whitten
1976). The Nunkui tradition is complex, displaying likely influence from a signifi-
cantly different Andean tradition of plant origins which would require separate treat-
ment. As the manioc baby retreats, she creates wild or useless variants of domesticates
by cursing the key crops of the chagra. Out of the edible manioc Manihot esculenta, she
creates the inedible Manihot brachyloba, out of plantains she creates heliconias, and out
Despite differences, the manioc origin story has clear similarities with
the story of Manduru and Huituc, Masu, Timiu, and the Tsuna. In each
case (1) the new plant species arises out of a transformation of previously
human beings; (2) the transformation is the result of an estrangement
within a family or in male–female relations; (3) the estrangement results
from an act of quilla, understood as a breakdown in the exchange of male
and female work; (4) with the act of transformation the character flaw of
quilla is overcome and the protagonist becomes a chagra mama or an aicha
yaya. Although space does not permit me to elaborate here, the same pat-
tern can be found in most Runa accounts of the origins of animal species.
Since this pattern is consistently present in Amazonian Runa origin
stories I propose it can be used as a hypothesis for understanding Runa
thinking about other plant and animal species in general. Hence the
relation to plant persons will be characterized by quillachina seduction,
making lazy, and the resistance of a shinzhi warmi who is not quilla.
We can now return to the songs of Clara Santi. Why does she sing to
Matiri Man as a hunter who brings a bird to the woman he loves? To be
sure, we still do not know for certain. But from studying the extant ori-
gin stories, we can risk a more educated guess as to who these plant
people might be. Like all species, matiri and huanduj must have acquired
the personalities they have through a history of transformation. Although
there are no known origin stories of Matiri Man or Huanduj Man, it is
reasonable to suppose as a working hypothesis that they were men who
became plants through the same pattern of speciation that occurs in
nearly every Runa origin story. Santi probably treats matiri and huanduj
as male lovers because they were once human men involved in relation-
ships with human women. They became plants through a process of
estrangement caused by a particular cultural construction of fault called
quilla. We can surmise this by examining the known origin stories in
which quilla is the standard Runa religious explanation for all transfor-
mation, just as karma is the Hindu cultural explanation for all instances
of reincarnation.
of yams Ipomoea batatas, a wild and inedible variant. Bamboo is blessed or called into
existence to help her in her flight. As she escapes downward through its trunk, she
repeatedly seals the space off behind her creating the compartments that characterize
bamboo (Brown 1986: 97-132; Pellizzaro 1978). Eventually she enters the earth through
the roots of the bamboo to become the allpa mama or earth mother. A beginning time
runa’s creation of new species by cursing and blessing beings that aid or hinder their
flight as they withdraw from the world is reminiscent of the Andean tradition of the
flight of Viracocha in the Huarochiri Manuscript (Salomon and Urioste 1991). It also
has parallels to the Andean yumbada as well as Andean narratives of the flight of
Nuestro Señor that I have recorded in the Ecuadorian sierra.
the idea is similar. These plants too have been transformed through a
process of estrangement. They are children who have been burned by
parental abandonment, and so they also will not give their gifts to a fool.
They respond only to another expression of mature femininity, the
sensuous and disciplined mothering of a chagra mama.
Treating the garden like a sacred child prone to estrangement is much
more time consuming and labor intensive than strictly necessary for
agriculture. One of the ideas guiding the ritual behavior of chagra mamas
is to treat the time it takes plants to grow as a kind of pregnancy. Young
plants are like children growing in the womb of the gardener. This idea
involves transferring a range of pregnancy related sasi or taboos to the
act of gardening. For example, the chagra mama observes certain dietary
restrictions either during critical times early in the plant growth cycle or
during the entire time that the plant is growing. In the growing of pea-
nuts, the woman avoids eating fish heads at the time that the peanuts are
first forming because, at that time, the young peanuts have the shape of
fish heads and might be harmed by the eating of fish heads. Gardeners
also fast from eating any kind of sweet while they are growing beans in
their gardens.18
Chagra mamas avoid going into their gardens while they are menstruat-
ing because, just as menstruation would signify the end of a pregnancy,
going into a garden during menstruation will cause the manioc tubers to
cease growing and rot. Chagra mamas also avoid going into their gardens
in a state of advanced pregnancy because it could cause the manioc
tubers to burst or split. When manioc is finally harvested, the area
around the plant is first cleaned with much greater care than necessary.
After being taken out of the ground, the tubers are cut from the stem
with great care and placed head down in a basket just as a child should
be placed in the womb. So close is the identification between the manioc
tuber and the fetus of the gardener that should the gardener be so
careless as to place the tuber in the basket crosswise or feet first, it is
believed that gardener’s own child would be born feet first or crosswise.
No tubers, even those too small to be worth eating, should be left aban-
doned in the field because if they are left behind they might cry like
babies causing the manioc to withdraw. All of this makes the life of the
chagra mama meaningful, but it is also time-consuming and emotionally
demanding.
Besides being hard work, the relation to plants is perceived as poten-
tially dangerous to the gardener. We saw that in Clara Santi’s songs to
Matiri Man and Huanduj Man there is not only attraction and flirtation
18. For Achuar dietary restrictions during planting see, Descola 1994: 208-10.
but also resistance. In her song to Matiri Man, Santi suggests that the
matiri wishes to seduce her. In her song to Huanduj Man, she sings that
huanduj wants to take her away but that he will not be able to do so.
What is this threatening quality of the plant that must be resisted? In the
process of speciation, the person who withdrew became not only the
external leafy green plant but also what is called a supai, the spirit person
behind the plant. Although I and other scholars might translate the
words supai runa as ‘spirit people’, native speakers of Quichua most
frequently translate these words into Spanish as ‘diablos’, suggesting
something more sinister.
In Runa thinking, supai runa are similar to the dead in that they once
lived openly in this world as humans and then retreated behind the sur-
face appearance of this world. They now inhabit the invisible world
behind plants and animals as well as inside mountains, earth, rocks, and
oxbow lakes. Like all supai, the plant runas have a superhuman quality.
To see them is unnerving. They are overwhelmingly attractive, mysteri-
ous, and terrifying (words that Mircea Eliade, following Rudolph Otto,
used to describe an experience of the sacred [1957: 8-9]). To engage them
means opening the heart to a current of attraction, a ‘crush’, that could
prove fatal. If the gardener should be overwhelmed by this beauty, she
could be pulled inside to that place where the supai reside, withdrawn
and hidden from this world.
The supais behind the plants are similar to the dead in that through the
process of transformation they have died and become something else. To
enter into an emotional relationship with the plant and animal supais is
to risk undergoing the transformation that they have undergone. To be
pulled there means death. Thus traditional gardening means maintain-
ing a relationship to plants that is not only sensuous and disciplined, but
also dangerous.
The portrait of women’s relations to plants developed here both col-
laborates and amplifies previous work on Runa and Achuar/Shuar rela-
tions to other species. Michael Brown (1986) interpreted Aguaruna Shuar
gardening songs as a ‘technology of sentiment’ for increasing affinity
between gardeners and their plants. By examining how plants are under-
stood as formerly human lovers who became distanced from the human
family, I have sought to shed light on the estrangement that exists
between humans and plants. It is this estrangement which Runa singers
like Clara Santi seek to overcome to increase affinity with plants through
their songs.
In his work on the Achuar, Phillipe Descola found that Achuar men
treat the forest world of game animals as affinal kin while women treat
domesticated garden plants as consanguineal relations (1994, 1996). This
own flourishing manioc garden. Before he died, he passed his gift to his
granddaughter, Carmen Andi, now a chagra mama in her fifties who
treats her own manioc as her babies. Although I do not have evidence, I
think it is likely that Anselmo engaged his manioc through a father–child
relationship. In all of these cases, however, the relations to plants are
tenuous, delicate, and dangerous because the plants were persons who
withdrew from their humanness through a process of estrangement,
resulting in speciation.
By portraying the Runa practice of treating plants as persons, this
article also implicitly raises the question of whether Runa communities
might have a more cosmocentric or nature-centric (as opposed to anthro-
pocentric) ethic. For example, one might wonder whether Runa commu-
nities might extend something like ‘human rights’ or the respect due to
all human beings to plants and animals as well. This is a difficult ques-
tion which would take a different article to examine. In this essay, I have
used the word ‘person’ to translate the Quichua word ‘runa’. Although
there is no better English word to use, the semantic fields of ‘person’ and
‘runa’ only partially overlap. In English the word ‘person’ carries with it
a whole Christian and European philosophical history suggesting an
individual of a unique class of beings who descend from a single pair,
are equal, and of infinite worth because they and only they are made in
the image of God. The word ‘runa’ like the words ‘dine’ (Navajo) or simi-
lar words in other languages indigenous to the Americas refers first and
foremost to the ethnic group that speaks ‘runa’ or ‘dine’ and who are
related through kinship. The word ‘runa’ can be extended outwards by
degrees to groups who are more similar until at its outer edges it can
mean human or the human-like beings behind the plants and animals.
The word ‘runa’ contrasts to terms referring to other ethnic groups and
above all to ‘aucas’ (enemies or outlaws). In short, the words ‘runa’ and
‘person’ carry with them very different religious and moral histories.
Thus, attributing runahood to plants would not carry the same moral
and philosophical implications as attributing ‘personhood’ would. The
similarities and differences would have to be carefully worked out.
It should also be noted that the ritual language for treating plants as
runas occurs almost exclusively in the context of gardening and gather-
ing plant medicines. In other words, plants seemed to be treated as
persons in order to enter into an exchange that results in the reception of
food and medicines for human use. Apart from ritual aspects of hunting
and gardening, plants and animals are generally not thought of as
human beings. Nevertheless, the idea that there are supai runas behind
the plants and animals that could appear unexpectedly gives people
what might be called a ‘healthy respect’ for plants and animals.
One might suggest that, for Amazonian people, plants and animals are
not so much persons as they are ex-persons. The transformation of vari-
ous previously human beings into plant and animal species was a crucial
part of the emergence of a good and habitable world. In the act of trans-
formation, plants and animals ceased to be human in ways that are
ethically important. As we have seen, the transformations occurred in
part because the previously human plants and animals could not get
along with their families. If plants and animals were still human they
would compete for the same foods, spaces, and sexual partners, making
life untenable. If they were still human, plants and animals could not be
killed and eaten, for to do so would be a kind of cannibalism. It is by
becoming another species that they are now able to coexist with human
beings in a productive exchange. The barriers between species created in
the acts of transformation are thus believed to be good. They are what
make the world habitable. It is considered dangerous and perhaps
morally wrong to break these barriers down unnecessarily. Plants and
animals are thus respected but generally kept at a distance unless the
tasks of gardening or hunting require otherwise.
I have written this article as though the relationship to plants and ani-
mals represented by the chagra mama or aicha yaya ideal were typical of
all, or at least most, adult Runa. That, however, is no longer the case. The
change comes, I believe, not because secular agriculture is more credible
but because it is easier. The relationship to plants described in this article
is a way of life that demands a gardener’s full-time attention. As such it
is increasingly in tension with going to high school, employment in
towns, eating in restaurants, and much of modern life in general.
Years ago I attempted to plant runa purutu (native beans) with a young
Runa woman who later became my wife. She was shaped by the chagra
mama tradition but not romantically attached to it. She had brought some
beans back from her mother’s chagra on the Napo and I was anxious to
plant them. ‘Let’s go plant those beans’, I said. She told me that, although
you can plant store-bought beans at any time, runa purutu can only be
planted when the chucu (Erythrina peoppigiana) trees are in bloom. We
waited a couple of months until I saw the bright orange blossoms appear
on the chucu trees along the banks of the Pastaza. ‘Let’s go plant those
beans’, I said. She told me that runa purutu could only be planted during
the full moon when the chucu trees were blooming. I waited until the
moon was full and said ‘Let’s go plant those beans’. She told me that the
person who planted runa purutu has to abstain from sugar and deserts
from the time the beans are put into the ground until the time they are
harvested (her mother had always done that). I said, ‘Well just plant the
beans in the ground and fast like your mother’. She thought about it for
awhile. Probably she thought about Sprite, Coca-Cola, ice cream, lemon-
ade, and apple pie. Finally she turned to me and said, ‘You plant them’.
Evidently, neither one of us thought that it was worth giving up sugar
and deserts just so we could grow our own beans. Ritual gardening had
become too complicated. To this day my wife continues to maintain a
chagra (traditional garden) but does so in a much simpler fashion.
Although the self-disciplined ritual life of the chagra mama and the
aicha yaya are increasingly in tension with the jobs and lifestyles of
younger people, younger gardeners are finding new ways to carry on
the gardening piety of their grandmothers. Although very few young
women observe the menstrual and dietary restrictions or paint their faces
and manioc cuttings with manduru, nearly all younger Runa women who
have land do continue to garden with respectful attitudes shaped by the
chagra mama tradition. They still prepare their manioc cuttings for plant-
ing with an attitude of love, remembering (iyarisha llaquishalla pitina)
their mothers and grandmothers. They are still careful to clear the area
around a manioc plant neatly before harvesting. The tubers are still
carefully placed head down in the basket. Most importantly, a neatly
kept manioc garden is still the most prominent symbol of a an ali runa
warmi (a good Runa woman) who is neither quilla nor orgullosa (ashamed
of her heritage). Although the traditions of the chagra mama and aicha
yaya are undergoing rapid change, they will continue to influence mod-
ern Runa attitudes towards plants and animals for many years to come. I
conclude by translating the words of a Quichua song that men sing to
those elegant women they call chagra mamas:
References
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York: Cambridge University Press).
———. 1996. Spears of Twilight: Three Years among the Jivaro Indians of South America
(New York: The New Press).
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Brace & World).
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indios en sus mitos (Quito: Abya-Yala).
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Whitten, N., and D. Scott Whitten. 1988. From Myth to Creation: Art from Amazonian
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Illinois Press).
_________________________________________________
Visions of Christ in the Amazon:
The Gospel According to Ayahuasca and Santo Daime*
_________________________________________________
Abstract
In the Amazon, under the influence of ayahuasca, eco-revolutionary
Christian visions describe how Christ’s power takes root in the Amazonian
ground. I explore the ‘Gospel’—the story of Christ’s life and teachings—
according to ayahuasca, as told by the Quichua Aguarico Runa, a native
people of the Ecuadorian upper Amazon. I then trace local phrasings of the
Gospel according to Santo Daime, a Christian sect indigenous to Brazil. As
the Christian myth transforms, these radical botanical visions reinterpret
South American history, bringing healing to continental and communal
memory, and to the decimated and threatened land.
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
Madera Visions of Christ in the Amazon 67
daughter from the dead, and, of course, he himself came back from the
grave.
These stories of the natural world giving voice to the divine in turn
link back to the Hebrew Bible stories of God appearing to the Israelites
as a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, the splitting and collaps-
ing of the Red Sea, the ten plagues of Egypt, the burning bush, all the
way back to the myth of Creation itself. When we compare these scrip-
tural themes of the wild expression of the divine through nature, we find
similar values and events expressed in Amazonian ayahuasca visions that
describe human access to an ongoing revelation of the sacred in the
natural world around us.
Beginning in the 1930s, there is an ongoing line of controversial
scholarship that proposes that many of the world’s major religions,
including Jewish and Christian traditions, were shaped by the ritual use
of a variety of entheogens, sacred vision-inducing power plants.1 These
arguments range from Robert Gordon Wasson (1968), who argued that
soma, the divine nectar of the gods in the Hindu Vedas, was a sacred
infusion of the mushroom Amarita muscaria, to the philologist John
Allegro, a British scholar on the international team of editors translating
the Dead Sea Scrolls. In his book The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross
(1970), Allegro contended that the early Christians were a sect centering
on the ritual use of the Amarita muscaria and that Christ was actually a
code word for the mushroom. In 2000, the psychoanalyst Dan Merkur
proposed that the holy manna that fed the wandering tribes in the Sinai
was a psychoactive mushroom, and, most recently, scholar of cognitive
psychiatry, Benny Shanon (2002, 2008) of Hebrew University, proposed
that Moses’ visionary encounters with God in the Sinai desert were
mediated through the psychotropic use of the acacia tree, an entheogen
with the same chemical properties as ayahuasca. These controversial
theories and hypotheses regarding the influence of entheogens over the
origin and history of religions provoke dynamic discussions regarding
the role of plants in the human relationship to the divine.
