ECONOMIC ACTION IN THEORY AND PRACTICE: ANTHROPOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS
RESEARCH IN ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY Series Editor: Donald C. Wood Recent Volumes: Volume 20: Volume 21: Volume 22:
Volume 23: Volume 24:
Volume 25: Volume 26:
Volume 27: Volume 28:
Volume 29:
Research in Economic Anthropology – Edited by B. L. Isaac Social Dimensions in the Economic Process – Edited by N. Dannhaeuser & C. Werner Anthropological Perspectives on Economic Development and Integration – Edited by N. Dannhaeuser & C. Werner Socioeconomic Aspects of Human Behavioral Ecology – Edited by M. Alvard Markets and Market Liberalization: Ethnographic Reflections – Edited by N. Dannhaeuser & C. Werner Choice in Economic Contexts: Ethnographic and Theoretical Enquiries – Edited by D. Wood The Economics of Health and Wellness: Anthropological Perspectives – Edited by D. Wood Dimensions of Ritual Economy – Edited by E. C. Wells & P. McAnany Hidden Hands in the Market: Ethnographies of Fair Trade, Ethical Consumption and Corporate Social Responsibility – Edited by Geert De Neve, Peter Luetchford, Jeffrey Pratt, & Donald C. Wood Economic Development, Integration, and Morality in Asia and the Americas – Edited by Donald C. Wood
RESEARCH IN ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY VOLUME 30
ECONOMIC ACTION IN THEORY AND PRACTICE: ANTHROPOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS EDITED BY
DONALD C. WOOD Department of Medical Information Science, Akita University Graduate School of Medicine, Akita, Japan
United Kingdom – North America – Japan India – Malaysia – China
Emerald Group Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2010 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited Reprints and permission service Contact:
[email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. No responsibility is accepted for the accuracy of information contained in the text, illustrations or advertisements. The opinions expressed in these chapters are not necessarily those of the Editor or the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-0-85724-117-7 ISSN: 0190-1281 (Series)
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This volume of ‘Research in Economic Anthropology’ is dedicated to the memory of Rhoda Halperin, who helped make the series what it is today by contributing many excellent chapters over the years and also by serving as a reader for submitted manuscripts on a number of occasions.
CONTENTS LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS
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INTRODUCTION Donald C. Wood
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PART I: DEVELOPMENT AND INEQUALITY BORROWED PLACES: EVICTION WARS AND PROPERTY RIGHTS FORMALIZATION IN KAZAKHSTAN Saulesh Yessenova
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RESOLVING THE PROBLEM OF INEQUITY IN THE DISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH IN BRAZIL: APPROACHES DERIVED FROM THE INFANTE DOM PEDRO OF PORTUGAL, ADAM SMITH, KARL MARX, AND LOUIS KELSO Sidney M. Greenfield
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IS JOSEPH SCHUMPETER’S THEORY OF ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT STILL USEFUL? THE CASE OF A SEMIRURAL COMMUNITY IN COLOMBIA Andre´s Marroquı´n Gramajo
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COMPADRAZGO NETWORKS AND IMMIGRANT ADAPTATION IN A NEVADA TOWN Tamar Diana Wilson
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THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY AND ITS IMPLICATIONS FOR SOCIAL COMPLEXITY: SPONDYLUS CRAFT PRODUCTION IN COASTAL ECUADOR Alexander J. Martı´n vii
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PART II: MARKETS AND MARKETING, CONTINUED DONKEY BAZAAR, A BAZAAR OF HELL: AN INVESTIGATION INTO DONKEYS AND DONKEY TRADING IN KASHGAR, XINJIANG, CHINA Ayxem Eli
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URBAN FOOD PROVISIONING IN CAMEROON: REGIONAL BANANA PLANTAIN NETWORKS LINKING YAOUNDE AND THE VILLAGES OF KOUMOU AND OBAN Tite Ngoumou
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HOSTILE WORLDS AND QUESTIONABLE SPECULATION: RECOGNIZING THE PLURALITY OF VIEWS ABOUT ART AND THE MARKET Erica Coslor
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AGENTS OF HYBRIDITY: CLASS, CULTURE BROKERS, AND THE ENTREPRENEURIAL IMAGINATION IN COSMOPOLITAN CAIRO Mark Allen Peterson
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EARLY MARKETS AND THE MARKET CROSS George Williams
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PART III: ECONOMIC ACTIVITY AND IDENTITY SHIFTING TRANSACTIONAL IDENTITIES: BAZAAR-STYLE TRADE AND RISK MANAGEMENT IN THE PRESTIGE ECONOMY OF THE GABOR ROMA (ROMANIA) Pe´ter Berta
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REVERSE OSMOSIS AND A CAN OF BEANS: AN ETHNOGRAPHIC STUDY OF LATIN AMERICAN IMMIGRANT SHOPPERS IN NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE Peter Redvers-Lee
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WORKING HARD AND STAYING SAFE: DRILLING RIG HANDS IN ALBERTA Dan E. Houser
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BOOK REVIEW: MARKET AND SOCIETY: THE GREAT TRANSFORMATION TODAY (CHRIS HANN AND KEITH HART, EDS.)
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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Pe´ter Berta
Institute for Ethnology, Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Budapest, Hungary
Erica Coslor
Department of Sociology, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL, USA
Ayxem Eli
Department of Asian Languages and Studies, University of Tasmania, Hobart, Australia
Andre´s Marroquı´n Gramajo
Business and Economics Department, University of Wisconsin – Superior, Superior, WI, USA
Sidney M. Greenfield
Department of Anthropology, University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, Milwaukee, WI, USA
Dan E. Houser
Department of Anthropology, University of Calgary, Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Alexander J. Martı´n
Center for Comparative Archaeology, University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, PA, USA
Tite Ngoumou
Department of Anthropology, Laval University, Quebec City, Quebec, Canada
Mark Allen Peterson
Department of Anthropology and International Studies Program, Miami University, Oxford, OH, USA
Peter Redvers-Lee
International Development Program, School of International Service, American University, Washington DC, USA xi
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James Ronald Stanfield Professor Emeritus, Department of Economics, Colorado State University, Fort Collins, CO, USA George Williams
Federal Communications Commission, Washington DC, USA
Tamar Diana Wilson
Department of Anthropology, University of Missouri, St. Louis, MO, USA
Donald C. Wood
Department of Medical Information Science, Akita University Graduate School of Medicine, Akita, Japan
Saulesh Yessenova
Department of Anthropology, University of Calgary, Calgary, Alberta, Canada
INTRODUCTION Donald C. Wood This 30th volume of ‘‘Research in Economic Anthropology’’ (REA) consists of 13 original chapters focusing on various aspects of economic organization and behavior, most of which are based on empirical fieldwork conducted by the respective authors themselves. The volume has three parts. Chapters in Part I focus on development and inequalities – common and important themes in economic anthropology. Part II, in concentrating on market expansion and marketing in general, continues the theme of Part II of Volume 25 in the REA series (Wood, 2007, pp. 4–7). The final section – Part III – consists of three chapters that are concerned with economic activities and group or individual identity. The volume ends with a review by James R. Stanfield of a new book about the continuing relevance of Karl Polanyi’s famous 1944 book, The Great Transformation, edited by Chris Hann and Keith Hart. Inequalities are of course present in all human societies, no matter how small they are or how simple their production and distribution or social organization are, and also no matter how hard rulers or administrations try to erase them. Under conditions of development in relatively poor or unstable areas, especially when juxtaposed with more fully developed parts of the world, inequalities tend to be more serious and are also generally more visible. Chapters in the first part of this volume focus on such situations. To begin, Saulesh Yessenova investigates legality versus illegality and formality versus informality regarding residential land use in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Her study centers about a specific incident that occurred in 2006 in which violence erupted between police and squatters resisting eviction from the homes they had built themselves on public land, but it deals with larger issues of the Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 1–8 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030004
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role that informality or extra-legality regarding land use can play in development – whether or not the formalization of squatters’ land rights is something that always needs to be pursued and in all cases, and also whether or not this is what the people themselves would necessarily desire under different circumstances. The case of Kazakhstan is change in a transition economy – development amidst a shift from centralized state control to a more variegated system, which makes the issue of public versus private land and rights all the more interesting. The case explored by Yessenova here is one in which the state has attempted to regain some degree of control over resources. She argues that, in contract to the ideas of many development planners, informal squatters are far less likely to seek formalization of land rights because they want credit than because they want security and something safe to pass along to the next generation. But, as the author points out, legality does not always benefit poor squatters in the long term. Yessenova asserts here that periods of state tolerance, when illegal residents feel relatively uninspired to act collectively, is actually a crucial time for doing so to at least secure promises of security from the state. Inequality amidst economic change is the central concern of the next chapter of this section – one that is grounded in the author’s previous empirical field research but which takes a somewhat more deductive path than the traditional anthropological approach to the problem of how wealth inequalities might be lessened in a country which is struggling to spread the benefits of development throughout a large impoverished domestic population – Brazil, in this case. Here, taking a substantive approach, Sidney Greenfield considers how four different theories on human economic behavior and organization – those of the Infante Dom Pedro of Portugal, Adam Smith, Karl Marx, and Louis Kelso – can be applied to the situation in Brazil, where the author has been conducting fieldwork for many years. In fact, as Greenfield demonstrates, the first three theories have been put into action in Latin America, and all have failed to serve the best interests of the majority of people, whether based on market or nonmarket principles. The first position – that of Dom Pedro – called for a strict hierarchy at the top of which sits benevolent rulers who must ensure that at least some degree of wealth flows downward to laborers and the poor beneath them. Of course, in the colonial era this did not happen. Smith’s ideas form the basis of the far right position, which leads to upholding a trickle-down scenario, which has also not worked well in places like Brazil, and the extreme Marxist position, of course, would call for state confiscation and redistribution of all private assets to eliminate inequalities, which has also not been demonstrated to work. Greenfield advocates Louis Kelso’s more pragmatic, middle-of-the-road viewpoint,
Introduction
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which is based on the supposition that it is not work and saving that creates capital (leading to the acquisition of wealth) but rather capital itself which begets capital. Greenfield suggests granting people in Brazil and like places some amount of capital which would be invested in a way to make more capital for that person, and which would later be paid back. Finally, Greenfield demonstrates why the other three approaches are likely to continue to fail in Brazil from this point on if they are pursued. The next three chapters of this section of the volume also deal with Latin Americans – mostly in South America but also in the United States. First, Andre´s Marroquı´ n Gramajo analyzes economic and social development in a small pottery-making community in Colombia, focusing on the role of the Shumpeterian unternehmergeist to demonstrate that the development theory of Joseph Schumpeter seems to apply in at least some ways to what he documented. Entrepreneurs were considered by Schumpeter to be the catalysts for change, which occurs in leaps and bounds, and which sometimes even appears deleterious, as the innovators of the past are replaced by those of the present. Despite continuing conditions of inequality and outmigration of youth from the community, Gramajo contends that this case should be of value to planners, who always stand to benefit from a better understanding of actual social situations. Second, Tamar Diana Wilson shows how social capital – a concept of some contention among anthropologists – is created or accessed and then built up by Mexican migrants to Nevada, USA, through the establishment of compadrazgo (ritual kin) networks, by focusing on a few individuals. Such ties, based on reciprocal but often unequal relationships, help people overcome social inequalities and also to make up for lack of material wealth. In this case, compadrazgo ties also link migrants to their places of origin, and they also connect people from the same places of origin, thereby reinforcing their ethnic identity as well (see Part III, this volume). Finally, Alexander Martı´ n uses the archaeological record to take a look back through time at social and economic change in relation to spondylus shell production on the coast of what is now Equador, from roughly 5,000 years ago to around 500 years ago. Based on analysis of data gleaned from the field, he argues that contrary to dominant models positing that specialized craft production would primarily be carried out by elites to improve their status vis-a`-vis others, craft specialization in the area seems to have been maintained over a long term by households for the domestic economy rather than for the political economy. Increased trade, population density, and social complexity in the past decades leading up to the arrival of Europeans are documented. Martı´ n’s chapter is most welcome in light
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of the efforts of Barry Isaac, former editor of REA, to increase the series’ emphasis on archaeology’s contribution to a better understanding of the relationships between economy and culture (Isaac, 1984, pp. 3–4, 1998, p. 6) – a tradition that I have hoped, but found difficult, to maintain (but see Lustig, 2009). Part II of this volume, as explained earlier, continues REA’s ongoing exploration of markets and marketing activities in general, a topic which was the focus of Part III of Volume 25 but which has been a major concern of REA since its founding in 1978 under the editorship of George Dalton. Here, the ‘‘market’’ and ‘‘marketing’’ are interpreted in a broad sense, in line with definitions laid out by Plattner (1985, p. viii) in an early Society for Economic Anthropology monograph: The term ‘‘market’’ will be used to denote the social institution, meaning any domain of economic interactions where prices exist which are responsive to the supply and demand of the items exchanged. A ‘‘marketplace’’ contains these interactions confined in a specific time and place. ‘‘Marketing’’ denotes buying or selling in any market, not necessarily in a marketplace.