In this article, rather than discuss the influence of entheogens in rela-
tion to the origins of religious traditions, I want to explore the reverse:
What happens to the traditional Christian myth when it comes under the
influence of ayahuasca? In other words, how does ayahuasca transform the
telling and retelling of the Christian story? In as much as the ‘Gospel’ is
the story of Christ’s life and teachings, this article explores the Gospel
1. For discussion of the role of entheogens in world religions, see Allegro 1970;
de Félice 1979 [1936]; La Barre 1972; Ott 1995; Shannon 2002, 2008; Wasson 1968;
Wasson et al. 1986; and, in popular culture, McKenna 1992 and Merkur 2000.
Ayahuasca
Ayahuasca, which means ‘vine of the spirits’ in Quichua, is a vision-
inducing brew usually made from two or more plants whose recorded
use in South America dates back to the Incan Empire. Used for millennia
among indigenous groups in the Upper Amazon, ayahuasca is also known
through the local names of yagé, caapi, natem, pinde, karampe, vegetal, and
Santo Daime, among others (Luna et al. 1991: 10).
The story shows how God learns from the Kofán the miraculous powers
of yagé, His own buried body. Within the upper Amazon, yachajs learn
and ‘become distinguished’ through the suffering of ayahuasca and the
access it offers to the spiritual world. Assisted by plant, animal, and
spirit helpers in the world of visions, the yachaj battles powerful forces of
evil. On the banks of the Aguarico River, the story of the life and death
of Christ takes root within this context—as Christ comes into the
Amazon, he is identified as a yachaj and his story gains meaning through
the visionary lens of the ayahuasca world.
pulled its roots out of the land by ‘substituting heaven for the tangible
restoration of Palestine to the Jews’ suffering under Roman control (1994:
144). Because of the intense variation of culture, climate, and topogra-
phy, when Christianity came to the Americas, it ‘shattered on the shores
of the continent[s], producing hundreds of sects in the same manner that
the tribes continually subdivided in an effort to relate to the rhythms of
the land’ (1994: 145-46).
The Aguarico retelling of the Christian myth effectively takes this
‘shattered’ Christianity and encodes cultural as well as topographical
layers of meanings that both preserve and transform not only a Chris-
tian, but also an Andean and an Amazonian history. As a powerful tool
of interpretation, the visionary lens of ayahuasca has been used to make
sense of the world throughout Amazonian history. As the myth travels
through space and time, upon reaching the Amazon, it transforms
within the interpretive range of the ayahuasca world.
In the time before, Kofán the storyteller begins, Our Lord used to walk
through the world. He looked like a little old man and he walked all over
the place without ever stopping to rest. In this way he walked around
counseling the people, seeing how they lived, helping them. But after a
time some brujo diablos, you know, those witch devils that come around
sometimes, they became envious of him and they began to stalk him,
hunting him down in order to kill him (Foletti–Castegnaro 1985).
proof of the w’akas’ travels (Madera 2005). In the altiplanos of Peru these
myths still resonate with contemporary ayllus, or lineage groups, who
say, for example, that the Milky Way is the trail of Viracocha’s sperm
seeding the night (Urton 1985). Preserving the same evolutionary struc-
ture as the w’aka myths, post-contact Andean narratives maintained
variations of the traditional plot lines but recast Nuestro Señor (Our
Lord Jesus) into the role of the wandering w’akas.
Additionally, in his discussion of the Nuestro Señor myth cycle in the
Andes and Amazon, Tod Swanson (1986) locates the roots of these
myths in the Incaic solar calendar where the Incas divided the solar
godhead between Punchao and Viracocha. Punchao, the Churi-Inti or
Son Sun, was born at Inti Raymi, the feast of the winter solstice, and then
traveled south ‘growing closer, warmer and stronger’ until it reached its
‘full maturation’ as Viracocha, the adult sun during Capac Raymi, the
great Inca summer solstice festival in December (Demarest 1981: 25).
After the feast of Capac Raymi Viracocha, ‘the mature Señor Sol’, then
began his adult traveling life ‘shifting gradually northward and waning
until its death and subsequent rebirth (as Punchao, “the son”) in Inti
Raymi’ (Demarest 1981: 27). The Nuestro Señor cycle mirrors this calen-
drical movement of maturation, pairing the Christ Child with Punchao
and the aged God the Father with Viracocha. Within this ‘cyclical solar
Christology, the birth narratives are also resurrection narratives, and
therefore, the child Christ’s powers to discern and create are actually
fruits of the crucifixion they seem to precede’ (Swanson 1986: 122).
From this perspective, the Aguarico narrative’s opening invocation to
‘the time before’ also calls out to the story of the Creating Christ who
brings order to the old, dying world. Associated with Dios Yaya (God
the Father), this primordial time, ‘the time before’, is characterized by
chaos, cacophony, and confusion engendered by God’s old age (Swan-
son 1986: 119). In this narrative, like others in the region, the Indian
Christ that appears to transform the chaos of the primordium ‘is an
ambiguous figure because he emerges out of the very primordium he
overcomes’ (1986: 122).
This solar connection with the life of Christ aligns the pre-dawn sun to
Jesus’ birth and childhood. The flight of the Holy Family, for instance,
takes place during the earliest light of the morning:
As dawn approaches, the increasing light of the sun begins to reduce these
primordials to distinct species of plants and animals, and to relate them to
each other in a seasonal harmony. To resist this fate, the demons pursue
Christ through the grey forests and mountains hoping to kill the child sun
before he rises. But as they flee, Christ and Mary create the world
(Swanson 1986: 123).
2. For an historical account of battles between yachajs in Brazil, see Wright 2004:
82-109.
Envy
In the Andes and in the Amazon, envy is a primary sin. In a region
where the strength of communal bonds and communal identity tradi-
tionally (and ideally) take precedence over individual needs and desires,
envy is considered to be a vengeful and murderous emotion with the
extraordinary power to disrupt and destroy the blossoming of life, luck,
and love. Within the logic of the Aguarico world (as well as within the
extended Ecuadorian Amazonian and Andean world), the cause for the
brujos’ envy is implicit—the Son of God is a powerful yachaj. He pos-
sesses knowledge and has established an extensive network of alliances
with the forest, mountains, and rivers; the plants and the animals; the
living and the dead; the four elements and the extended cosmos; and
therefore possesses the ability to thwart or foster life, luck, and love. For
Amazonian yachajs, many of these alliances are formed during ayahuasca
flights where the spirit nature of the world reveals itself. Under the
influence of ayahuasca, the yachaj forms and breaks alliances, and guides,
negotiates, attracts, and repels the flow of spiritual and material energies
in, through, and around his or her home community. Because of this
mastery, the skilled yachaj continually risks attack from envious competi-
tors who want to steal his or her power or undermine the health and
well being of the community.
Within the region, the addition of envy into the story provides an
immediately accessible rationale for Nuestro Señor’s troubles. Gone is
the complicated historical and remote political intrigue surrounding the
Mediterranean account of the crucifixion of Jesus. With a simple altera-
tion, the Aguarico story cuts to the chase by dispelling any confusing
background material and adeptly identifies a powerful, locally recogniz-
able motivation behind the enmity that rapidly propels the tale.
When Nuestro Señor encounters the killing envy of the brujos, he
returns to his jungle home and works in the fields closest to his home so
that he can hide when necessary. Here the story describes the Creating
Christ in action. It shows plants and animals engaged within Christian
realities, acting as sentient players in the spiritual life of the world. When
the brujo diablos arrive, Our Lord seeks shelter from the plants in his
chacra or vegetable garden. When the plants fail to care for him they are
punished in kind. And so the myth continues:
Now when the devils arrived, Our Lord hid in his field. First he hid
beneath the yucca, but as the little branches broke under his feet they made
so much noise that they couldn’t serve as a proper hiding place. And so he
went and hid beneath the maize plant, but these leaves, too, crackled
loudly as they bent and there was no way they could save him. Finally he
went and hid beneath the peanut. Here he was able to belly underneath the
plant but the poor little leaves were so small and so few that they failed to
hide him sufficiently.
That is why even today we cannot eat raw yucca or raw maize. We have
to cook the yucca and the maize because Our Lord was not able to hide
beneath their leaves. This is also why we can eat peanuts raw, but only a
few at a time. Too many will make you sick (Foletti-Castegnaro 1985: 78,
author’s translation).
Like the w’akas before him, Our Lord creates the world as he moves
through it. Unlike the creation of the world in Genesis, the story reveals
how the Amazon is not created in a few days upon divine verbal com-
mand; instead, creation is an ongoing, transformative event that occurs
in the dynamic encounter between creatures or species. This Aguarico
account maintains Andean and Amazonian mythic visions of many
creations, always in motion (Madera 2005). The story demonstrates the
intimacy of this creation. The limitations of yucca, maize, and peanuts
and their failure to help Nuestro Señor directly affect Quichua Runa who
depend on these domesticated plants for food. In the end, it is the
Quichua Runa that suffer from the frustrated encounter between these
plants and Our Lord.
Unable to remain safely at his home, Nuestro Señor travels from house
to house with the devils in hot pursuit. He blesses those who feed him
and clothe him with fertile fields and storehouses full of food, but those
who insult him or refuse to aid him receive his curses. It is here where
we see Nuestro Señor’s ability to curse others that the myth offers a
more detailed description revealing Nuestro Señor as a traditional yachaj
who travels with a range of spiritually laden materials that can be used
either for healing or harm. Sometimes, the teller relates, Nuestro Señor
…would run into bad people with a bad heart who would say to him,
‘Hey, you! Ugly old man! Who told you to come here? What kind of curses
and sorcery do you come carrying around with you anyway?’
Now it is true that Our Lord carried with him all kinds of sickness,
carachas, mushrooms…and so, cursed like that, he would leave these
things under the houses of these bad men so that they would realize who
they were dealing with (Foletti-Castegnaro 1985: 78).
Brujo Diablos
It is worth pausing for a moment to consider the brujo diablos themselves.
Both Spanish words are used in the original Quichua version and they
point to a larger religious history of the interaction between native
traditions and Christianity. In the Andes, the term brujo is used to refer
to a killing yachaj, someone who generally uses his powers to destroy
rather than heal. The Spanish term curandero is used for yachajs who use
their powers for healing rather than harm and who traditionally state
this fact, along with their Christian alliances, at the beginning of a curing
session (Freedman 2000: 113-19). Despite the fact that historically, within
the region, Jesuits appointed yachajs as capitanes—captains or leaders—of
the reducciones and thus yachajs played a pivotal role both in disseminat-
ing Christianity and in navigating native response to Jesuit control, still
in the contemporary Napo world, yachajs do not incorporate Christianity
into the structures of the curing sessions to the same extent as their
Andean counterparts.3 Instead, curandero is used as a polite form to refer
to a yachaj who is friendly to the speaker and brujo simply means the
yachaj from a competing family or community who attempts to attract
limited local resources away from the speaker’s community towards the
rival yachaj’s people and home.
Historically, since the conquest, Catholic and later Evangelical mis-
sionaries in the twentieth century often identified yachajs, ayahuasceros,
and other ritual and herbal specialists in the Andes and Amazon as
brujos, witches or sorcerers who consorted with the Devil. The Devil
itself is foreign to South America and the idea was initially imported to
the continent with Catholic Europeans on the heels of the Inquisition.
Catholic authorities in South America projected this European notion of
the Devil onto Andean and Amazonian spirits and nature deities. How-
ever, as time progressed, Native Andean and Amazonian Christians
maintained many traditional customs, weaving Christianity into their
own cultural systems of belief (Cervantes 1994; Mills 1997). Through this
process, among Native Andeans and Amazonians, the concept of the
Devil took on an additional nuance and came to represent dark, danger-
ous, destructive, or consuming spirit manifestations of the land. The
Devil manifestation of the land is typically associated with envy, power,
money, greed, violence, illicit sex, deformity, disease, war, and other
typical ‘non-Christian’ values, so to speak. Killing yachajs or brujos seek
out this consuming, glutinous aspect of the land in order to gain power
or wealth or to cause harm to their enemies.
At this point, the myth shifts in source material from the Andean
stories of the traveling w’akas or ancestors to the Gospel accounts of
Christ’s Passion. The women at the cross translate into friends who
protect the Son of God by hiding him in their home. The image of the
cross itself appears suddenly and disappears quickly. The story
acknowledges the symbolic importance of the cross as an object of ritual
humiliation and thus gestures to the colonial history of extirpation of
idolatry and the neo-colonial repression of native traditions.
farted three times, each time with such force that it was like an earthquake
shaking his whole body. And because they were witches, they became
frightened and they wondered amongst themselves, ‘Could this rooster
still be alive?’
‘No, no it’s not possible, certainly he is dead. Why are you afraid?’ But
then, after that, the Son of God came back to life. In that same instant the
white rooster began to crow from the pot where they were cooking him,
‘Resuscitó!’ ‘He’s alive! He’s resurrected!’
The rooster opened up its wings and shook them as he crowed and as he
did so he flung the ají [hot sauce made from red peppers] from the soup
straight into the devils’ eyes. With that, all the devils turned into frogs.
And then the Son of God sent them all down to the Kingdom below,
down to hell (Foletti-Castegnaro 1985: 79).
Finally, like the Roman centurions gambling over Jesus’ robe, the brujo
diablos take possession of the Son of God’s Amazonian property and take
over his house. Now, as discussed earlier, throughout this region when
the Diablo (Devil) appears in personal accounts, local myths, and legends,
he frequently appears in moments of imbalance motivated by envy,
greed, or a desire for power. However, instead of appearing as a Runa or
an indigenous person, invariably in these settings, the Diablo appears as
a ‘Señor’, a gringo (white man), or an hacendado (landholder) (Madera
2005).
In Bolivia, June Nash and later Michael Taussig recorded the sacrifices
of llamas, coca leaves, and aguardiente required to El Tio, the spirit owner
of the Potosi tin mines who appeared as a gringo devil (Nash 1993;
Taussig 1980). In Ecuador, Tod Swanson recorded as well an account
from the brujo and foreman of the construction crew on the Guacamayos
road built in the late 1980s where the mountain appeared as the Devil,
dressed as an upper-class gringo, and required the sacrifice of fifteen
men in exchange for the carving out of the mountain’s body (Swanson,
unpublished ms.). These three written records reflect a fairly common
apparition within shamanic stories where the consuming, killing, dark
side of the mountain, forest, or river appears as a Señor, a patrón, a
gringo, or white or light-skinned man often with green or blue eyes.
Given this narrative pattern of Amazonian and Andean stories about
encounters with the Devil, within the Aguarico myth the brujo diablos
may well represent oppressive landholders and white colonizers, and, in
this way, Christ becomes doubly aligned to Native Amazonians in their
suffering. Through this lens, the story of Nuestro Señor’s suffering is
also the story of the suffering of Native Amazonians at the hands of
thieving conquistadores, explorers, hacendados, and brutal colonizers.
These murderers and thieves bury Nuestro Señor beneath his house in
traditional Amazonian fashion and proceed to cook the white rooster of
God, the rooster that crowed when Peter denied knowing Jesus. In this
indigenous translation of Christ’s Passion, rather than crowing three
times, this rooster farts over the outrageous betrayal of his dead master.