In the first chapter of this section of the volume, Ayxem Eli examines donkey markets in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of China. The deep cultural significance of the animals in the local culture gives rise to a strong moral factor in the markets for donkeys and in the process of buying and selling them, with religious values and ethnic identity also coming into play, in a related vein, which connects this chapter to those in Part III of this volume. In the next chapter, Tite Ngoumou sheds light on transportation networks linking places of production and places of consumption (specifically, two villages and Yaounde, the capital city) in Camaroon. These networks, similar to those in many parts of Africa, would likely appear to be very inefficient and in dire need of improvement to most any development specialist or economist, yet as Ngoumou stresses, they have functioned well enough over the past few decades to allow for explosive growth in Africa’s major cities. By tracing the course of banana plantain from two different villages to a market in the capital and also the ways in which they are sold to consumers, the author answers the question of why these networks have allowed for the kind of development that Africa has seen, but location and road conditions are also shown to affect production strategies, which is an important point for development planners to take note of. Ultimately, the extreme flexibility of the system has helped it to succeed under very adverse conditions.
Introduction
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In the third chapter of Part II, Erica Coslor considers the relationship between art and money. Here, art receives special attention because its commoditization is so very problematic. The ‘‘art’’ in question here is not that with historical or national/ethnic value but rather contemporary work, the marketing of which is perhaps even more problematic than the evaluation and buying/selling of the latter, at least in an economic sense. It depends on the current (and potential future) fame of the creator, trends and styles, political content, and the fickleness of collectors and gallery operators, among other factors and subjectivities. As the author explains, art and money are often seen as encompassing two completely separate spheres that cannot mix, somewhat like water and oil. Another view would be that they can mix but that this mixing causes contamination of the art. Based on ethnographic research conducted on two sides of the Atlantic Ocean, Coslor argues for a need to go beyond these views, finding evidence for such a movement among people engaged in art production and sales today, and calls for greater application of dynamic cultural theory in studying interactions between art and the economy. Next is Mark Peterson’s study of entrepreneurialism in Cairo, Egypt. Peterson shows how entrepreneurs there navigate a blurry but critical cultural median line running somewhere between ‘‘Egyptian’’ and ‘‘Western’’ in their ongoing business ventures. In this sense, ethnic identity (see Part III) seems to be a factor, but not in the sense of a minority group surrounded by a majority within one country but rather a cultural community selectively embracing change from the outside that might be seen as too rapid if completely unchecked. Indeed, as the author shows, Egypt has fluctuated in recent decades between openness and guardedness regarding economic liberalization and what can be viewed as ‘‘Westernization.’’ Some see local culture as the cause of failure, whereas others see foreign ignorance as offensive. Potential entrepreneurs must avoid becoming mired in either argument to succeed in business and to change the market. With its focus on entrepreneurs as change agents, and drawing somewhat on Schumpeter’s ideas, Peterson’s chapter relates very much to Gramajo’s chapter in this volume. In the final chapter of this section, George Williams offers some thoughts on the meanings and functions of market crosses – common monuments in public areas and traffic intersections – in England and Scotland, particularly during the formative centuries of Great Britain’s modern economy. Hampered by a lack of reliable historical documents on the tall, vertical markers, Williams reviews their most likely symbolic functions, speculating that they may have reminded buyers and sellers of social rules and contracts stemming from nonmarket exchanges of earlier times – perhaps the kind of situation that Polanyi painted such a vivid picture of in The Great Transformation.
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As explained earlier, Part III focuses on economic activity and identity. The first two chapters here are about ethnic identity. Ethnicity is of course strongly connected to economic behavior and resource allocation, and to the ownership of capital as well, and it has been a major concern among anthropologists for many years now (see Eriksen, 2005). In the first of these chapters, Pe´ter Berta examines the prestige economy of the Gabor Roma ethic group in Transylvania, Romania, which revolves around the acquisition of silver tankards and beakers, upon which some of them is placed considerable symbolic and monetary value. More specifically, he concentrates on the role of brokers in this economy. As the author shows, participation in it – especially as a broker in the highestlevel and most prestigious deals – is a decidedly ethnic issue. In addition, while acquiring and possessing a high-value item for a long period brings much fame to its owner, the pieces themselves also gain cultural value from having been owned by certain members of the ethnic community, but only by members of that community. As Coslor (this volume) argued for a more flexible analysis of the high-end prestigious art market, Berta argues here for a more textual comprehension of broker activities. His detailed analysis of specific transactions, and his demonstration of multiple transactional identities for brokers, bolster his contentions and should ultimately lead to a better understanding of these kinds of economic arrangements. Next, Peter Redvers-Lee presents a case study of Latin American immigrant shoppers in the southern United States to show how apparently illogical buying activities – which often defy ‘‘logical’’ economic models – are rooted in ethnic identity and also how observed patterns help to reinforce that identity. Calling attention to the fact that people who are associated with a particular (minority) ethnic group tend to be less flexible and adventurous regarding food choices than members of the majority (e.g., ‘‘white’’ people in the United States), Redvers-Lee explores the choices of the Hispanic shoppers he encountered and also the physical arrangements and general appeal of Latino grocery stores they patronize. However, we also see that Hispanic shoppers will also go to other ‘‘ethnic’’ (Chinese in this case) stores if they do the right things to entice them. At any rate, Latino stores are the foci of specific ethnic identity reinforcement and centers of community social interchange. Capping off Part III, Dan Houser takes an ethnographic glimpse of the oil drilling life in Alberta, Canada. Here, identity is not ethnic but rather class-based and occupation-centered. As is shown here, oil work is demanding and hard. It is also sporadic and it often forces workers to either live separately from their families or to commute
Introduction
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over long distances. Partly due to the boom and bust cycle, and to the risks of life and limb, it also encourages a cavalier attitude toward money. Workers tend to spend large amounts of cash on certain items that can be shown off, such as vehicles or houses – in most cases deliberate attempts to demonstrate that they have high salaries. This may help in some cases to make up for low levels of education or social standing. But interestingly, younger, lower-level workers in the hierarchy are not allowed to splurge to a greater degree than their superiors, even if they have managed to save up more toward buying an impressive vehicle. They must exercise caution, or draw the ire of their peers. What we see here is that even if members of the middle-class or white collar stratum of the greater society do not evaluate the oil workers highly for their ability to spend large sums of money at once on showy items and luxury goods, their fellow oil workers will unless they go too far. The social ability to spend is rooted in the strict hierarchy established and maintained by the job itself. It’s not only love y money may not be able to buy respect, either. Finally, to close this volume, James Stanfield offers a review of a new book on the continuing relevance of the ideas and writings of Karl Polanyi and his colleagues to economic anthropology, edited by Chris Hann and Keith Hart, two researchers who have made many contributions to the field. Hart (1978) was also a contributor to the first volume of REA. Although actually an economist, Stanfield has contributed to REA in the past (Stanfield, Carroll, & Wren, 2007) and has a long-standing interest in Polanyi’s work and its importance to socio-economic processes and theory (see Stanfield, 1990). As a book series, it is not the general policy of REA to publish reviews of other books. In fact, this is the first time it has been done. But in this case a special exception was made in light of the fact that REA has a deep interest in the work of Karl Polanyi, established by its first editor, George Dalton and continued to a degree by its second editor, Barry Isaac, and also by myself. REA volumes that are especially notable for featuring chapters and discussions on Polanyi are volumes 4 (1981), 14 (1993), and 25 (2007). In addition, Rhoda Halperin, who whom this volume is humbly dedicated, contributed a number of articles dealing with Polanyi’s writings to REA during her lifetime (see Halperin, 1985, 1993, 2008), and she was very much involved in REA’s production during Isaac’s tenure as editor, as his colleague at the University of Cincinnati. Although the series is sure to continue to change in the coming years, it will strive to maintain the high academic standards that were established by Dalton and Isaac and supported by Halperin, and continued by Dannhaeuser and Werner (editors from 2001 to 2006), and remain a ‘‘state-of-the art
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yearbook’’ reflecting what anthropologists (yet also others) ‘‘have to say about the economy’’ (Isaac, 1984, p. 1).
REFERENCES Eriksen, T. H. (2005). Economies of ethnicity. In: J. Carrier (Ed.), A handbook of economic anthropology (pp. 353–369). Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar. Halperin, R. (1985). The concept of the formal in economic anthropology. Research in Economic Anthropology, 7, 339–368. Halperin, R. (1993). The concept of equivalencies in economic anthropology. Research in Economic Anthropology, 14, 255–298. Halperin, R. (2008). Gifting the children: Ritual economy of a community school. Research in Economic Anthropology, 27, 249–266. Hart, K. (1978). The economic basis of Tallensi social history in the early twentieth century. Research in Economic Anthropology, 1, 185–216. Isaac, B. (1984). Introduction. Research in Economic Anthropology, 6, 1–25. Isaac, B. (1998). Introduction. Research in Economic Anthropology, 19, 1–7. Lustig, E. (2009). Money doesn’t make the world go round: Angkor’s non-monetization. Research in Economic Anthropology, 29, 165–199. Plattner, S. (1985). Markets and marketing. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Stanfield, J. R. (1990). Karl Polanyi and contemporary economic thought. In: K. Polanyi Levitt (Ed.), The life and work of Karl Polanyi (pp. 195–207). Montreal: Black Rose Books. Stanfield, J. R., Carroll, M., & Wren, M. V. (2007). Karl Polanyi on the limitations of formalism in economics. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 241–266. Wood, D. (2007). Introduction. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 1–23.
PART I DEVELOPMENT AND INEQUALITY
BORROWED PLACES: EVICTION WARS AND PROPERTY RIGHTS FORMALIZATION IN KAZAKHSTAN Saulesh Yessenova ABSTRACT This study examines the way the government of Kazakhstan confronted informal (squatter) settlements and their property in Almaty in 2006. It argues that the way the state handled the issue as part of a broader state economic strategy was neither appropriate for the aim of creating a functioning property market nor for advancing social justice and welfare. The analysis focuses on the attempted demolition of two informal settlements, Bakay and Shanyrak, and subsequent events, including (a) militant and political responses among the residents and their supporters, (b) the legalization campaign, and (c) the effects of the global credit crunch on construction and property market in Almaty. The goal here is to refine the claim to a connection between formal economy, state practice, and squatters’ experiences.
– In a depression assets return to their rightful owners. Andrew Mellon Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 11–45 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030005
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On July 14, 2006 at five in the morning, police armed with guns, rubber bullets, and truncheons stormed into Shanyrak, a settlement at the outskirts of Almaty, the former capital of Kazakhstan. The attack was expected. A week earlier a similar operation had taken place in Bakay, another informal settlement in Almaty that was built on waste public land in the wake of postsocialist transformation. On that day, hundreds of Bakay residents, mostly Kazakh migrants from the countryside, watched their homes, their life savings, as well as their hopes for achieving proper titles thoroughly flattened. Unwilling to end up in the same situation, over a thousand Shanyrak residents prepared to defend their neighborhoods, their only chance for a dignified life in the city. They created a living shield of women, children, and the elderly. ‘‘Let us be run over, let us be killed,’’ one of the women cried in despair. They did not carry national flags or portraits of the President as was the case in Bakay where protesters showed their citizenship and loyalty to the state, trying to avert forced eviction (Fig. 1). The gravity of the situation was in the air: ‘‘it might happen that some of us would die,’’ the same woman said, ‘‘but our children would get the land’’ (Litvinova, 2006). Police swiftly marched through the rows of crying women, their terrified children, and old men calling for mercy, and came face to face with militant resistance (Fig. 2). What was expected to be an easy job turned into a serious battle, however. Throwing stones and Molotov cocktails at the police, at some point, the defenders got the upper hand, taking four officers hostage (Yermukhanov, 2006, p. 15). Three of them were released after the police had promised to stop the attack, which they did in order to buy time while waiting for reinforcements; once the riot police arrived, they went in again. The fourth hostage, a 24-year-old police officer was splashed with gasoline and set on fire (Duvanov, 2006). He died in a hospital 12 days later, on July 26. The news about the brutal attack on the police officer shocked the city; at the same time, the public understood the position taken by the people of Shanyrak. Overnight, squatting, which was previously treated as an economic issue, transformed into a political matter evoking the ideas of citizenship, social justice, and state power. ‘‘How strong one must hate the existing [political] regime,’’ asked Galymzhan Zhakiyanov, a major figure in a prodemocratic movement in Kazakhstan, ‘‘in order to commit such an extreme act as to burn its representative?’’ (Zhakiyanov, 2006; see also Zhusupov, 2006). The dwellings in Bakay and Shanyrak were built outside the law; however, the use of armed force against its own people was admitted in public discourse as unconstitutional. Once Kazakhstan claimed independence in 1991, the word ‘‘shanyrak’’ (literally, the top of a Kazakh mobile tent) was elevated into a symbol of home and nation that came to figure on
Eviction Wars and Property Rights Formalization in Kazakhstan
Fig. 1.