The fart adds humor at a depressing moment in the story, while at the
same time hilariously gesturing, in strength and effect, toward the
earthquake of Golgotha at the moment of Jesus’ death, which is tradi-
tionally clocked at 3:00 in the afternoon.
At the moment of the resurrection, the cock comes back to life and
speaks, crowing, ‘Resucitó! Resucitó!’ In an inverse gesture of the earlier
splashing of Christ’s healing blood, the rooster flings the ají into the
demons’ eyes and turns them into toads.
In the Napo and Aguarico regions, rubbing ají or red pepper in the
eyes of children is a traditional form of discipline that helps the child to
correct the error of his or her sight and to gain wisdom, endurance, and
the ability to see clearly. Here the demons are punished for their inaccu-
rate vision. The ají tests the demons for the nature of their true spirit.
They fail the test by transforming into toads, revealing their true charac-
ters as creatures of darkness.
Again, Christian elements combine with Amazonian details to create a
powerful story, spicing up the original version through the embellish-
ment of complimentary differences. We do not see the resurrected Christ;
instead, the white rooster of God rises up out of the pot his white wings
flung open. Shape shifting—from human to bird (or some other creature
for that matter) and back again—is an essential feature of both ancestral
myths and ayahuasca stories. Within Catholic churches in Ecuador, as in
the local church in Napo’s capital of Tena at the Josefina Mission, the
Christian symbol of the Holy Spirit, the white flying dove, often hangs
above images of Jesus with his arms stretched out on the cross. With his
wings wide open, the white rooster echoes simultaneously the visual
form of the dove and the crucifixion, thus uniting the white rooster to
the spirit manifestation of Nuestro Señor. This shift in the shape of the
Christian resurrection story gains an eerie angle when the resurrected
Jesus appears as a crowing bird rising out of the primordial soup.
The Aguarico myth re-figures Our Lord Jesus as a clever Amazonian
shape-shifting yachaj within a recognizable local geography. Nuestro
Señor is not a foreigner—a gringo, rancia, or extranjero. Instead, narrative
tradition suggests that the brujo diablos are the foreign aggressors while
Christ is native to the Amazon. Nuestro Señor’s success in vanquishing
his enemies arises out of his local knowledge and mastery of Amazonian
forces within a specific world. Informed by his ayahuasca visions and
travels, Christ’s autochthonous power as yachaj allows him to win
Amazonian and Andean allies alike—the plants, the snow and fog, the
white rooster of God—which all work with him in conquering the brujo
diablos. The myth displays the healing and revelatory powers of
ayahuasca. In fact, through the ayahuasca visions, the Christian story itself
is healed and Christ himself redeemed and released from the grip of the
brujo diablos, who for a time controlled his house. The narrative power-
fully rephrases a shattered Christianity. In this Gospel according to
ayahuasca, the conquest and colonial expansion of Christianity is
reframed as the aggressive and greedy action of brujo diablos during the
time that Nuestro Señor lay dead.
We will hear this aspect echoed and amplified in the Gospel according
to Santo Daime. For now, this piece of the story opens up the opportu-
nity to reflect on an alternate theological explanation for the terrors that
have visited the Amazon since the time of the conquest. When we
consider the Christian Church as that which houses the spirit of Christ,
the story provides an explanation for Christianity’s dark history. In the
narrative, Nuestro Señor lies dead while his house—the Church—serves
as a hideout for murderers and thieves. It is as if the conquest of the
Americas and the brutal colonization of the Amazon, that process of
‘ethnocidal simplification’, had occurred within the expanded space of
Holy Saturday—the time between Christ’s crucifixion on Friday and his
resurrection on Easter Sunday morning.
This logic is consistent with an ayahuasca sensibility where time and
space frequently expands, doubles, or collapses. In this alternate time/
space, ayahuasca allows the person to enter into the past or the future and
connect with people from other places and other times. As we will see in
the Gospel according to Santo Daime, in this alternate Amazonian
mythic history the conquest of the Americas takes place in the darkness
of Holy Saturday when Christ lies dead and God has turned his face
from the world.4
In the face of profound historical and ongoing challenges to survival,
the Aguarico retelling of the Christian myth casts bridges of meaning
over abysses of meaninglessness. These bridges, these mythic innova-
tions, create communal continuity in the midst of the disruptions of
change. As Sacks argues, ‘To be ourselves we must have ourselves—
possess, if need be re-possess, our life-stories. We must “recollect” our-
selves, recollect the inner drama, the narrative, of ourselves’ (Sacks 1970:
111). In an act of cultural resilience, the Aguarico narrative repossesses
communal life-stories by adeptly selecting and then weaving together a
Christian, Andean, and Amazonian history and cultural inheritance
4. For an analysis of Indian suffering under the Conquest and the corresponding
meaning of the crucifixion, see Swanson 1986: 140-54.
thereby preserving and, at the same time, transforming the cultural past.
The post- and neo-colonial myth recollects communal life through story
and, in so doing, affirms the meanings and values of the present. It is in
part the resilience of these kinds of continuous narratives that serves to
maintain communal identity.
For the Aguarico Runa, their identity depends on the history of their
cultural alignment to the banks of the Aguarico. Accordingly, Christ
comes to the Amazon, he comes to the Aguarico, and there, powerful
yachaj that he is, he transforms and aligns himself in solidarity with this
river forest world. The Aguarico account reveals how, for the Quichua
Runa of Ecuador’s northeastern jungle, the Christian story takes root into
local ground. As it drinks in the nutrients and water of this specific
cultural soil, the story takes new form and readjusts to the extended
logic and history of the Amazonian encounter.
Like the Quichua Runa, Christ’s power is expressed and revealed
through his native alliance to the Amazon and his intimate knowledge
and mastery of this intricately complex environment, a mastery tradi-
tionally mediated by ayahuasca. At the same time, the Amazonian ele-
ments of the myth gain force through the radical potential of the ‘Good
News’ of this imported Christian story where good is destroyed by evil
but wittily wins in the end: the dead come back to life with new powers
gained from the grave—a grave imbued with the powerful mythic
history and biological realities of the Amazonian hills.
The post-colonial Aguarico story of Christ’s Passion reveals the way in
which multiple layers of indigenous meanings, values, and identities,
both Andean and Amazonian, are preserved within the mythic context
through dexterous narration that maintains the local geographical
setting and marries ancestral and Christian plot lines, while insisting on
the value of indigenous character traits. By maintaining the landscape,
meanings within the myth privilege a local cosmology and history
despite the playing out of a sacred plot originally cast in the Mediterra-
nean. The narrative rephrases and reframes a shattered Christianity.
Here, the larger cosmological realities of the Amazon and nearby Andes
take precedence over written Scripture and become the stage out of
which the Christian plot emerges. By marrying and interweaving multi-
ple mythic realities, Christian, Andean, and Amazonian, a new powerful
creature is born—an Amazonian Christian story where the redemptive
death-defying power of the Gospel takes root within the infinitely
fecund, transformative, and evolutionary world of the Amazon basin.
The Aguarico Runa’s experience of Christ deeply rooted and aligned
to the rainforest resonates, in turn, with Santo Daime doctrine in Brazil,
where visionary encounters with Christianity form a radical botanical
Santo Daime
Santo Daime is a Christian tradition indigenous to Brazil that melds
popular Catholicism and nineteenth-century European Spiritualism with
Native Amazonian and Afro-Brazilian traditions. The doctrine was
founded in 1920, in the State of Acre by Raimundo Irineu Serra, a seven-
foot tall, afro-Brazilian rubber-tapper, after the collapse of the rubber
industry. Part of a larger group of migrants from northeastern Brazil,
Serra was one of ‘thousands of displaced and dispossessed, exploited
and downtrodden rubber-gatherers who sought to eke out a living in the
unknown and—to them—exceedingly dangerous frontier regions’
(Wright 2008: 182). While working in the Amazonian forest, Serra and
his friend Antonio Costa first took ayahuasca in the Cobija region of
Bolivia with a Peruvian vegetalista, Don Crescencio Pizango, who report-
edly credited his knowledge of ayahuasca to descend all the way from the
Inca Huascar (MacRae 1992).
Through the revelations of mama ayahuasca, Serra encountered a blond,
blue-eyed Queen of the Forest dressed in blue. The Queen of the Forest
revealed herself to be the Virgin of the Conception and she called ayahua-
sca ‘Santo Daime’, literally ‘Saint Give Me’, as in ‘Give me strength, give
me love, give me light’. In Serra’s visions, the Virgin revealed that Santo
Daime was the living Christ incarnate and she gave Serra a collection of
hymns that grafted together Christian theology with an Amazonian
botanical sensibility. In addition, the Queen of the Forest entrusted Mestre
Irineu with the mission to replant the Doctrine of Jesus Christ on Earth.
From Mestre Irineu’s visions emerged an Amazonian theology of the
hibernating Christ. According to Daime legend, when Jesus died,
…the Doctrine saw the distortions made to Jesus’ teachings, and It knew
the necessary darkness ahead for humanity. It left the world at large,
entering the deep forest. There It secreted itself in the jagube vine and the
rainha leaf. It waited with Its guardians, the native peoples of the Amazon,
for the day when humanity would be ready to re-embrace It (Goldman
1999: xxiv).
5. See, for example, MacRae (1992: 114) and his description of conflicts between
southern Brazilians and the northern members of the community.
Here ayahuasca, the vine of the souls, transforms into Santo Daime, the
wine of the souls. In the invocation to the miracle at Cana, the layered
meanings invested in Santo Daime summon not only an Amazonian
inherited past but a Christian mythic history as well. The story of Jesus
at the wedding in Cana activates the metaphor of marriage while
conjuring the miracle of water turning to wine. When adherents drink
the tea, they partake in the marriage of two plants—botanical incarna-
tions of God the Father and the Virgin of the Conception. United in
water, these divine botanical parents give birth to Santo Daime, the
Christ Child incarnated in the wine of the souls.
The sacrament of Santo Daime parallels the Catholic theology of
transubstantiation where, as a result of the priest’s blessing, the wine
and the wafer miraculously transform into the redemptive blood and
body of Christ consumed by Christians in Mass. Like the Catholic Eucha-
rist, in this radical botanical theology of transubstantiation, when
adherents drink the wine of the souls they partake of the living Christ
Child, becoming infused by his being which then unveils the true nature
of the spiritual and physical world.
Or as Padrinho Sebastião’s hymn conveys:
I live in the Forest
I have my teachings
I don’t call myself Daime
I am a Divine Being
I am a Divine Being
I came here to teach you
Like the Eucharist, when Daimistas partake of this ‘wine of the soul’,
followers abide in Christ/Daime and Daime/Christ abides in them.
Daimistas consider the brew as a ‘spiritual short cut’ to God as the
visions radically reveal an alternate reality, stripping the veil from the
material world so that the spiritual realities become present. ‘Daime has
that delicacy’, says Staub. ‘It is that Child that goes right there into your
heart, with love and at the same time with great discipline, the discipline
of a father or a mother who gives special attention to the child and
knows what needs to be corrected’ (Madera 2004). As Daime fills the
person, it takes him or her on a journey, leading them through a spiritual
path, a ‘way’ that reveals the true nature of life.
In the founding moments of the tradition, Mestre Irineu as well as
many of his original followers were illiterate, nor does the Bible play a
significant role in contemporary Daime ritual or worship. Nevertheless,
aspects of Daime doctrine resonate strongly with the Scriptures inform-
ing the Christian Eucharist. In particular, the doctrine offers a provoca-
tive literal re-interpretation of Jesus’ farewell discourse to his disciples at
Passover. As recorded in the Gospel of John, chs. 13–17, on the eve of
Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion, Jesus told his disciples:
Let not your heart be troubled; believe in God, believe also in Me. In My
Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have
told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a
place for you, I will come again, and receive you to Myself; that where I am
there you may be also (John 14.1-3).
there’. ‘No, I don’t need to go there. You crazy? I’m getting out of here and
going down to Florianopolis’. ‘No, you need to go there because when I
talked to the Master, he said your name, “Peregrino”, he said, ‘That’s the
person. This is the man.’ ‘No way! You’re making this whole thing up!
You’re trying to trick me by getting to my vanity! I’m not going, no way’.
…And then my crazy vanity got to me. I wanted to know why this guy
said I was the one? Why did he say I was the guy? He probably tells the
whole world that! I’m going to go find out. And that’s how I came to know
Daime… I came to know Daime in the city of Ondonopolis in Matto
Grosso (Madera 2004).
Back in the city, through a message carried by the most respected and
rational of friends, Daime calls Peregrino. Peregrino’s initial resistance to
the idea of involving himself in ‘heavy drugs’, in ‘a mess like that’ erodes
in the face of irresistible curiosity and ‘crazy vanity’. ‘Why did [the
mestre] say I was the guy?’ Peregrino closes his story with the narrative
rhythms of respect. With detailed specificity he marks where and when.
He sets his personal flag, marking the moment of his profound transfor-
mation, onto the Brazilian map. ‘And that’s how I came to know Daime…
I came to know Daime in the city of Ondonopolis in Matto Grosso’.
Staub describes the way Daime takes root in people’s lives. Like
Peregrino, he evokes the metaphor of a Door. His words convey the
image made famous throughout popular Christian culture of Jesus
knocking on the wooden door of the soul.
Daime has great meaning for those that know Daime, those that take
Daime, those that partake of the sacrament of Daime. For those that take it,
they receive a knock on the door of their hearts. Their hearts are touched
by understanding and it awakens that consciousness. I believe that it is a
cosmic consciousness, but also an individual consciousness, an individual
consciousness you know, because it brings self-knowledge (Madera 2004).
that is also like, how can we describe it, like the movement of the waters,
the river, the sea, that kisses the beach and then returns…and that’s how
we are within the hall dancing like that. And through this we go detaching
our spirits from our intellects, from the material world, through the
discipline of the dance, of the energy, and from there in that moment, then,
as everyone becomes attuned to each other within the ceremony of the
dance, each one begins—according to their individual ability and under-
standing—each one begins to detach from the physical plane, while
remaining within the little square dancing the entire time (Madera 2004).
The miração contains the model for a new state of being brought forth from
an internal reality, revealing an ancient wisdom and foretelling a spiritual
consciousness, our whole being beholds a mystery and shares a secret:
Christ is risen among us in a new form! He left the sumptuous cathedrals
and now He pulses in the heart of the Amazon forest. The Green Hell of
the conquistadores has become a Green Paradise for those willing to enact
the conquest of themselves. The forest is the Garden of Eden, wherein may
be found both the Tree of Life and the forbidden fruit (Polari de Alverga
1999: 2).
…into profound spiritual spheres, as the hymns say. Where the person
travels alot within his own being and within the universe, returning, at
times from the ceremony, after the ceremony finishes, fulfilled, content,
with all kinds of revelations that frequently transform the person’s entire
life, things that they already knew, or had forgotten about, or things that
they had never known, never thought they’d known, though effectively
this was inside of that person (Madera 2004).
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_____________________________________________
The Celestial Umbilical Cord: Wild Palm Trees,
Adult Male Bodies, and Sacred Wind Instruments
among the Wakuénai of Venezuela
_____________________________________________
Jonathan D. Hill
Southern Illinois University,
Department of Anthropology, Mail Code 4502
Carbondale, IL 62901, USA
jhill@siu.edu
Abstract
This article focuses on the multiple uses and meanings of wild palm
species as sources of musical wind instruments and edible fruits in sacred
ceremonies and rituals of the Wakuénai (or Curripaco) living in the
Venezuelan Amazon. In myth, the emergence of a macanilla (púpa) tree
from the ashes of the primordial human being (Kuwái) became the source
of sacred flutes and trumpets, and the sounds made by these wind instru-
ments opened up the world for a second time. In ritual and ceremonial
performances, the different instruments have animal namesakes and are
also said to be different parts of the body of Kuwái. This article explores
these intimate relations among wild palm species, adult male bodies,
sacred wind instruments, and the primordial human being of myth. The
article also draws on verbal and nonverbal imagery performed in sacred
singing and chanting (malikái) in which wild palm species are associated
with the celestial umbilical cord that nourishes humanity with the life-
giving and world-creating powers of Kuwái and other powerful mythic
beings.
Introduction
This essay provides an in-depth exploration of the multiple uses of wild
palm species as sources of musical wind instruments and edible fruits in
sacred ceremonies and rituals of the Wakuénai (or Curripaco) living in
the Venezuelan Amazon. A brief overview of indigenous mythic narra-
tives about an omniscient trickster-creator, named ‘Made-from-Bone’
(Iñápirríkuli), and the primordial human being (Kuwái) will provide a
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
100 Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture
the cosmic umbilical cord that nourishes humanity with the life-giving
and world-creating powers of Kuwái and other powerful mythic beings.
insight into how the experiential world of objects and species is sub-
jectivized, or animated.
By arranging the mesocosm into more and less powerful or dangerous
kinds of things, Wakuénai numeral classifiers exemplify a culturally
specific mapping of the distribution of cognition in the material surround
of the body, or an ‘extended, situated embodiment’. Numeral classifiers
and their analysis according to underlying taxonomic and shamanic
(transformative) principles provide insight into an indigenous Amazo-
nian way of answering the questions of what material things become
subjectivized, how so, and why. Things most likely to become subjectiv-
ized are those that come into bodily contact through eating, using, and
touching; things that come in pairs or that are otherwise involved in
quantitative expressions; and things that are believed to have excep-
tional power to cause harm in ritual and myth.
If grammatical categories and lexicality provide a way of understand-
ing intersubjectivity, or how and why some kinds of things are subjectiv-
ized, how can we approach the complementary process of how human
subjectivities become ‘thing-like’ or materialized? Such interobjectivity is
not centered on language and lexicality per se but on ritual and ceremo-
nial activities of sound production, such as singing, chanting, speaking,
exhaling (tobacco smoke), playing musical instruments, drumming,
rattling, and making objects. Materializing the occult is a process of
awakening the senses through auditory stimulation that then becomes
visible through bodily activities, such as dancing or blowing tobacco
smoke, which in turn double or reinforce the primarily auditory creation
of political, ritual, historical, generational, developmental, and gender-
inflected social spaces. These processes of materialization are dramatized
in shamanic curing rituals, or contexts in which shamanic singing,
rattling, and blowing tobacco smoke give audible, visible, tangible, and
olfactory substance to the fear and anger of sorcery victims whose body-
souls have been taken away and to the shaman’s efforts to restore their
patients’ health by bringing their spirits back to the world of the living.
Shamanic singing is not a performance about moving or traveling around
the cosmos; rather it is a set of journeys away to death and back to life, a
harnessing of the collective physical energies of the living that trans-
forms subjectivities into materialities, a materializing of the occult. For
the Wakuénai, materiality is as much about transforming subjective
relations of thought and emotion into materials, or at least ‘thing-like’
entities, as it is about bestowing animateness or ‘subject-like’ properties
on material things and beings.
The privileging of sound and hearing over sight and vision is a basic
principle of Wakuénai mythic narratives, cosmology, and ritual practices.
and their indigenous converts had waged during the 1950s through the
1970s. Given this situation, I focused more attention on documenting
and learning how to make and play ceremonial musical instruments
made largely from máwi (Astrostudium schomburgkii) rather than the
highly secretive and restricted sacred instruments made from púpa and
other sacred plant species.
Figure 1. Bundles of máwi palm trunks before being hollowed out to make flutes,
trumpets, blowguns, and fish traps (photo by Jonathan Hill, 1981)
other products. I was also able to study sacred singing and chanting (Hill
1993) and associated mythic narratives (Hill 2009) that provided much of
the basis for my understanding of the meanings of sacred flutes and
trumpets played in kwépani ceremonies and puberty initiation rituals. In
the course of documenting these verbal genres of ritual power, I also
elicited detailed descriptions of the ritual and ceremonial activities sur-
rounding the use of sacred flutes and trumpets. Finally, through col-
laboration with an indigenous research assistant, I obtained a complete
audio recording of the musical and verbal performances making up a
male initiation ritual held in March 1985. By listening to these tapes and
transcribing much of their contents in June through August of 1985, I
was able to gain a relatively fine-grained ethnographic account of the
music of sacred flutes and trumpets.2
In the final period of mythic history, or ‘The World Opens Up’, the
trickster-creator continues to display the same powers of omniscience
and invincibility that he had wielded since his creation in primordial
times. However, in ‘The World Opens Up’, the trickster-creator’s powers
of creativity are largely overshadowed by the powerful musical sounds
and naming processes embodied in the primordial human being, Kuwái,
who is the child of Made-from-Bone and a paternal aunt, named Ámaru
(‘First-Woman’). It is the musical voice, or word-sounds, of Kuwái as he
flies across the skies overhead that begin to open up the closed, minia-
ture world of the mythic primordium into the cultural and geographic
landscape that humans, fish, forest animals, birds, and plants inhabit
today.
2. All my cassette field recordings of Wakuénai verbal art and music have
recently been digitized and placed on the Web in the Archives of Indigenous Lan-
guages of Latin America (AILLA) at the University of Texas. The collection can be
accessed at http://www.ailla.utexas.org/ under the title 'Curripaco' (KPC001,
KPC002, and KPC003). KPC001 contains several hours of ceremonial flute and
trumpet music from pudáli, many hours of sacred shamanic (málirríkairi) singing and
priestly chanting (malikái), and other recordings made during my dissertation research
in 1980–81. KPC002 has female and male initiation rituals recorded by an indigenous
research assistant in 1985 and includes about ten hours of instrumental (flute and
trumpet) music. KPC003 contains all the mythic narratives I recorded in the 1980s and
‘90s, which are the subject of my book, Made-from-Bone: Trickster Myths, Music, and
History from the Amazon (2009).
Kuwái began to speak the word-sounds that could be heard in the entire
world. The world was still very small. He began to speak, ‘Heee’. The
sound of his voice ran away and opened up the world.3
‘Let’s go’, Made-from-Bone said after a few days had passed. ‘Squirrel,
let’s go work on those logs’. ‘Let’s go’, said squirrel, and they left. When
they arrived, squirrel explained to Made-from-Bone all the names. He left
the logs lying down group by group. He told Made-from-Bone the names
of each of the logs. ‘This one, waliáduwa, comes in three. That one, máaliawa,
comes in two’. He finished explaining how all the logs are used, and they
left them all lying down.
‘How do you make sound with them’? Made-from-Bone tried to blow
through them. ‘It’s not like that’, said squirrel, who took out a feather from
a large hawk. ‘With this you can make sound’, he said to Made-from-Bone.
Made-from-Bone blew air with the hawk feather, and it made a sound.
‘Heee’, and then the world opened up again, from here to there, this entire
world. The sound went up into the sky above. All the sounds of Kuwái
spoke—waliáduwa, máaliawa, all of them. Made-from-Bone heard how this
one sounds, how that one sounds, how the other ones sound. ‘Now’, said
Made-from-Bone, ‘These are going to belong to us men, and we will hide
them from the women. This is the son of First-Woman, but we must keep it
hidden from her’, he said. Then Made-from-Bone lived with the people
and began to hold dabucurí and kwépani ceremonies. First-Woman was
furious. ‘Made-from-Bone believes that I don’t know that this is my son’,
she said.
material objects—a tall palm tree and sacred wind instruments. This
mythic transformation of a human-like subject into material objects is the
mythic prototype of shamanic and other ritual processes of
materialization.5
The Kuwái myth cycle also relates how wild palm fruits came to be
regarded as the only foods appropriate for harvesting, exchange, and
consumption during initiation rituals. In the first part of the myth cycle
(i.e. before the fiery death of Kuwái), Kuwái is attracted back down to
earth by the buzzing, hissing sounds made by a group of boys who have
captured some wasps and put them inside a vase. The boys include three
nephews of Made-from-Bone as well as Éeri, Made-from-Bone’s younger
brother. As soon as they come into contact with Kuwái, the boys are
ordered to begin fasting and living in a special seclusion hut outside the
village.
‘Now we are going to collect palm fruits; seje finito, guacu. You must
harvest the seje fruits quickly’, he said. ‘Your wives will work quickly;
that’s why I am teaching you to work this way’.
They returned and arrived at their house with large quantities of seje and
guacu fruits. Kuwái carried all these fruits inside his stomach. When they
arrived at the house, Made-from-Bone called the women to come and
receive the seje and guacu fruits. They shared the fruits among all the
women.
Shortly after this episode, three of the boys break their fast by cooking
and eating the forbidden guacu fruits, and Kuwái devours the three boys
by transforming himself into a rock cave. In the end, only Made-from-
Bone’s brother, Éeri, succeeded in resisting the pain of hunger and went
on to become the first male initiate.
The importance of seje (Jessenia bataua) and other wild palm fruits
returns in the second part of the myth cycle during an episode in which
Made-from-Bone and the men have lost control of the sacred wind
instruments to First-Woman.
‘I don’t agree with First-Woman’, said Made-from-Bone. ‘It would be good
if she would harvest seje, manaca, seje finito, or yuku fruits. But what First-
Woman is doing now is not good. These women aren’t doing anything; we
men are,’ he said.
The ritual significance of seje (punáma), and especially the variety known
as seje finito (púperri), is thus clearly established in mythic narratives as
the most appropriate food for exchange and consumption in initiation
rituals and in sacred kwépani ceremonies. Other species of wild palm
fruits, such as manaca (manáake) and yuku (hínirri), are also considered
suitable, but seje and seje finito are always the first species to be men-
tioned and are the only one explicitly named in both the first and second
parts of the Kuwái myth cycle.6
6. ‘This is a beautiful palm with feathery leaves up to 8m long. In the wild the
palm grows up to 25m in height… The tree produces large clusters of dark purple,
olive-sized fruits with a nutritious pulp and high quality oil. The oil, light green or
yellow in color, is almost identical to olive oil in its physical and chemical properties.
In addition, the protein found in this fruit is comparable to that of good animal
protein, and much better than most grain and legume sources of protein. For example,
in comparison with the biological value of soybean and animal protein, patauá scored
approximately 40% higher’ (Balick n.d.).
7. A detailed account of the construction of a ‘Yurupari’ trumpet collected by
Richard Spruce in 1851 is available on the website of the Royal Botanical Gardens,
Kew (http://www.kew.org/collections/ecbot/spruce/59672.html, accessed July
2007).
and I include record and item numbers for the specific musical pieces
played in kwépani from the Curripaco collection (KPC002) at AILLA.8
Although these recordings were made in the context of a male initiation
ritual held in March 1985 (see KPC002R003I001 for a report containing
an English translation of my indigenous collaborator’s fieldnotes from
this event), my indigenous collaborators have assured me that the
musical pieces played on different kinds of sacred flutes and trumpets
are the same as those performed in kwépani ceremonies.9
Kwépani ceremonies are social gatherings at which two local groups
play the sacred flutes and trumpets of Kuwái over an offering of wild
fruits. The owner of kwépani (kwépanímnali) is the male leader of the
guest group bringing a ceremonial offering of wild fruits. The polarity
between men and women is a constant feature of kwépani, beginning
with the exclusively adult male activity of harvesting wild fruits. The
kwépanímnali organizes the collection of wild fruits and the making of
sacred flutes and trumpets from púpa, bark from yebaro (Eperua grandi-
flora) trees, and the vines known as kadápu and dzámakuápi. Upon return-
ing to the village, the men cover the instruments with palm leaves so that
women and children cannot see them. The latter depart for the hosts’
village in separate canoes, ahead of the adult men, whose canoes are
laden with the offering of wild fruits and the sacred wind instruments.
Women and children arrive at the hosts’ village in the late afternoon and
quickly go inside a special house set aside for them. The kwépanímnali
and his male kin play the sacred wáliáduwa flutes as they near the hosts’
village. Younger men carry the offering of fruits up onto the village plaza
and pile it in front of the host men. The three wáliáduwa flute players are
followed by men bearing the two máariawa flutes, a molítu flute, and a
variety of other flutes and trumpets named after animal and bird species.
From time to time, the molítu flute is sounded during the opening dance
of kwépani (see KPC002R002I001, 22:50-28:38).
As the guest men play wáliáduwa flutes and dance around the pile of
wild fruits, the host men stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder. The prin-
cipal costume of the men is a crown of palm leaves with a bundle of wild
fruits tied on and hanging down their backs. In addition, long strands of
sweet-smelling tsipátsi grass are tucked into the headdresses of palm
leaves and hang down over the men’s shoulders. The host headman and
the kwépanímnali wear special capes made from small pieces of animal
fur that have been patched together.
The music of wáliáduwa flutes, a set piece that is invariably played at
the beginning of kwépani (KPC002R002I002, 03:42-07:20), provides the
main theme of the opening dances. While the host men watch, the guest
men dancing immediately behind the wáliáduwa flute players lash them
with kapéti whips. The loud sounds of whips striking the backs of wáliá-
duwa flute players punctuate the mournful-sounding melody that the
men play (see KPC002R002I002, 07:36-17:44). Immediately following this
opening dance, the host men play the same wáliáduwa melody as the
guest men watch. The whips are temporarily put aside, and men play
duets on flutes and trumpets named after various animal and bird
species, such as dápa (paca, a large rodent) and dzáate (toucan).
Shortly before sunset, the men pick up kapéti whips and begin to sing
kápetiápani, or ‘whip-dance song’ (KPC002R002I002, 17:45-24:00). The
dancers pound the handles of their whips on the ground in unison with
each other and with the stomping of the right foot on the ground. After
circling a few times around the pile of wild fruits, the column of male
singer-dancers circles around the women’s house and gradually pene-
trates to the inside. At this early stage of the ceremony, the women
remain silent as they join the men as dance partners in kápetiápani.
During this performance, two men remove the sacred flutes and trum-
pets of Kuwái from the dancing ground to a port at the river’s edge
designated as off limits to women and children. The sets of instruments
belonging to hosts and guests are deliberately mixed up in a single heap
so that in later dances there is no distinction between instruments made
by the host and guest men. As the kápetiápani performance comes to an
end, the owner of kwépani leads the column of male and female dancers
out of the women’s house, and the hosts’ headman announces that
women can go to bathe and bring water from the river. The two leaders
stand facing one another across the displayed pile of wild fruits and
make formal speeches of offering and acceptance. The fruits are then
taken inside the hosts’ house, and a period of drinking fermented man-
ioc beverages and juices made from the wild fruits lasts until midnight.
Figure 2. Women squeezing cooked pulp of seje palm fruits and pressing
mass through sieve to make drinks during female initiation ritual
(photo by Rebecca Holmes, 1981)
Women and children are sent back into seclusion, and the men go down
to the river to bring out the sacred flutes and trumpets of Kuwái for a
second time. Standing near the door of the house, molítu flute players
carry on playful dialogues with the women inside (KPC002R002I005
23:58-26:42). The women ask the molítu player who its ‘owner’ is, and the
man playing the flute must not answer with his own name but with
another man’s name. The molítu flute is a short, thick piece of púpa palm-
wood that produces only a single tone. By holding one hand over the
opening of the flute opposite the mouthpiece, a man can produce
‘words’, or stress patterns that resemble words. Once the molítu player
has passed the test of disguising his identity from the women, he trans-
forms into a sort of musical oracle to which pregnant women can address
the question of whether their unborn children will turn out to be male or
female.