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Demonstration in Bakay, July 2006. Photo credit: Andrey Grishin.
the national flag. After the attempted eviction in that very settlement, Shanyrak acquired a new meaning as an icon of social inequality and exclusion. ‘‘Initially, [President] Nazarbaev made our villages bankrupt, pushing Kazakhs to the city,’’ said a 67-year-old man, pointing then to a pile of rubble that used to be his house. ‘‘Now they kicked us off from our land. Where should we go?’’ (Yenikeev, 2006). Informal settlements were growing under the eye of state authorities for over a decade. The evictees held the state accountable for its latest actions: ‘‘We demand our land back along with the compensation for property damage, if we are citizens of this country. If not, deport us from Kazakhstan. Have it in your own way!’’ (Epoha, 2006). In 2006, one-third of real estate property in Kazakhstan – 1.4 and 4.78 million units, respectively – belonged to the extralegal domain. Over 50% of those assets were located in and around cities, especially Almaty, the largest urban center in the country populated by nearly 2,000,000 people. Most extralegal dwellings in Almaty were claimed by urban migrants. By the time
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Fig. 2. Protest in Shanyrak, July 2006. The Protest Began, however, as a Peaceful Action Seeking not to Provoke Violence and Military Confrontation. Photo credit: Andrey Grishin.
of evictions in Bakay and Shanyrak, Almaty had 29 informal settlements, built in the past 10–13 years, having a total population of 700,000 (one-third of the total city inhabitants) in 2006 (Yermukhanov, 2006, p. 15). Such explosive growth of extralegal property in the aftermath of socialism was fueled by the failing of the rural economy, the weakness of rental market in the city, representing a ‘‘shadow economy’’ on its own right, as well as the rapid inflation of real estate prices. In 2006, the cost of housing in Almaty was higher than in St. Petersburg and Prague (USD 2,000/m2), Beijing (1,900/m2), and even Dubai (2,500/m2) (Shibutov, 2007). Already in 2003, the President was calling for developing ‘‘measures for the legalization of property, specifically, land plots and housing of rural to urban migrants and small entrepreneurs’’ that were improperly registered, if at all (Karadzhaeva, 2006, p. 11). The government drafted corresponding legislation, passing it to the Parliament where it was deliberated for over two years. Finally, the Law on Amnesty in relation to Legalization of Property, including real estate and
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movable assets, intended to stimulate the transfer of extralegal property to the legal economic sphere came out. Not everyone was invited to formalize their property rights, however. The law was signed on July 7, 2006, the day of mass eviction and demolition in Bakay that was followed by the attack on Shanyrak. The news of the legalization and forced eviction thus broke on the same day, creating an awkward blend of front page headlines. How can one explain this odd juxtaposition of the planned legalization campaign and violent eviction of those who were desperate to formalize their property and for whose benefit that very campaign was intended?
INFORMALITY AND ITS TREATMENT Neither informality nor eviction or tenure formalization is new to the world. Overwhelming proportions of extralegal property concentrated in large urban areas in the global South, such as Mexico City, Cairo, Nairobi, Mumbai, and other cities, have been subjected to the international development practice and discourse (UN-HABITAT, World Bank) for nearly three decades. On the one hand, the stubborn persistence of informality despite (or because of?) the attempts to regulate or demolish squatter neighborhoods helped to trivialize their very presence. On the other hand, such persistence helped informality (or extralegality) to become an important category of analysis that, starting with Keith Hart (1973), has been defined as a composite of economic behaviors taking place outside the limits of government regulation. Scholars and publicists alike have committed a serious effort trying to understand how it came about, how it works, and how the state responds – or rather – why the state tolerates informality and whether enforced legality would improve or harm the prospects of slum inhabitants. In this regard, Smart (2001), Smart and Tang (2005), and Varley (2002) have argued that the outcome is a contingent matter depending on local economics and wealth differentiation, the degree and quality of governance, as well as broader social, economic, and historical contexts. Their studies have shown that although the concept of informality is rendered neat and universal, the phenomenon behind it cannot be isolated as a physical particle but should be treated as a cultural facet deeply imbedded in the local social fabric. To put it simply: tenure security provides economic stability; yet, exclusive property rights may not necessarily guarantee that security (see also Gilbert, 2002). Hernando de Soto holds the opposite view. In his study of informal economy in Peru that has gained favor within the IMF and World Bank, he
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strongly argues that the unambiguous property rights will not only further the interests of the poor but will also ‘‘fuel explosive economic growth’’ across ‘‘developing and former communist nations’’ (de Soto, 2000, p. 149). Informality in his analysis is equated with deficiency. Urban slum inhabitants, he states, are not poor at all, and yet, because their rights to assets are improperly documented (i.e., being held in ‘‘defective forms’’), their property cannot be traded efficiently or used as collateral for a loan, which cuts the poor owners off from the benefits of capitalist economy. Hence, property formalization that would ‘‘fix the economic potential of their assets’’ is a must (ibid., p. 48). A ‘‘stumbling block’’ on the way of formalization, according to de Soto, is an overregulated economy with a nightmarish bureaucracy that prevents the poor from entering the formal market. The states with the disproportionally large shares of informal property are thus the ones that are caught in a contradiction between the volume of bureaucratic regulations and the institutional inability to enforce those regulations. In this situation, the state distributes ‘‘charters of privilege’’ to elites, feeding into corruption, while allowing other citizens to violate the law, a practice that produced the infamous slums in Latin America and elsewhere in the first place (de Soto, 1989, pp. 201–212). de Soto thus has given a physical body to informality: slum inhabitants and poor participants in the cash economy who were pushed outside the law by the ‘‘cost of formality’’ (ibid., pp. 132–150). His focus on the poor does make sense; but the drawing of the boundaries around them as a way of determining the cause–effect of informality seems to be more problematic. The most recent financial market meltdown, for example, helped to reveal that certain multibillion dollar operations conducted by the US investment banks, hedge funds, and mortgage institutions for years resided outside an existing regulatory framework, forming a well-coordinated ‘‘shadow banking system’’ (the IMF) (Economist, 2008a, 2009). This case indicates that informality is not restricted to the poor or the cash economy; it also suggests that the loose state purview can produce it as much as the overbureaucratized. Finally, it reaffirms what other studies have demonstrated: that the boundary between the formal and informal sectors of economy is porous and shifting, that is, individuals occupying the formal property might work in the informal sector or benefit from it otherwise and a change in law can shrink, reshape, or expand informality as a direct outcome or distant consequence.1 A case in point is a Thailand’s land titling program that was conducted in the 1980s and 1990s. It has been regarded as one of the most consistent reforms that delivered millions of titles to individual owners. At the same time, it created the new informality out of communal land holdings whose owners’
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rights lost legitimacy as a result of the enforced private ownership (Leonard & Na Ayutthaya, 2006). As Fernandez-Kelly (2006, p. 3) has argued, ‘‘the state embodied in multiple practices, agencies, departments and divisions y creates the conditions for the expansion or contraction of the informal economy. Without formal laws y the informal economy cannot exist.’’ In the 1980s, the Turkish state, another success story, formalized tenure in urban slums (gecekondular) by transferring ownership rights to the individual occupants. This program benefited many owners, the state, and the economy, in general; however, because the land under gecekondular went up in value as a result of tenure legalization, many small owners and tenants were subsequently pushed out by wealthier citizens and land speculators.2 The same law helped urban businesses that went on to converting former gecekondular that previously sheltered thousands of people into shopping malls, business centers, and luxury condominiums and the former residents energized land invasion elsewhere (Uzun & Colak, 2007). Dispossession by legalization thus overturns the assumption that it is the weak law enforcement that breeds informality; it supports an understanding that people end up in slums when there is no affordable legal accommodation. This is why eviction never helps to control informality: the poor ‘‘are merely shifted elsewhere,’’ as Friedrich Engels observed in England in the late 19th century. ‘‘The same economic necessity which produced them in the first place,’’ he argued about the consequences of a crack down on working class neighborhoods in Manchester, ‘‘produces them in the next place also’’ (Engels, 1979, p. 74). The formalization program may carry comparable implications and it often does: the curing of the informality in one place only reproduces it in another. As Harvey (2006, p. 48) has argued: ‘‘Even when privatization appears as beneficial to the lower classes, the long-term effects can be negative.’’ He continues: At first blush, for example, Thatcher’s program for the privatization of social housing in Britain appeared as a gift to the lower classes which could not convert from rental to ownership at a relatively low cost, gain control over a valuable asset and augment their wealth. But once the transfer was accomplished, housing speculation took over y, eventually bribing or forcing low income populations out to the periphery in cities like London and turning erstwhile working class housing estates into centers of intense gentrification. The loss of affordable housing in central areas produced homelessness for many and extraordinary long commutes for those who did have low-paying service jobs.