At midnight, the men perform a second wáliáduwa dance and whip-
ping ceremony. The period from midnight until shortly before dawn is a
joyous celebration filled with dancing, singing, and drinking. Using their
special form of speech, the molítu players ‘ask’ women for fermented
drinks until all the men have become inebriated. Inside the house,
women consume large quantities of beer and add to the general atmos-
phere of euphoria by singing and joking. The night of festivities reaches
a climax when the men begin to sing kápetiápani for a second time and
ceremonial leaders, the men wear crowns of palm leaves and hang
bunches of wild palm fruits down their backs. In a sense, the men
become palm trees in kwépani, since by donning palm leaves and fruits
they transform their bodies into ‘trunks’ that connect upper and lower
regions of body, society, and cosmos. By ceremonially whipping each
other’s bodies, the men evoke the mythic act of chopping down the tree
of Kuwái. At the same time, they complete the circle of symbolic connec-
tions between musical instruments and the mythic body of Kuwái by
making their bodies into living ‘drums’, the striking of which forms a
percussive sound that evokes the downward motion of felled palm
trees.10 Later, the same whips are used to make a percussive, rhythmic
accompaniment to kápetiápani songs by banging the whips’ handles
against the ground. In short, kápetiápani completes the palm trees’ down-
ward motion, and the ground itself becomes a percussive instrument.
The musical performances making up kwépani provide further clues to
its interpretation. Kwépani begins and ends with the same solemn trio of
wáliáduwa flutes, thereby creating a strong sense of continuity in the flow
of ceremonial events. The specific performances of wáliáduwa, molítu, and
other flutes and trumpets are highly repetitive and stable. Like the
opening and closing melodies played on wáliáduwa flutes, the interven-
ing performances consist of a simple theme played over and over with
only the slightest amount of variation. This lack of musical change is
highly significant, since it supports the underlying purpose of effecting a
stable, continuous transmission of sacred power from older to younger
generations of men, from mythic ancestors to human descendants.
The musical performances of kwépani also have a more dynamic, pro-
gressive character, insofar as they change from the opening wáliáduwa
flute melodies, to a concern for the dynamic interplay of male and
female singer-dancers, and finally to the evocation of collective mythic
death in tsépani. The contrast between highly formalized, unchanging
10. It is important to add that the use of ritual whips is not only a percussive,
rhythmic accompaniment to the more melodic sounds of singing and playing wind
instruments. Ritual whippings are also tangible ways of purifying men’s bodies by
extracting the potentially harmful power (línupanáa) that is believed to accumulate in
peoples’ bodies from eating fish and game meat and other ‘strong’ foods (Journet [ed.]
forthcoming; Maia Figueiredo, personal communication, September 2008). The
purifying effects of ritual whippings are explicitly dramatized in male and female
initiation rituals when chant-owners use kapéti whips to tap out the rhythm of sacred
songs and chants on an overturned basket that covers the pot of hot-peppered, boiled
meat. The purpose of whipping the overturned basket is to ‘beat the rawness’ out of
(i.e. cook or purify) this ritual food, called káridzamái, which serves to end the initiates’
ritual fast and signifies their entry into adulthood (Hill 1983, 1993).
In kwépani, the secrecy that surrounds the sacred flutes and trumpets of
Kuwái applies primarily to the sense of vision. Women know about
these instruments, can hear their music, and ‘converse’ with men playing
the flutes and trumpets; but they must never see either the instruments or
the men who play them. Clearly the secrecy of the sacred flutes is an
avowed one in which both men and women are required to participate
in a ritual co-construction of the secret.11
11. See Nicolas Journet (forthcoming) for a detailed exploration of the meaning of
‘avowed secrets’ in Wakuénai, or Curripaco, ritual music.
fasting. Female initiation rituals are called wakáitaka iénpiti, or ‘we speak
to our child’, referring to the elders’ ritual advice given after the six
hours of singing and chanting that begins at noon and continues almost
until sundown. On the morning of her coming of age ritual, the girl-
initiate’s mother prepares a pot of hot-peppered, boiled fish or game
meat in a large bowl and presents it to a chant-owner (málikai limínali).
The food is covered with yagrumo leaves, but small holes are left in the
covering to allow the chant-owner to blow tobacco smoke over the food
during intervals between periods of singing and chanting. The chant-
owner places a large woven basket upside down over the pot of sacred
food and, together with a shaman or other assistant, begins tapping out a
loud, rapid rhythm on the basket with ritual whips (kapéti). In the open-
ing song for female initiation (see KPC001R090I000), the chant-owner
uses four distinct pitches and invokes the primordial human mother
(Ámaru) and child (Kuwái) of myth living in the sky-world (éenu). After
singing the spirit-names of these powerful mythic beings, the chant-
owner sings the name of the celestial umbilical cord (hliépule-kwa dzákare)
that connects the sky-world of mythic, ancestral beings to the navel of
the world at Hípana, the place of mythic emergence. The singing and
rapid, percussive tapping of whips continues for several minutes before
transforming without interruption into a slower chanting of place-names
along the Aiarí and Isana rivers. In a series of twenty-one chants lasting
for nearly six hours (see KPC001R090I001-021), the chant-owner names
all the places along the Isana, Negro, Cuyarí, Guainía, and Casiquiare
rivers that form the ancestral territories of the various Wakuénai phra-
tries. In the final chant, ritual specialists name the mythic home of
Ámaru at Mutsípani (‘Palm grub-dance’), a site along a curved stream
near the place of emergence at Hípana. Before performing a final bless-
ing and blowing tobacco smoke over the sacred food for the last time,
the chant-owner sings-into-being the celestial umbilical cord that
connects the sky-world of mythic ancestors to the world of the living at
Hípana. The food and the girl-initiate are then both taken outside where
they become the objects of the elders’ collective ritual advice, which
brings the ritual to an end.
Málikai singing and chanting for female initiation rituals invokes a
bewildering variety of spirit-names and makes extensive use of a spirit-
naming process called ‘going in search of the names’ (wadzúhiakáw
nakúna). All these names and naming processes are densely interwoven
with processes of mythic creation that are described in narratives about
the primordial human mother and child, Ámaru and Kuwái. The
singing-into-being of the celestial umbilical cord at the beginning of the
long series of chants provides a vocal equivalent to the enormous púpa
tree of myth that sprouted from the ashes of the fire where Kuwái had
been burned alive. The series of movements, or expansions, outlined in
the long set of malikái chants replicates the mythic struggle between
Ámaru’s group of women and Made-from-Bone’s army of men for
control over the sacred flutes and trumpets of Kuwái. Just as the world
opened up for a second time as Ámaru and her female companions
played the sacred flutes and trumpets of Kuwái in various places, so too
does the world of the child undergoing initiation open up into the world
of adulthood as the chant-owner names and chants all the places in the
world. And just as the cycle of myths about Kuwái ends with the move-
ment of Made-from-Bone and Ámaru back up to the celestial world, so
too does the set of chants for initiation return to the sung, vertical
connection—the celestial umbilical cord—between earth and sky
(KPC001090I022).
In mythic narratives, the movements of Made-from-Bone across the
world in pursuit of Ámaru and the women is not described as a mere
journey or movement between pre-existing places. Rather, it is character-
ized as a dynamic ‘opening up’, or creation, of a world of culturally
distinct peoples and geographically separate places (rivers, villages,
landmarks, etc.).12 This opening up of geographic space does not unfold
in a vacuum but is bracketed by powerful images of the connections
between vertically distinct regions of the cosmos, the sky-world of
mythic ancestors and primordial human beings and the terrestrial world
of living human descendants. Much like the tree that grows from the
ashes of Kuwái in myth before being made into sacred flutes and
trumpets, the opening song of female initiation is a verbal and musical
instantiation of the connection between sky-world and terrestrial world,
ancestors and descendants. The use of four distinct, sung pitches in the
opening song directly embodies, or ‘musicalizes’, the chant-owner’s
movements up to the sky-world of mythic ancestors and connects this
powerful realm to the world of living people via the celestial umbilical
cord. Loud, rapid drumming of whips on the overturned basket cover-
ing the girl-initiate’s sacred food also makes the connection between sky-
world and terrestrial world audible and material. When the chant-owner
modulates into a slower paced, chanted series of place-names along the
rivers criss-crossing the Isana-Guainía drainage area, he musically evokes
the mythic process of creating an expanding world of places through the
women’s playing of sacred flutes and trumpets in various regions. This
dynamic expansion, or ‘opening up’, of the world is musically conveyed
dzaate, dapa, maario, and waliaduwa flutes). On the fourth time, the men
come outside playing all the instruments at once… The boys stand at the
center of a circle of male dancers/flute-players (KPC002R003I001, p. 13).
This musical dialogue between the chant-owner and flute and trumpet
players can be heard at KPC002R002I004, 01:16-04:45.
sacred rituals. Even before being chopped down and made into a variety
of flutes and trumpets, the visual beauty of the tall pupa tree is tied
directly to the making and hearing of sounds.
He saw a tall pupa tree there… It made a sound, and Made-from-Bone
listened: ‘Tso-wai, tso-wai, tso-wai’.
And it was only through learning how to make sounds with the
hollowed-out logs that Made-from-Bone opened up the world for the
second time.
These sound-based mythic transformations—or the materialization of
Kuwái’s word-sounds into ritually powerful singing and chanting
(malikái) and of his body into a palm tree and sacred wind instruments—
play out in complex ways in men’s collective performances during
kwépani ceremonies and male initiation rituals. As visible, tangible,
physical objects, the instruments are dangerous to the point of being
considered life-threatening to women and children, and they are also
dangerous to the men who touch, make, and play them, since they are
regarded as parts of the body of Kuwái as well as animals (fish, birds,
and game). However, the sounds made by these instruments are power-
ful in a more creative, ‘world-opening’ sense and transcend the danger,
or ‘toxicity’, of the instruments themselves. In addition, the men tran-
scend the danger inherent in the instruments as individual objects by
playing them in ensembles that reunite the mythic body of Kuwái, the
severed pieces of the mythic púpa tree, and the celestial umbilical cord
connecting celestial and terrestrial worlds.
The mythic púpa tree, sacred wind instruments, adult male bodies
adorned as palm trees, and the celestial umbilical cord are all subsumed
within the broader category of tubular structures that serve as symbols
promoting the flow of life through allowing passage of vital substances.
As the biological connection that carries life-giving substances between
mothers and unborn children, the umbilical cord makes a powerful
symbol of the ritual singing-into-being of the life-giving powers of
Kuwái and Ámaru in male and female initiation rituals. Kwépani ceremo-
nies and initiation rituals provide ways of collectively dramatizing these
life-giving powers by extending them into a symbolic domain of the
men’s playing of sacred wind instruments and ultimately to the adult
male bodies of flute and trumpet players who adorn themselves with
crowns of palm leaves and bunches of wild palm fruits. In effect, kwépani
and male initiation rituals are contexts in which adult men become the tall
púpa tree that emerged from the ashes of Kuwái in mythic times and its
ritual enactment as the celestial umbilical cord in malikái singing and
chanting during initiation rituals.
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_______________________________________________
The Fruit of Knowledge and the Bodies of the Gods:
Religious Meanings of Plants among the Baniwa
_______________________________________________
Robin M. Wright
University of Florida,
Gainesville, FL 32611, USA
rowrightrobin@yahoo.com
Abstract
This article focuses on the sacrificial acts of divinities and other primal
beings whose bodies became cultivated, and wild plants, particularly
plants as forms of gifts and other types of exchange from the deities to
humanity among the Baniwa peoples of the Northwest Amazon. I seek to
reflect on Viveiros de Castro’s ideas on Amerindian ‘perspectivism’ (1998,
2002) to evaluate their ‘fit’ to Baniwa spiritual ethnobotany. Initially, I see a
major difference between the perspectivism and agentivity of animal and
fish-people, which is very common among all Arawak and Tukanoan-
speaking peoples, and the plants which derive more often from a divinity
that has been sacrificed, dismembered, transformed, and divided up into
many distinct species. The predator–prey relation between animals, fish,
and humans is actually secondary when compared to sacrifice and gifting
relations between plants and humans, which seem to have more to do with
the peaceful development of chiefly and priestly societies.
Introduction
In the Northwest Amazon region, bordering Brazil, Venezuela, and
Colombia, the Arawak-speaking Baniwa people (pop. approx. 12,000)
have developed a highly refined conceptual system for understanding
and managing their animal and plant resources. The Baniwa live basi-
cally from horticulture, specializing in manioc, fishing, and, to a much
lesser degree, hunting. They have also experienced a long history of
contact involving them in various kinds of salaried labor for non-
indigenous peoples, primarily those of European heritage.1
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
Wright The Fruit of Knowledge and the Bodies of the Gods 127
Their stories of the creation time (oopidali, ancient times) illustrate how
the deities struggled to eke out a niche for themselves in a world
dominated by predatory animal tribes. In large part, the critical issue for
the creator deities was how to make the world safe from predatory
animals and fish so that humans could not only live within it but also be
prosperous and enjoy well-being. The world the deities left for their
descendants (walimanai, lit., ‘our others who will be born’) was far from
perfect, however; but at least the deities left the instruments by which
humans could not only protect themselves from predators but also
obtain their food from various domains and by various means.
This article will discuss the following topics in order: (1) the sacred
plants introduced in mythical times and their religious and cultural
importance; (2) the major cycles of creation epochs which produced the
cosmos as it is known today; (3) the shaman’s psychoactive pariká, the
most important agent of creation, and the narratives that shamans tell of
how they acquired their powers; (4) the shaman’s experience ‘on pariká’
of being ‘taught’ how the world is; (5) narratives of how the earth was
made for gardens, how tobacco was given to humanity, and how the
divine ‘owner of gardens’ sacrificed himself in a new garden-fire to
alleviate the hunger of his children; and (6) concluding remarks linking
the themes of divine sacrifice, the gift of knowledge and power, and
Amerindian perspectivism.
2. On the Brazilian side of the border, the indigenous population is more than
30,000 people, or 22 ethnic groups, pertaining to 3 major language families—Tukano,
Arawak, and Maku.
3. K. Arhem (2001) gives an in-depth description of the interconnection between
humans and nature in his ethnography of the Makuna, Tukanoan-speaking people on
the border of Colombia and Brazil.
4. The three names refer to three groups who consider themselves kin to one
another, who speak dialects of the same Arawak language, and make their villages on
three sides of the Brazil/Venezuela/Colombia border. The present paper is concerned
with the Baniwa of the Aiary River in Brazil.
shamans’ snuff, is produced are perhaps the most important of all the
plants since it was only through the visions propitiated by the snuff that
the creator deity could ‘see the world and everything in it’.5 In the wrong
hands, as the story tells, pariká transformed a gluttonous and selfish tapir
into a predatory jaguar and made other animals who snuffed the powder
go mad.
Tobacco and pepper are two other plants of major importance in the
creation stories. The first is essential for ‘bringing the souls [of humans]
back’ from wherever they have wandered (in sickness or dreams). The
second is an essential element of commensality because, according to its
mythic origin, it prevents food (fish and animals) from giving sickness to
humans by annulling the sickness-giving potential of both fish and
animals on humans. Both pepper and tobacco were also among the gifts
of the deities to humanity. At the time the first ancestors emerged from
the hole in the rocks at Hipana waterfalls, each clan was given its own
riverine territory, ancestral flute or trumpet, stock of ancestral names,
and kinds of sacred pepper and tobacco.
Manioc is the fourth plant; it is a staple food, but its religious impor-
tance is that it is also the ‘body’ of the deity Kaali, who sacrificed himself
in a great fire in order to provide food for his children. His ‘body’ became
food for humans, in the form of manioc bread, which, like pepper and
tobacco, are the staple of life. This cannot be described as a predatory
relation, but rather a sacrificial ‘gift’ of the deity’s body and knowledge
of planting to humanity.