A similar outcome was recorded in the Philippines, where the World Bank conducted a pilot project on property rights formalization: within several years, ‘‘all the original dwellers had left because their lots had been sold to wealthy families’’ (Berner, 1977, p. 31). And the former moved to other
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slums, increasing their size and population density. The states, however, tend to interpret this regrowth of the informality as a sign that the formalization furthers land invasion, using it as a key argument against the transfer of rights. ‘‘The promise of free land y,’’ declared a member of the Indian Supreme Court while explaining his position ‘‘is a proposal which attracts more land grabbers. Rewarding an encroacher on public land y is like giving a reward to a pickpocket’’ (Rajagopal, 2004, p. 243). More often than not, the states are reluctant to merely transfer property rights to squatters. Furthermore, the circumstances for squatter populations worldwide are complex, warning against the ‘‘total war on informality’’ based on faith in private ownership that de Soto advocates.3 As yet another point of clarification, it would be important to note that far from all squatters desire to formalize their rights to property, not that ‘‘they would turn down a title deed if it was offered,’’ as Neuwirth (2005, p. 21) put it, but ‘‘because private ownership is not their most crucial concern’’: When squatters feel secure in their homes, they build, invest, and prosper – and they don’t need a title deed to do so. Squatters in Brazil and Turkey have erected permanent buildings without title deeds. Squatters in India have created whole neighborhoods while knowing that the land is not theirs. y They buy and sell and rent their buildings. They negotiate with each other over their future plans for their homes.
In the summer of 2006, I encountered a similar situation in Kazakhstan in the Zhylioy rayon (district) situated in the Atyrau oblast (region) from where I followed the tragic eviction events in Almaty. To the outside world, Zhylioy is mostly known for important hydrocarbon projects – a key factor behind the country’s economic recovery in the late 1990s. It is less known, however, that despite the overwhelming presence of the oil industry, this rayon is selfsufficient with protein food. Animal husbandry was the backbone of local economy until the oil industry arrived during World War II. The later development brought considerable changes in local occupations; yet, livestock breeding was sustained as a major economic practice outside the oil projects, surviving a series of historical transformations including the last one, decollectivization, which put out of business thousands of farms across the post-Soviet space. In the past several years, Zhylioy experienced the proliferation of small holdings across its sparsely populated area. Modest houses, mobile tents, and subterranean huts appeared here and there on the open steppe, indicating home bases of small livestock owners. One day, I was traveling in the company of a local state officer when we saw one of these farms, small but well-kept, including a freshly painted house, a smaller storage facility, an enclosure for animals, and a colorful garden with
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sunflowers secured with a fence made of locally grown reed grass. ‘‘The problem with these farms and houses,’’ the officer told me, noticing my appreciation of the farm, ‘‘is that none of them is registered; they just don’t want to bother to secure their property.’’ My companion decided to pay a friendly visit to the owner, an older man who came out of the house. He described to the older man the advantage of having his property formalized in a manner closely resembling the de Soto’s wisdom: ‘‘Once you register your property, you can use it as collateral for a bank loan. Then you’ll be able to expand your business and become rich!’’ The owner listened to the officer politely and then asked if we cared to come inside, a typical Kazakh expression of hospitality, which in that particular context seemed to be a convenient way of switching the topic from legalization and its prospects that left little impact on him anyway. What was striking about this incident is that there informality was treated as an innocent act stemming from the ignorance of the individuals that the state wanted to sort out for their own sake. In Almaty, on the other hand, the same type of informality that had been tolerated for over a decade, in 2006, was strongly defined in the state discourse as the land invasion (samozahvat), a label suggesting unlawful activity, criminalizing the informality to justify eviction of the ‘‘social outsiders’’ without compensation. The meaning attributed to the informality is thus not fixed in time or within the same political space and may vary from a somewhat neutral condition to a ‘‘normalized’’ state as shelters of poverty and to a wrongdoing. The definition used in the state discourse at any given time indicates in what fashion the government intends to enforce property rights, if at all. The dramatic eviction attempt in Almaty is a reminder that although the state may tolerate informality for a long time, allowing the growth and solidification of squatter neighborhoods, eventually, it comes to enforce property rights. And ‘‘strong property rights,’’ as Smart recaps the situation in China and Hong Kong, ‘‘generally mean that those who have illegally encroached should be removed’’ (Smart, 2008, p. 16). The questions then are when do the governments tolerate the informality and why do they opt for the forced eviction while both mechanisms of eviction and tenure legalization – which is the case of Almaty in 2006 – are technically available to the state?