Finally, there are the poisonous plants—timbó, for example, used in
fishing; curare, for hunting; and numerous plants used in witchcraft and
sorcery as well as in their cure. These were generated from the bodies of
slain primordial beings who left their viscera, fluids, or body-parts
which transformed into these plants in retribution for their killing, or the
killing of one of their kin. They clearly serve humans today as tools of
predation. This paper discusses above all the nexus of ‘exchange’ and
5. The original pariká came from the fruits of the ‘Great Tree of Kaali’ (Kaali ka
thidzapa), a huge tree that was the source of all cultivated plants. The Great Tree of
Kaali is one of the central symbols of primordial unity, or All-in-Oneness that is found
in Baniwa religion. The Tree is said to have been located at Uaracapory Falls on the
Uaupés River, to the Northwest of where the Baniwa live today. In the early twentieth
century, the famous German ethnologist Theodor Koch-Grünberg, during his travels
throughout the Northwest Amazon, noted the great number of place-names on the
upper Uaupés that were Arawak and related to Baniwa mythology, indicating that
this area had been populated by Baniwa. Early mid-eighteenth century maps corrobo-
rate this (Wright 1981).
‘predatory’ relations involving plants which are essential for the creation
and reproduction of society.
The order in which the plants will be considered here follows the
order of creation stories according to Baniwa narrators of the villages
where I have done most of my field research, Uapui or Hipana and Ukuki
(see map above).6 It does not reflect a ‘definitive’ ordering of the narra-
tives; although, in comparing among narrators of several other villages,
there appears to be agreement on which of the narratives are, as Baniwa
narrators say, ‘the really important ones’ which happened first. In 1999,
the indigenous association of the area, I, and several of the narrators
published a volume of these narratives under the title Waferinaipe
Ianheke: The Wisdom of our Ancestors.7
9. This was the tree from which pariká, shamans’ snuff, was obtained. If it was an
Anadenanthera tree, these grow to as high as sixty feet tall; the Virola trees grow to as
high as one-hundred forty feet, with bases of up to five meters in diameter. The name
refers to a hill (in Baniwa, hidzapa) on the upper Uaupés River where there is a huge
stone which is the petrified stump of the Great Tree of Kaali.
10. The notion of ‘governing the world’ is implicit in the phrases which the
Baniwa use to express their relation to their creator and other divinities: as ‘owners’ or
‘patrons’ (iminali) and as ‘masters’ (thayri) or ‘priests’. Nhiãperikuli, Kuwai, and Dzuliferi
are all considered the ‘owners of the world’ (hekwapi iminali). This ‘proprietary’
relation means that, through their actions, they caused things, conditions, and places
to come into being, leaving them after their deaths for posterity, as an inheritance.
Nhiãperikuli made ‘everything in the world’ and gave it to the Baniwa with instruc-
tions on how to live well on it. Dzuliferi is the ‘owner’ of shamans’ snuff, pariká, and
‘foresaw’ how things should be in this world for all future generations
(walimanai, ‘for all those who will be born’).
Another great cycle in the history of the cosmos is told in the myth of
Kuwai, the son of Nhiãperikuli and the first woman, Amaru. This myth has
central importance in Baniwa culture for it explains major questions on
the nature of existence in this world: how the order and ways of life of
the ancestors were/are reproduced for all future generations, the
Walimanai; how children are to be instructed in initiation rituals about
the nature of the world; how sicknesses and misfortune entered the
world; and what is the nature of the relation among humans, spirits, and
animals that is the legacy of the primordial world. The myth tells of the
life of Kuwai who is an extraordinary being, whose body is full of holes
and consists of all the elements, all the animals of the world, and whose
humming and songs produce all animal species. Like Kaali-ka thidzapa,
Kuwai was an undifferentiated all-beings-in-one. His birth set in motion
a rapid process of growth in which the miniature and chaotic world of
Nhiãperikuli opened up to its real-life size.
tobacco; he gave them to Nhiãperikuli who left them to posterity, especially for the
shamans ‘to know the world’. Kuwai is the ‘owner of sickness’ and the ‘owner of
poison’ who left them in all their forms in this world, but he also taught the shamans
how to cure them. In the broadest sense, Nhiãperikuli, his brothers, and Kuwai are
considered to be ‘our owners’ (waminali), for humanity lives, prospers, and grows in
the order and the conditions inherited from them. The relation of divinities/humanity
is brought into experience through, for example, shamans, who request from the
‘owners’ remedies with which to cure, which may involve bargaining, for the patient
must present a material offering or payment (dawai), which the shaman then takes to
Kuwai in order to bargain for the return of his soul. This payment may be refused if it
is judged to be insufficient, or the sickness deemed incurable. The relation of ‘master’
or ‘priest’ (-thayri) in the Other World is applied to the same triad, Nhiãperikuli, Kuwai,
Dzuliferi, all of whom are considered the ‘Masters/Chiefs/Priests of the World’
(Hekwapi-thayri), ‘eternal masters/priests’, ‘masters from the beginning’. Another
deity, Kaali, is also called ‘Master/Priest’ because he gave to humanity all cultivated
plants for their gardens and the planting ceremonies. In many respects, Kaali is like
Nhiãperikuli, and some narrators are even more explicit: ‘Kaali is really Nhiãperikuli’
one shaman said. In the myth about his life and death, Kaali sacrifices himself in a
huge earth-fire and from the white earth that was left at the place where he was
burned (the word kaali also means ‘white earth’), the first manioc tree emerged, from
which humanity obtained all the plants they needed. In other words, he gave of
himself for the needs of others. His body is manioc bread, or beiju. Catholic missiona-
ries have equated Kaali with Adam, the first man made of the earth. However
simplistic this may be, Kaali is the deity who taught humanity how to plant their
gardens, and how to sing and pray at the time of planting. This suggests that a more
adequate translation for the term ‘thayri’ may in fact be ‘priests’ because it is canonical
knowledge that he transmits to his children.
This period ended with the felling of another great world tree, or axis
mundi, which likewise connected This World with the Other World and
which was produced from the body of Kuwai, who was sacrificed in a
great fire at the end of the first rite of initiation. At the place where Kuwai
was burned, an enormous paxiuba palm tree burst out from the earth up
to the sky. When this great tree was felled, Nhiãperikuli produced from
its pieces the first sacred flutes and trumpets, which are the ‘body of
Kuwai’, with which the men initiate their children today. The idea is that
the sacred flutes represent the principle of social and cultural reproduc-
tion—the means by which culture is transmitted over time—and in fact
everything which Nhiãperikuli had obtained, which was left for all future
generations. Like the felling of the Kaali-ka thidzapa from which all of
humanity got their food, the felling of the Kuwai tree left humanity with
the instruments with which humans could reproduce their society. After
this, Nhiãperikuli purified the world, washing it and ridding it of all
predatory beings and malignant spirits, and then brought forth
humanity.
The myth of Kuwai thus marks a transition between the primordial
world of Nhiãperikuli and a more recent human past, which is brought
directly into the experience of living people in the rituals. For that reason,
the shamans say that Kuwai is as much a part of the present world as of
the ancient world, and that he lives ‘in the center of the world’. The
shamans seek Kuwai in their cures, for his body consists of all sicknesses
that exist in the world—including poison used in witchcraft, which still
is the most frequently cited ‘cause’ of death of people today. The
material forms of witchcraft Kuwai left as poisonous plants in this world
in the great conflagration that marked his ‘death’ and withdrawal from
the world. At the precise moment of his burning, he left his liver, lixu-
pana, which became the poisonous plant called hueero. Following that, a
class of spirits called Yoopinai emerged from the ashes of Kuwai’s body.
These spirits take the material forms of sickness-giving plants, insects,
lizards, spiders, and so on. The poisonous fur from Kuwai’s body then
‘entered’ the body fur of the black sloth wamu, which is the deity Kuwai’s
animal-body form in this world. This sloth has fur containing an enor-
mous variety of fungae that may give sickness to humans, and whose
sudden appearance is considered an omen (lhinimai) of peoples’ deaths.
Many, but not all, of the Yoopinai took on the material form of plants;
they are thought of as a tribe of spirit-‘people’ whose ‘chief’ has the body
of a lizard (dopo) and, ‘as a person’, he is described as a powerful, white,
dwarf-shaman with long, loose hair, a golden chain around his neck, a
large cigar, and is a mortal enemy of humans.
Once the sacred instruments had been fabricated, the creator deities
went to Hipana falls on the Aiary River, the sacred place where Kuwai
was born and died, the center of the world connection between the
Upper and Lower worlds, and brought forth the first Kuwai-ancestors of
the phratries.11 These were not entirely human yet; they were a mixture
of flute and body form. The fully human ancestors, with bodies like
humanity has today, were born later. When these phratric ancestors
were born, the creator deities—Nhiãperikuli, Dzuliferi, Eeri —stood over
the holes in the center of the rapids12 and watched as each came out.
Each ancestor was given sacred pepper and tobacco, sacred names of the
ancestors, and sent to the places where they were to live and plant their
gardens.
Humanity today lives in the third period of cosmic history. Evangeli-
cals believe that this third period will likewise come to an end. But to
non-evangelicals, only shamans are capable of ‘seeing’ and knowing
when the end of the world will occur. At the time when the first evan-
gelical missionaries arrived among the Baniwa in the late 1940s, it is said
that some of the shamans foresaw that great transformations were about
to occur and that the world would return to its initial paradisiacal and
miraculous state. Indeed, this prophecy resonated with the first mission-
ary’s announcement that the end of time and the imminent coming of
Christ was at hand.
In Baniwa cosmology, the universe is formed by multiple layers, asso-
ciated with various divinities, spirits, and ‘other people’. According to
one very knowledgeable shaman, it is organized into an enormous
vertical structure of twenty-five layers or ‘worlds’ (kuma), there being
twelve layers below This World (hliekwapi) of humans—collectively
known as Uapinakuethe, ‘Place of Our Bones’—and twelve above, collec-
tively known as Apakwa Hekwapi, the ‘Other World’. Each one of the
layers below the earth is inhabited by ‘people’ or ‘tribes’ with distinctive
characteristics (people painted red, people with large mouths, etc.). With
the exception of the people of the lowest level of the cosmos, and one
other place of the underworld, all other peoples are considered to be
‘good’ and assist the shamans in their search for the lost souls of the sick.
Above our world are the places of various spirits and divinities related
to the shamans: bird-spirits who help the shamans in their search for lost
souls; the Owner of Sicknesses, Kuwai, whom the shaman seeks to cure
11. Phratries are groups of clans or sibs that consider themselves to be ‘brothers’;
they are ranked in relation to each other according to their birth order—elder brother,
younger brother.
12. People who have seen these say that they form almost perfectly round and
very deep holes in the center of the rapids, which can be seen in the dry season.
more serious ailments; the primordial shamans and Dzulíferi, the Owner
of pariká (shaman’s snuff) and tobacco; and finally, the place of the
Creator and Transformer Nhiãperikuli, or ‘Dio’ which is a place of eternal,
brilliant light, like a room full of mirrors reflecting this light. While
Nhiãperikuli is light, the sun is a manifestation of his body. With the
exception of the level of Kuwai, all other levels are likewise inhabited by
‘good people’. Some may ‘delude’ or ‘lie’ to the shaman, but only the
‘sickness owner’ possesses death-dealing substances used in witchcraft.
13. Pariká has been used by indigenous peoples of several language groupings
distributed over a vast area of western South America. Undoubtedly the most com-
plete and original study of pariká is the doctoral thesis by Wolfgang Kapfhammer
(1997), The Great Serpent and the Flying Jaguar, which seeks to develop a dynamic
panorama rooted in shamanism and cosmology. Inspired by Johannes Wilbert’s
classic study, Tobacco and Shamanism (1987), and in the comparative methods of
Lawrence Sullivan and Otto Zerries, Kapfhammer focuses a good part of his analysis
on the iconography and ritual instruments found in South America. He argues against
the existence of a complex of predetermined perceptions and sensations that the effect
of the snuff has in relation to mythological and cosmological themes specific to each
culture; rather, he argues that the snuff serves as a ‘trigger’ for certain sensations and
perceptions, which, up to a certain point, are structured by pharmacologically induced
processes, but these in no way determine cultural understanding of these perceptions.
The author also analyzes the complex iconology present in a rich variety of para-
phernalia used in rites of pariká. His analysis of motifs reveals a connection between
the rites and seasonal cycles. Thus, serpentine forms found on the pariká trays used by
the Sateré-Mawé are associated with the rainy season, the constellations of the Great
Serpent, the predominance of sickness during this time, and the presence of female
shamans obtained pariká, but the most important one consists of a set of
episodes in which Nhiãperikuli and his brothers find the powers and
instruments of the shamans (collectively known as malikhai)—powers to
see and to transform, to become invisible, to sound thunder, a jaguar-
tooth collar (the main adornment of the jaguar-shaman), and pariká. In
the first episode, Nhiãperikuli’s younger brother desires to learn how to
make the sound of thunder; he seeks and finds the harpy eagle, Kama-
thawa. The eagle gives him one of his crest feathers and tells him to sniff
it; suddenly, as if smitten by a charge of energy, the young man’s vision
‘opens’ and he begins to ‘see’ as the shamans see today. He sees the eagle
then as a person. Next, the eagle gives him another feather from his body
and tells him to sniff it, and, smitten again, the young apprentice makes
the sound of thunder. With these powers, he returns home and meets his
brother Nhiãperikuli, but the young apprentice is invisible, for he had
acquired the power to transform and to leave his visible body.14 Thus,
the first episode relates how the primal shamans acquired some of their
most fundamental powers—to see, to sound thunder, and to transform.
All of this occurred in the Other World, the World before the present one
of humans. They still had not found pariká, the means by which the
shamans today acquire the same powers.
The second episode revolves around the felling of Kaali-ka thidzapa,
that connected the two levels of the universe still in formation at that
time, and which was the source of all the cultivated plants in the world.
Pariká is a ‘little fruit’ (or bean) found inside a hole at the top of the huge
tree. Once the tree was felled—the best narrators skillfully heighten the
expectancy of the event—Nhiãperikuli could not get the pariká because of
swarms of bees that prevented him from getting near the hole. Suddenly
the tapir plows his way through the brush and, with his thick hide, is
able to get the pariká without getting stung by the bees. The tapir is
characterized in this story as a gluttonous and selfish animal, and he
takes all of the shaman’s powers for himself, the jaguar-tooth collar and
the pariká, stealing them from their rightful owner, Nhiãperikuli.
primordial beings who keep the snuff inside their vaginas. Other myths associate
predatory birds, such as the harpy, the dry season, and icons on the paraphernalia,
thus complementing the symbolic values related to the Great Serpent. In short, Kapf-
hammer provides a rich analysis connecting ritual use of snuff and meteorological
cycles; and it is well known that one of the shamans’ most important functions is
control over seasonal transitions.
14. In Baniwa belief, the body is ‘like a shirt’ (kamitsa, from the Portuguese word
for shirt) a covering for the ‘person’ (newiki). In myths, primordial beings are con-
stantly leaving or exchanging bodies; one being may have several bodies but remains
the ‘same’ being.
15. The shaman can also ‘transform into’, or, more precisely, acquire the perspec-
tive of a variety of other predatory animals—the alligator, anaconda, eagle.
11. The key notion of -kanupa can be translated as the dangerous state of being
‘mixed’. Its indissociable complement is that of tabu, separate, ‘closed’(itakawa). All of
Kuwai’s body is full of holes, kanupa. At girls’ first menstruation, they are also said to
be kanupa, and it is interesting that the Arawak-speaking Tariana people, who were
once neighbors to the Baniwa of the Aiary, used masks to represent Kue (= Kuwai)
who appeared as masked dancers at the initiation rituals. The masks were made out
of woven hair that had been cut at girls’ first menstruation ceremonies, along with the
fur of the black sloth. The masked figure would appear with a whip in hand and—one
detail that was noted about his body—it had three claws on its paw, just like the sloth.
16. Pajés are shamans (in Baniwa, maliiri). Pajé is more commonly used in Amazo-
nia, so it will be left as such in the text.
(…) After they know everything about the world, the pajé comes back
and tells the people. They tell everything to the people how it is in the
beginning, before them, as Nhiãperikuli told the pajés. The pajés can become
like the master of the world, in their thought also. They make the world.
They can, in their thought (…). Everything—they cannot deceive on that.
They become very much like—like Nhiãperikuli was, so they are. There, the
pajés are like Nhiãperikuli. They make everything. They make the rocks,
they make the wood, they transform everything with pariká. They
transform themselves into wood, they transform themselves into jaguars,
they transform themselves into alligators, they transform themselves into
dolphins, they transform themselves into vultures, all of that in their
thought—they transform themselves into people also. Thus also, it seems,
they transform themselves into the master of the world. Then they are
capable of knowing the world.
Several points are important to note in this discourse: first, pariká is what
can be called a ‘teacher plant’, for it shows the shaman everything he
needs to know about the universe and things that are happening in it or
are about to happen. It is this knowledge that the shaman/pajé is
expected to teach his people. Mandu stressed that the pajé has the obliga-
tion to tell the people exactly what the deities told him; as an emissary
from the divinities, his messages are of vital importance not only for the
well-being of the patients whom he is treating, but also for the commu-
nity and its collective future. Secondly, and most importantly, pariká
propitiates the altered state of consciousness that allows the pajé to know
and to do what other sacred beings and divinities know and do. That is
to say, pariká propitiates the alteration of perspectives, in which the
shaman acquires the perspectives and agentivity of other kinds of beings
(see M. Carneiro da Cunha [1999], for a similar conclusion among pajés
of the southern Amazon). In ‘becoming like Nhiãperikuli’ and transform-
ing everything that exists in this world,18 Mandu explained that:
The pajé seeks the hidden world, the first world of Nhiãperikuli. In his
thought the pajé stays where Nhiãperikuli is and seeks to open [that is,
reveal] this hidden world. He uses the log and the feathers of the harpy
eagle Kamathawa in order to open it. This hidden world is the place of
happiness. When the hidden world opens for the pajé, he goes up to it. He
sits in the place of Dzuliferi and opens the world again. The pajé is near
Nhiãperikuli and sees the entire world. He can make everything as Nhiãperi-
kuli made in the beginning: as Nhiãperikuli saw the world in the beginning
in his thought.17 Then he can make the world. The pajé stays near the
18. For a more complete discussion of these discourses, see Wright 1998, 2005.
17. That is, as he formed an image of it. One article which I find helpful in under-
standing the discourses of the shaman about this ‘hidden world’ is by Overing,
‘Shaman as a Maker of Worlds’ (1990).
eternal sun in order to open the ancient and hidden world of Nhiãperikuli.
He sees the world becoming happy, that all people become happy, as in
the beginning. Thus the pajé makes the world better, not letting it come to
an end. The pajé knows when the world is going to come to an end; he
advises Nhiãperikuli and he doesn’t allow it to come to an end.
18. Shamans used to use Banisteriopsis caapi, yaje (ayahuasca), sometimes together
with pariká (see Wright 2005), but this practice seems to have become extremely
restricted to one or two pajés today.
19. Nhiãperikuli is called the ‘orphan’ because, as some narrators say, his father
and mother had been devoured by the animal-tribes that wandered over the first
world, killing and eating people. Other narrators say that in the beginning, there was
just a bone inside the ‘pot of the sun’. That bone was Nhiãperikuli, for the name
literally means ‘He-inside-the-bone’.
shat, and shat… This earth is his shit, the shit of Kuwai is this earth. The
earth grew a little, it was so small the earth was, thus was the earth long
ago, the first world for us. His earth then, of our orphan father was a stone,
thus, it was a stone, his village was of stone.
So Nhiãperikuli thought about this earth—was there no way for him to
get earth for the people to plant, to get plants for people to put in their
gardens? So he got earth from Kuwai. Like so, the first earth was very little.
The earth grew… Kuwai shat the earth, …Nhiãperikuli saw it. Then, the one
that the Whites call Adam, but that we know as Kaali in Baniwa, he saw the
earth and got it with Nhiãperikuli to make gardens on it. After that, Kaali
made gardens on it. After he made the gardens, then he got the food for us
that truly we have today as it was in the beginning. Kaali got plants from
Kuwai…all of them! Yams, bananas, all the plants… They were his, Kuwai’s.
Kaali, the one they call Adam, looked and got plants for their plantations.
Things for gardens, thus they made. Thus, in the beginning, the earth was,
since the beginning, for gardens. Then after, it was from then on truly that
we grew on it until today. That’s all, but the earth was very small in the
beginning. (…)
After that, Nhiãperikuli looked for this tobacco, Nhiãperikuli got it from
Dzuuli [Dzuliferi, his brother]. He got it from Dzuuli first! In the beginning.
This tobacco, Nhiãperikuli knows that it is good, ‘Give me a little, my
brother’, he said to Dzuuli. ‘So it is, I give it to you’, Dzuuli said to Nhiãperi-
kuli. He gave it to him, but it was his dry tobacco. ‘No, I want the other
kind that’s green for me to plant, a basketful of it’, Nhiãperikuli said. ‘Go
back home then’, Dzuuli said, ‘I will deliver it’. So Dzuuli would deliver it
to Nhiãperikuli’s village. Dzuuli went and there he met Nhiãperikuli’s
children there. Dzuuli approached them… He met those children, he came
up to them. He delivered the tobacco to them. ‘Where is Nhiãperikuli?’ he
asked the children. ‘He went out’, they answered. ‘I have brought tobacco,
this good tobacco for him’, Dzuuli said to those children. ‘This good
tobacco for him, I will leave the tobacco for him there behind the house’,
Dzuuli said. He went to the back of the house and planted the tobacco.
‘Now I am going away from you’, he said and that’s all, he left them and
went back home.
It was night when Nhiãperikuli returned and asked the children, ‘where
is Dzuuli?’ ‘He’s already gone back,’ they answered, ‘but he left something
good for you’. The night passed… The tobacco then grew and grew. Nhiã-
perikuli went to the back of his house and went out to see… Nhiãperikuli
went out and saw that it was full of tobacco. ‘Ooooh, so it will be’, he said,
‘For our descendants, for our others who will be born’. Then, he divided it
up for everyone, today, all our tobacco. All the tobacco that the Whites
have… There, those Whites what they have is different from ours… What
the Whites have, we don’t know how it is. This, what I am telling you, is
ours, of our people!
The episodes of the story begin with similar primordial conditions which
are static or sterile (the first earth is a rock, the excrement of Kuwai;
Nhiãperikuli has the dry tobacco and wants the green kind in order to
plant); a different condition is sought (Kaali gets the earth and plants
from Kuwai; Nhiãperikuli gets the green kind of tobacco from Dzuliferi)
which is described as ‘good’. This different condition is introduced and,
in the process, a transformation occurs in which a new, dynamic order is
created: the earth is cultivated with plants; the strong, green tobacco is
domesticated.20 The new order of fertility sustains life for humanity, and
is given to humanity, defining a meaningful and symbolic order in which
people can live and be prosperous.
The story of Kaali, however, continues beyond his obtaining the earth
and plants for plantations and develops over a series of episodes. Several
narrators thought that the figure of Kaali was really Nhiãperikuli; others
that they were distinct. All agreed that he was the source of cultivated
plants, especially manioc.21 Yet the story above states that he obtained all
plants from Kuwai. This is not necessarily a contradiction, for Kaali was
responsible for cultivated garden plants, while Kuwai is associated with
all fruits and palm trees.
The time sequence of all these stories, of who came first, seems to
matter little to narrators, really, since they all lived in the same ‘old
times’ (oopidali). While the story of the Great Tree of Kaali ends with
cultivated plants being distributed to ‘all the tribes’ (with, of course, the
narrator’s people getting more), the following story of Kaali and his
family has to do with the relations of garden production. The important
episode in Kaali’s life occurred after he was married and had several
children. According to one narrator, he attempted to plant manioc in his
son’s wife’s body, making—so it would seem—a garden in her belly, as
though she would then give birth to the plant. She quarreled with him
over this, Kaali’s wife quarreled with him, and the girl’s father quarreled
with him. Consequently, he took all of the plants from his garden and
20. Another episode not included in this narrative tells how Nhiãperikuli obtained
night. In the beginning it was always day; Nhiãperikuli’s wife tells him to get night
from her father. The ‘owner of night’ gives Nhiãperikuli a small and tightly shut little
basket, with instructions to open it only when he got back to his village. The basket
was so heavy that Nhiãperikuli stopped midway back home and opened the basket.
Darkness burst out covering the world. Nhiãperikuli and the animals and birds
ascended the trees and waited until they saw the sun returning from its journey across
the underworld and back. Nhiãperikuli had made the sun come back. Henceforth, time
was divided into two equal cycles: day, when people would work in their gardens,
and night, when people would rest.
21. One narrator said he also made several species of deer from a manioc plant,
which is why the deer like to eat manioc leaves. Other stories seem to link Nhiãperikuli
and Kaali through animals that like to eat manioc leaves and manioc bread.
abandoned his family, going to live far away.22 His children and wife
were left without food, and they were unable to plant new gardens since
Kaali made it rain every day. One day, while Kaali’s sons were trying to
set fire to the garden before planting, their father appeared to them
announcing that he would leave them forever. He started the fire in the
garden, then he got his ceremonial dance-staff, his shield, and his drum.
He ordered his son to give him a bit of manioc beer to drink and, when
the fire was burning high, he told him to push him into it. ‘Why do you
want me to do this to you, father?’ the son said, ‘Why do I have to burn
you, father?’ And his son pushed him into the fire. As he burned, Kaali
said, ‘Come back one week from now to see your garden! For, she, your
mother, will never know how the garden was planted’. At the appointed
time, his wife and children went back and saw that the garden was full
of every kind of manioc, pineapples, bananas, and other fruits. Kaali had
left them with an abundance of food. A huge manioc tree stood in the
garden and one of his sons cut it down. Kaali’s wife began the process of
scraping manioc tubers. His son prayed with tobacco at the center of the
garden.23 Kaali’s body lay in the earth; his knowledge (that is, all
horticultural knowledge) spread (was distributed, liniuetaka) all over the
earth. ‘Only one thing he left for us to eat: manioc bread, pete, this is his
body. “My body it will be”, he said. “You will eat it in this world”’
(ACIRA 1999: 112-15).
A simple reading of the story would say that the father/hero’s ‘deed’
of trying to make his daughter-in-law a manioc woman failed, and a
grave intra-familial conflict situation arose. To resolve the conflict, the
father abandons his family, taking all of his plants to two hills where he
lived alone. Seeing his family in desperate hunger, the father decides to
22. At the hills called Waliro at the headwaters of the Cuiary River. Some narrators
say that the reason why Kaali abandoned them was that his sons refused to work in
the gardens.
23. Today, at the planting of new gardens, a lengthy prayer to Kaali thayri, Kaali
priest (or master) is spoken to make the earth fertile for planting. It is called ‘turning
the earth’ and various parts of fishes are mixed in with the earth to ‘make the earth
good’. Each of the species of fish and animals invoked in this prayer has the name of a
body part of Kaali. Then, an image of the body of Kaali is made, complete with his
lance, painted, and then ‘lifted up’ by the back, ‘in order to make what we plant grow
well’. Great lizards are called from the four directions to bring various plants from the
Sun to the center of the garden. Again, these plants all have the names of parts of
Kaali’s body, as well as body parts of various other deities. Finally, the planter takes
earth in his hands and says: ‘I will see like the child of the Sun, I will plant’. (Note
how ‘seeing’ and making things come into being are again associated.) With all of this
correctly done, the garden will grow well.
sacrifice himself, leaving his body in the earth, which produced the
cultivated plants that were no longer his but of his entire family, indeed
all the peoples of the earth. Perhaps the most intriguing part of the story,
though, is how Kaali puts on the vestments of a ceremonial priest (shield,
staff, and the title -thayri, which could be rendered as ‘master’—in the
sense of a spiritual master, i.e. ‘priest’) suggesting that Kaali is the earthly
equivalent of the creator of humanity, Nhiãperikuli, and that, in the past,
there was a more elaborate ritual than what exists today. Some of the
prophets in Baniwa history were known by the rituals they performed in
the gardens, to make the gardens grow well (Wright 1981, 2005).
Catholic priests have insisted with the Baniwa that Kaali, being of the
earth, is in reality Adam of the Christian religion. ‘The first man made of
earth’, associated with a primordial tree that contains shamanic knowl-
edge, is suggestive of the biblical image of Eden. This interpretation,
however, fails to see that Kaali is the god of all cultivated food and is
himself food, having sacrificed himself of his own will in order to resolve
a situation of conflict in relations of production. In his comparative
works, the German ethnologist Alfred Jensen gathered numerous
examples of myths from Asiatic, African, Oceanic and South American
‘horticultural’ (Pflänzerkulturen) societies (Jensen 1948). The dramatic
climax of these narrations was the killing of a primordial being, whose
dismembered body parts transformed themselves into cultivated plants.
Central to this religious belief, held by Jensen to be a creation of the first
horticulturalists, is the cultivated plant. In accordance with its impor-
tance for humans, it is taken to be divine, but nevertheless or because of
this, the divine being has to be killed, for growth would only be conceiv-
able in close association with death. For Jensen, the ‘Killed Deity’ (Jensen
1948) embodies one and the same idea: killing is a prerequisite for
growth, and the primordial killing, which brought food and life to
humans, has to be perennially repeated in ritual (Kapfhammer 2009;
Streck 1997). This is a theme found in Baniwa myths and rituals related
to initiation also, involving the sacred flutes and trumpets, the bones of
the sacrificed deity Kuwai, which suggests the parallel between initiation
rites and garden-planting rites. We can now see how the stories line up
in a series of parallels: pariká, the teacher plant, propitiates the mediation
between humans and the primordial world; it cannot be taken by the
unprepared because to do so would mix together incompatible catego-
ries (e.g. the tapir who is already gluttonous, becomes a ravenous jaguar;
a woman’s menstrual blood cannot be treated as shaman’s snuff; Kuwai
is the mixture of opposites par excellence). Finally, shamans who in real
life have ‘mastered’, or gone beyond, that is, have gone further in their
proximity to the deities, come ‘close to’ becoming ‘masters’ (‘eternal
masters’), the deities themselves, who ‘see’ as the creators saw in the
beginning.
But why are pepper and tobacco so important as to be included among
the first gifts that the creator deities gave to the first ancestors who
emerged from the holes of Hipana falls? What do they have to do with
the well-being of human souls? Tobacco, as we have seen, was a pure
gift from Dzuliferi, Nhiãperikuli’s brother, to him, and, like pepper, is a
plant cultivated in home gardens (i.e. both are domesticated). Tobacco
promotes the health, well-being, and happiness of the soul. One smokes
fresh tobacco and passes around the cigar, saying ‘Alira’, which means
‘thanks’.
Capsicum pepper came into being when Nhiãperikuli, as the story goes,
was married to the daughter of ‘Grandfather piranha’, and one day
decided to accept his wife’s invitation to visit his father-in-law’s house in
the company of various birds, the allies of Nhiãperikuli. As Garnelo
astutely observes, the story underscores Nhiãperikuli’s ambiguous posi-
tion, since he feeds off his wife’s and father-in-law’s kin, that is, fish.