PATHWAYS My interest in informal settlements is fairly recent. In 1999, I conducted field research for my Ph.D. thesis on rural to urban migration in Almaty. By that
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time, Kazakhstan had received nine structural adjustment loans directed to finance large-scale reforms, including the privatization of assets and liabilities, deregulation of prices, and opening up the economy for foreign investment. Those reforms, constituting shock therapy, were expected to make post-Soviet transition to the free capitalist market a painful but quick process. And yet, seven years after the start date in 1992, they brought hardly any positive effect: despite all the efforts to jumpstart economic development, the rural economy lay in ruins and the urban economy was in crisis. William Easterly, who was involved in reforming Russia with the World Bank, admitted belatedly that it was their biggest mistake to finance those reforms that, in his account, ‘‘had joined the list of failed utopian schemes’’ (2007, p. 61). They should have focused instead on the gradual improvement of homegrown market initiatives, he came to argue, because ‘‘markets emerge in a spontaneous way y [based] on the bottom-up development of local institutions and social norms’’ and not the top–down reforms designed by the outsiders. One of those homegrown institutions that emerged on the wave of market reforms in Almaty was the bazaar. By building on preexisting economic forms, farmer’s and flea markets originating in the Soviet past, it transformed them beyond recognition. In 1999, the Almaty bazaar was composed of a series of autonomous marketplaces that involved roughly 100,000 entrepreneurs, concessionaires, casual workers, and employees. Individual marketplaces were connected through the chains of wholesale and retail transactions centering on a bazaar complex in Zarya Vostoka, the largest unit among all. I used that increasingly commercialized neighborhood at the outskirts of the city to gather data on the urban migration that became a visible phenomenon at the time of the post-Soviet reforms. The demand for cheap labor made Zarya Vostoka the city’s major ‘‘entry point’’ for many villagers. In the late 1990s, it included thousands of migrant workers employed in the increasingly expanded margins of the bazaar business in addition to thousands of Almaty residents who usually occupied more privileged economic positions (Yessenova, 2006). A local economic boom helped to transform Zarya Vostoka from a minor half-urban, half-rural settlement into a thriving entrepreneurial community. Its inhabitants were among the first to engage in a cross-border trade; in addition, by converting spare rooms on their properties into ‘‘beds per night,’’ they created rental facilities for the humble workforce coming from the countryside. ‘‘Beds per night’’ worked well as the temporary housing for the newly arriving villagers but it was scarce and expensive to become a long-term solution. Those who sought a more stable but affordable accommodation suitable for families had to look for it
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elsewhere. The shortage of the existing local housing, most of which concentrated in Zarya Vostoka, pushed migrant families to set up dwellings on public wasteland extending between Zarya Vostoka and the city, which was the most practical solution given the location’s proximity to their workplace. Hence, 1993 is the year of birth of Shanyrak, one of the first informal settlements in Almaty that began as a tent-city (Litvinova, 2006). By 2006, Kazakhstan was no longer a country with uncertain economic prospects as it was in the 1990s. It was one of the first former Soviet countries to achieve a status of market economy and pay off the IMF loans. Such dramatic improvement of the economy was based on the expansion of the country’s hydrocarbon industry that attracted a respectable amount of FDI. In addition, the government made an effort to diversify the economy and, in the early 2000s, the growth of a nonoil sector was sustained at an impressive rate of 8%. The positive economic trends inspired Kazakhstan’s leadership to seek membership for their country among the 50 most competitive economies in the world, an agenda that came to determine the state policy in the following years. In order to align the country’s development with the expectations of capitalist success, the state encouraged the national banks to expand credit market. Consequently, it became easier in Kazakhstan to obtain a bank loan or a mortgage than to renew a passport, which stimulated business development and the construction boom in Almaty. The bazaar, however, remained where it was before forming a gray area where assets were not registered properly and most transactions were based on cash. By 2006, it was neighbored by the extensive squatter settlements populated by its workers and all those who could no longer afford to live in the city proper (Fig. 3). In the following sections, I retrace the way the state managed its relation with the squatters to argue that the politics on informality are shaped not by the inability of the state to enforce its own rules, as de Soto suggests, but by the broader social and economic developments of which the informality is part.4 As such my argument is not new: a number of anthropologists have made similar claims in reference to the interdependence of formal and informal economies. Scholars of Latin America, for example, have shown in their studies that states tolerate the informality, often ‘‘in direct contradiction to their manifest law-enforcement duties,’’ because of their ‘‘dependence for survival on the very sector of economic activity that habitually violates these rules’’ (Centeno & Portes, 2006, p. 33). First, the informality provides survival means to the most vulnerable populations that at the time of slow economy helps to reduce the risks of political instability. In addition, it renders competitive formal enterprises that through subcontracting are able
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Fig. 3.
Informal Housing in Shanyrak-2, July 2009. Photo by the author.
to acquire ‘‘cheap, informally produced goods and services’’ from locally based companies and individuals (ibid.). As one UN-HABITAT expert said, ‘‘Just as slums and slum dwellers need cities to survive, so do cities need slums to thrive’’ (Mumtaz, 2001). Finally, the informality persists because the land occupied by the squatters often ‘‘has so little worth that no one bothers to have or enforce property right to it’’ (Stillwaggon, 1998, p. 67, cited in Davis, 2006, p. 39). All three explanations are relevant to the situation in Almaty throughout the 1990s: (a) the land under the squatters, situated at the very outskirts of the city, was not needed or commoditized, (b) the squatters provided cheap services to the mainstream economy through employment at the bazaar, which aided newly established firms elsewhere in Almaty, and (c) the country was going through the massive restructuring of the economy associated with a sharp decline in living standards among the entire population. The combination of the economic hardship and new political reality that provoked civil unrest, coup d’e´tat, and interethnic conflict in other parts of the postsocialist space prompted Kazakhstan’s leadership to think of political stability as a primary goal. A difference between my approach and previous work is that I wish to refine the claim to a connection between formal economy, state practice, and squatters’ experiences. By the 2000s, the economic situation in Almaty