The story not only tells how pepper came to be created by Nhiãperikuli
who uses it to ‘cook’ the raw flesh which his father-in-law was going to
use to kill him, thereby neutralizing its poison, but also explains the
appearance of an illness (whíokali, amoebic dysentery) associated with
eating raw or undercooked fish, whose secretions can destroy the vic-
tim’s internal organs. A number of murder attempts occur while the hero
is at his father-in-law’s house, but Nhiãperikuli manages to escape thanks
to his skills and shamanic power. The permanent by-products of this
episode are pepper and the whíokali illness (see Garnelo 2007; Garnelo
and Wright 2001).
Pepper is thus like a shield against the potential harm of raw or rotten
flesh; it is also like an arrow in killing any animal or human food that
may still be ‘alive’; and it is like fire in that it ‘burns’ or cooks raw food.24
24. In the lengthy chants to ‘bless’ food for people undergoing rites of passage,
pepper is compared to all of these elements: the arrow, fire, and the shield. It is
polysemic in that sense. The Baniwa also have an expression, ‘burning sloth fur is a
good medicine for pepper’, which is a marvelous and pithy statement of what would
take many pages to explain. Enough to remember that Kuwai’s body (that is, his
animal-body-projection) is the black sloth and, of course, that Kuwai was burned in a
huge fire at the end of the first initiation rite. This moment in myth coincides with the
moment in the ritual when new initiates are given pepper and manioc bread to eat,
signaling that they are fully human beings. Manioc bread, as noted previously, is the
body of Kaali, likewise burned in a fire.
Concluding Remarks
This article has discussed the religious symbolism of shamans’ snuff and
manioc, and to a lesser extent, pepper and tobacco. Its original intention
was to include plants that were derived from the bodies of predatory
beings of the primordial world as well—such as timbó and curare.
Further explorations will look, with equal complexity, at both of these
and perhaps others.25 Thus, the conclusions we draw here represent only
a part of the domain of plants and their religious significance.
Pariká and manioc do have one major element in common: both derive
from the same deity, Kaali, the source of all foods. But they come from
two distinct periods of the cosmos: the first, before humanity had been
born; the second, when this world had already been formed. Geographi-
cally, the main reference points for the two myths are distinct: the Great
Tree of Kaali was located on a hill of the upper Uaupes River; the hill of
Kaali’s great plantation is called Waliiro, located in the middle of the
forest between the Cubate and Içana rivers. The two places may serve as
cardinal points in the terrestrial organization of cosmic space.
The story of pariká had Nhiãperikuli and his tribe of shamans pitted
against their animal-‘grandfathers’, the tapir and others. The story of
Kaali-thayri focuses on conflict in human relations in the production of
gardens and staple food. Predation is not a central theme of either the
pariká or the manioc stories, except at the moments when the tapir trans-
forms into a jaguar with an insatiable appetite, which is quickly sub-
dued, and, even then, predation is not the key issue, but rather the
mixing of two elements that should be kept separate. The knowledge
and practice of the pajés were only ‘tamed’ and distributed, according to
the story, after the child of the sun was killed and his body floated
downriver for every village to receive its share.
Pariká’s most important power is to reveal the hidden, the invisible,
what is secret in this world, including witchcraft. Regarding the latter,
pariká is an instrument against which pajés may control the actions of
witches. In the Other World, it both assists in locating lost souls, and in
healing sick people of This World in the Other World first. In short,
pariká possesses the enormous power to make the pajé ‘know the
world’—to reveal all that is happening in it and what will happen in the
future. This does not refer to power in the political sense of hierarchy
and domination, but rather the power to act as emissary from the divini-
ties and to guide humans into living in harmony, the much-desired state
25. My hope is that the continuation of this study may be published in a future
issue of this journal.
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__________________________________
Book Reviews
__________________________________
Fikret Berkes, Sacred Ecology: Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Resource Management
(Philadelphia: Taylor & Francis, 1999), pp. xvi + 209, $51.95 (case), ISBN: 1-56032-694-
8. Review doi: 10.1558/jsrnc.v3i1.154.
Fikret Berkes’s compact volume is an essential piece of the rapidly growing literature
on traditional ecological knowledge, or TEK. In three concise sections (3–4 chapters
each), Berkes provides a splendid literature review (section 1), rich examples taken
largely from his own fieldwork among the Cree of the Canadian subarctic (section 2),
and concludes with a bold affirmation of the dynamic nature and sustainable future of
local and indigenous knowledge systems (section 3). Berkes acknowledges ambiguity
(there is no widely agreed upon definition of TEK) and expresses some reservations
about the word ‘traditional’, because ‘tradition’ is static whereas ‘local’ and ‘indigen-
ous’ knowledge systems are frequently invented and adapted to meet contemporary
needs. For his purposes, he considers TEK to be a culturally transmitted ‘knowledge-
practice-belief complex’ (p. 14) which is concerned primarily with the relations
between living beings, including humans.
The ‘sacred ecology’ of the title is a broad category, making implicit reference to the
non-dualistic view of nature and culture among many indigenous societies. The moral
and ethical context for TEK follows from the supposition that if nature is imbued with
sacredness, and if humanity is inseparably part of nature, it becomes impossible to
differentiate religious ethics from ecology. In Berkes’s view, this is the legacy of pan-
theism and animism among indigenous peoples, a legacy only present as a residue in
the mystical branches of Western monotheism (e.g. St. Francis of Assisi). The ‘reli-
gious or ritual representation of resource management’ (p. 22) is the crucial means by
which indigenous peoples have succeeded as resource managers, but ultimately reli-
gion itself is not the key; rather, it is simply a powerful ethical and moral code. Berkes
would have Western scientific ecology learn this lesson from TEK and adopt a secular
moral code. Fascinatingly, the Cree hunters and fishers who are the central examples
of this book have themselves been Christians for generations, but nonetheless retain
their strong spiritual attitudes toward fish and game. The obligation of respect to
other beings has not been eroded, despite the efforts of missionaries.
Berkes argues that TEK is not a panacea but that it is still invaluable. Indigenous
peoples have occasionally been implicated in the mismanagement of resources and
the Natives’ identification as ‘original ecologists’ has at times been exaggerated. But
by highlighting the scientific accuracy of indigenous systems of biological classifi-
cation (‘folk taxonomies’) and the successful management of varied resources for
countless generations, Berkes paints as foolish those scientific critics who have dis-
missed TEK as laden with superstition.
© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW.
Book Reviews 155
My only critique of this book is that the role of the sacred is not addressed suffi-
ciently throughout, especially in Chapter 8, which offers an otherwise compelling
argument about the dynamic production of local ecological knowledge. The view that
emerges from this chapter is one of common property theory—that the improvement
of local security for resource use-rights is the key to fostering the growth of sound
resource management and the sustainability of small-scale economies. Berkes’s caveat
is that the destruction of resources follows the free-for-all exploitation of open-access,
regardless of the indigenous status of the community. This does not necessarily con-
tradict the major argument of the book that moral and spiritual elements of TEK are
the means for the enforcement of land-management customs. However, these argu-
ments are more-or-less independent, and the subtle shift in emphasis undermines the
coherency of the text.
In general, that this book seems to embody numerous contradictions is intriguing
rather than frustrating. Berkes’s quantitative approach remains faithful to his roots in
human ecology, a subfield of cultural anthropology located on the empiricist/ positiv-
ist end of the spectrum. Yet he ultimately asserts that the positivist paradigm of West-
ern science is woefully inadequate to address the qualitative virtues of TEK. He
argues that TEK is the manifestation of an ‘indigenous science’ grounded in empirical
observation, but one that violates fundamentally many of the central tenets of Western
scientific resource-management practice. This is the central paradox in the field; ‘how
do some of these societies do such a good job of managing resources, given that the
very notion of management is inconsistent with their worldviews?’ (p. 118). The proof
is in Berkes’s meticulous approach to the data. One possible explanation is what
ecologists call the ‘population compensatory response’; fish populations are healthier
where natives practice optimal foraging, as fish species respond with increased fertil-
ity and early maturation. The lopsided, size-restricted harvesting of conventional
resource management does not elicit a similar response. Similar examples abound.
Northern Native Americans believe that animals willingly make themselves available
to hunters, and that no human action can ultimately threaten a species. However, a
disrespectful and wasteful attitude can offend the animals and cause them to
withdraw their support for people. So improper and gluttonous hunting practices are
still implicated in the reduction of animal populations, but the Cree attribute this fact
to the animals’ spiritual agency, the innate power of non-human creatures, rather than
to the mere fact of overhunting.
In conclusion, this book is a rare gem which should be of general interest to natural
scientists, social scientists, and religion scholars, and which is nonetheless accessible
enough to be an introductory textbook on TEK. Berkes is neither a cynic nor a roman-
tic, but is realistic about the potential for an ethically construed TEK to positively
influence the field of natural resource management.
Joseph A.P. Wilson
Department of Anthropology
University of Florida
joawilso@ufl.edu
This substantial and dense volume is a sequel to be read in conjunction with Harvey’s
earlier anthology (Harvey 2000), but it can just as easily be conceived as a prequel; the
first section of the Readings in Indigenous Religions provides the theoretical underpin-
nings for both books. Seventeen chapters draw almost exclusively upon the native
traditions of Australasia, North American Indians, and to a lesser extent Africa, to
exemplify indigenous religions, only lightly touching upon those of Asia and neglect-
ing the Circumpolar Arctic and South America entirely. Harvey’s earlier collection
was only slightly more evenhanded in this regard. Harvey seems to apologize for this
deficiency when he states that ‘it would be foolish to attempt to say something about
every indigenous religion in a single book (however long)’ (p. 10). This is obviously
true, but given the enormous bulk of this collection presenting itself as representative,
this neglect of entire continents is not so easily dismissed. The motives for this skewed
distribution possibly relate to Harvey’s theoretical interests, though a subtle Anglo-
phone bias might also be in play, and unavoidable under the circumstances. Nonethe-
less, the ambition of this project is commendable and it represents a formidable
contribution to a diverse and growing field.
In a notable improvement over the format of the earlier book, each chapter now
includes a thought-provoking introductory section written by the editor, illuminating
the cohesion of the selections, as an informative road-sign identifying the theoretical
and methodological currents of the text. Despite this, the book is inappropriate for
introductory-level courses, because it presumes a considerable depth of theoretical
foreknowledge appropriate for a graduate seminar. It does, however, provide remark-
able insights into both early and contemporary anthropological views of indigenous
religions. In some ways this text is straddling the fence between modernist and
postmodernist epistemologies, validating the politics of postcolonial critique, while
simultaneously rejecting an uncritical embrace of postmodernist theory and noting a
prevalent indigenous skepticism toward novel Western academic trends.
Part I, ‘Ontology’, might also have been called ‘Metaphysics of Personhood’, as it is
concerned with the study of a diverse range of animate entities endowed with person-
hood. This approach follows closely upon the first chapter, Irving Hallowell’s classic
article ‘Ojibwa Ontology, Behavior, and Worldview’, originally published in Diamond
(1960). While most of the subsequent chapters were written during the 1990s, many
still refer back to this earlier era of scholarship, as does much of the first volume
(Harvey 2000), hence Hallowell’s piece is the foundation of the whole enterprise.
Marylyn Strathern’s chapter is a comparative study of biological metaphors for social
reproduction, as expressed through gift-giving in Melanesia and in the West. This
clearly ties back to the concluding section (Part III: ‘Gifts’) of the earlier book (Harvey
2000). Nurit Bird-David’s chapter on the animism of south-Indian Nayaka hunter-
gatherers has conscripted Hallowell’s and Strathern’s earlier approaches in an effort
to challenge Tylorian ‘modernist self-models’ (p. 79) perpetuated in contemporary
anthropology and serving to reinforce old stereotypes of animism as ‘simple religion’
and ‘failed epistemology’ (p. 72).
Part II, ‘Performance’, continues with Margaret Drewal’s discussion of the cyclical
departure and return of spirits to the earth in Yoruba funerary rites. Her piece is also
focused on ‘ontology’ just as much as any of the articles in the previous section. Like-
wise, Kenneth Morrison’s chapter on Yaqui American Indian appropriation and use of
Christianity, though placed at the end of Part I, is equally concerned with perfor-
mance as such. The ambiguity of these section transitions is clearly intentional and
may reflect Harvey’s motives to deconstruct intellectual dichotomies and dissolve the
boundaries between epistemological categories. Three of the chapters in Part II con-
cern African peoples (Drewal, Turner, and Lerner), while the other two concern North
American Indians (Stover) and Korean shamanism (Kendall), respectively. Among the
great insights of this section is the demonstrated futility of the modernist ideals of
intellectual detachment during participant observation, and the critique of the sterile
universalizing tendencies of salvage ethnography (i.e. that which patronizingly seeks
to reclaim scraps of ‘authentic’ aboriginality, imperiled by inevitable modernization).
In looking for a ‘pure’, ancestral, and generalized state of indigenous religion, mod-
ernists have failed to comprehend the dynamic engagement with the present,
sometimes dismissed as syncretism, which is at the heart of every living tradition. It is
through exchange with contemporary ‘others’ that ancient traditions are maintained.
Then in Chapter 9, Berel Dov Lerner interprets Evans-Pritchard’s work to provoca-
tively suggest that the study of indigenous secularism has been grossly neglected.
Although most of the component chapters are interesting enough on their own
merits, the weakest section as a whole is Part III: ‘Knowledge’, because it far too
narrowly focuses on contemporary New Zealand to constitute an adequate introduc-
tion to indigenous knowledge systems. The unfortunate decision to include Ward
Churchill’s truculent polemic ‘I am Indigenist’ (Chapter 14) as the lone viewpoint
outside of Australasia is the only blemish worth mentioning in detail. Since the
publication of this volume, it has become clear that Churchill has systematically built
his academic career on plagiary and misrepresentation (see Brown 2007), leading to
his recent dismissal from a post at the University of Colorado. While Harvey may be
forgiven for including so prominent a scholar as Churchill in this volume, a greater
familiarity with the American Indian Studies literature would have ‘red-flagged’
Churchill as an authority of dubious status within the field. As early as 1996,
Churchill was accused in the pages of American Indian Quarterly of being a charlatan
and agent provocateur, subverting rather than supporting indigenous activist causes
(see LaValle 1996).
The tightly knit theoretical threads of the first two sections become more unraveled
and diffused by the concluding chapters. The final section, Part IV: ‘Land’, ends
abruptly after two good essays. Deborah Bird Rose’s article makes a clear argument in
favor of political engagement in the application of Maori traditional ecological
knowledge within the contexts of global environmentalism and academic activism.
The final chapter, taken from Richard Nelson’s (1983) ethnography of the Koyukon
Athapaskans of Alaska, gracefully communicates Koyukon views of the landscape as
animate entity. Nelson’s piece appears as a good example of the type of ethnographic
engagement advocated in Part II. However, Nelson’s lack of explicit theoretical
positioning stands in contrast to most of the previous chapters. Limited deficiencies
aside, the majority of selections in this anthology are expertly chosen and arranged,
forming a substantive and coherent (even animate!) body of interwoven discourses,
sure to stand the test of time.
References
Brown, Thomas. 2007. ‘Ward Churchill’s Twelve Excuses for Plagiarism’, Plagiary:
Cross-Disciplinary Studies in Plagiarism, Fabrication, and Falsification 2: 28-39.
Diamond, Stanley (ed.). 1960. Culture in History (New York: Columbia University
Press).
Harvey, Graham (ed.). 2000. Indigenous Religions: A Companion (London: Cassell).
LaVelle, John. 1996. ‘Review Essay, Review of: Indians Are Us?: Culture and
Genocide in Native North America by Ward Churchill’, American Indian
Quarterly 20: 109-18.
Nelson, Richard K. 1983. Make Prayers to the Raven (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press).
__________________________________
Notes for Contributors
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