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improved, stabilizing the political domain: an expanded middle class became seen as a key supporter of the state and a major contributor to the economy while the bazaar along with the squatters emerged in the state discourse as a redundant business that not only embarrassed the city by having low outlay designs but was also hurting urban firms. Most importantly, rapid economic development and available credit created the need for the land occupied by the squatter dwellings and their workplaces. In particular, this ‘‘need’’ was generated by the rise of the speculative market populated by property developers and individuals, whereas the informal settlements presented an attractive opportunity for ‘‘primitive accumulation’’ or, as Harvey rephrased Karl Marx, accumulation by dispossession that he argues ‘‘lies at the core of the urban process under capitalism’’ (2006, p. 43). In a nutshell, the eviction wars gathered momentum at the peak of the economic boom when housing prices in Almaty were ridiculous and there was practically no limit on credit available to property developers and speculators whose activities drove the market, driving the poor away. The state could deliver proper titles to the residents of Bakay and Shanyrak, which would have helped to expand the city tax base and benefited the owners, many of whom are poor. Instead, driven by cost–benefit calculations rather than the ideas of social ethics, it transferred the rights to commercial buyers willing to replace precarious squatter neighborhoods with a low capacity for accumulation that, if legalized, would become a fiscal burden for the city with a higher valued property. What Michel Foucault said about neoliberalism – that under its regime it is the market that regulates the state and not the other way around – is relevant here as it stresses that the neoliberal agenda sidelines (if not excludes) the aim of social justice that becomes subordinated to that of megasurplus (Lemke, 2001). This is particularly true of the urban space. ‘‘The most important goal of urban policy,’’ as Margit Mayer has argued, ‘‘has become to mobilize city space as an arena for market-oriented economy growth’’ based on an uninterrupted flow of private investment (Mayer, 2007, p. 91). Likewise, in the postsocialist milieu, the city has been placed at the forefront of the nations’ involvement in the global economy and politics, urging the states, as Adrian Smith has put it, ‘‘to create landscapes in the image of ‘successful’ cities elsewhere in the world economy’’ to show the ‘‘success’’ of their own (2007, p. 205). Kazakhstan, boasting the oil wealth, a sound financial system, and economic growth, is a prime example of this trend. In this chapter, I discuss the informality as part and parcel of the state practice, as an attempt to mobilize the urban space for achieving (or demonstrating) capitalist success.5 As opposed to what seems to be a
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simplistic explanation that the state failed to deliver the titles to the poor because the legalization campaign was captured by the powerful elites, I intend to focus on the apparent contradiction between the intentions and practices of the state in terms of another incongruity of the goals of free (housing) market development, on the one hand, and equality, diversity and welfare, on the other. Both state projects, on legalization and squatter eviction, have failed to accomplish their missions as stated: the property formalization campaign intended as a social policy, in the end, helped mostly the wealthy and tax dodges to legalize their hidden assets and the squatters remained where they used to be despite all the effort to enforce property rights. When a global credit crunch brought down the Almaty housing market in 2007, the state readmitted their neighborhoods as shelters of poverty in need of care (but not of the state care), now being treated as borrowed places, by Smart’s definition of squatters in Hong Kong – tolerated, but only ‘‘for the time being’’ with no promise of subsequent legalization (2001, p. 31). I will demonstrate that the speculative boom in Almaty – a key reason behind the attempted dispossession of the squatters – originated in the state policy on promoting market-based housing solutions that contrary to an anticipated expansion of home ownership through the use of the credit system fueled the steep housing price appreciation in 2003, leading to the property shortage by 2005 and eventual collapse of the real estate market in 2007. I will argue that both the attempt to enforce property rights by eradicating the squatters as well as its failure have been linked to this political formatting of the housing market that proved to be inadequate in the face of challenges posed by the market as well as for achieving better welfare and social justice.
EVICTION WARS Following in the footsteps of his political father President Nazarbaev who turned Astana into the nation’s capital, Imangali Tasmagambetov thought of himself as a grand architect when he was appointed an akim (mayor) of Almaty in 2005. On the June 30, 2006, his office informed the press that he desired to reorganize the city plan. Most business activities have been concentrated in a central part of Almaty now hosting many foreign and national firms and surrounded by extensive clusters of apartment blocks, schools, and other public facilities or microrayons (microdistricts). This centralized urban planning model originating in the Soviet past presumably
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inhibited economic development of the city and the intention was to reorganize it according to a more modern ‘‘polycentric’’ concept that would help to create new business areas elsewhere, decongesting the city center. By 2012, the akim wanted to replace 12 microrayons in the southwestern part of the city, populated by hundreds of thousands of people, with the newly designed residential-cum-business areas (Dzhalilova, 2006). The idea of such massive urban reconstruction, it was explained to the media, had to do with the increased demand for housing and business facilities in Almaty, a fast growing city with a diverse and dynamic economy. In 2006, at the time of the event, the city’s real estate market was about to reach a historic high: during the five previous years, prices went up 14 times from USD 250/m2 in 2002 to 3,600/m2 in 2006, continuing to grow in 2007. Between 2002 and 2007, banks delivered USD 6 billion to finance construction and 4.5 billion to finance mortgages that together amounted to more investment than that went in manufacturing and agriculture combined. Over one-third (35%) of this total loan volume was invested in individual and commercial property in Almaty, which drove up the cost of housing at an unprecedented rate (Table 1). And it seemed in those days that there were no limits on borrowing. The authors in social analysis of housing markets have argued about ‘‘the dual nature of housing’’ as ‘‘both a commodity and an investment good,’’ whereas it is usually the ‘‘investment potential’’ that generates steep price rises (Smith, Nuro, & Hazel, 2006; p. 92). This is what the expanded possibilities of debt-financing that ‘‘unlocked dead capital’’ of housing, following de Soto, have created in Almaty: firms and individuals sought mortgages to pay for secondary and tertiary residencies in anticipation of solid dividends in the future; over 50% of the Almaty housing Table 1.
Financing of Construction and Mortgages and Housing Pricing in Central Almaty.
Year
Credit (Billion Tenge)
Housing (USD/m2)
2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007
43 32 84 154 346 452
200 500 1,000 2,000 4,000 6,000
The expansion of the credit market in construction and mortgages closely correlates with the dynamics of real estate prices in Almaty. Source: Shibutov (2007, p. 3).
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market was used as an investment instrument (Shodyrov, 2006, p. 57). The outcome of this rapidly emerged dual structural design of housing not only as a ‘‘place to live,’’ which it was before, but also as a ‘‘place to invest’’ was the property shortage that called for a grand architectural solution, as outlined above. Initially, capital investment was directed to central Almaty and adjacent areas, the most lucrative locations now featuring new condominiums, shopping malls, recreational facilities, and business towers. But soon property developers began looking for opportunities in the outlying areas and the city administration wanted to act decisively. Already in 2003, the city boundary was moved further southwest, incorporating Zarya Vostoka and the recently emerged informal settlements. The latter areas lacked paved roads, piped water, and sewage systems. Between 2003 and 2006, the city invested USD 7.5 million in extending major roads and pipes to connect these newly incorporated areas to the urban networks with a goal of stimulating business and the flow of investment (Karadzhaeva, 2006, p. 69). As the akim proudly pointed it out to the press, this was done to make those areas ‘‘more attractive to prospective investors’’ (Dzhalilova, 2006). Not a single time did he mention Shanyrak or other informal settlements, occupying those areas, and journalists correctly guessed that the project on urban reconstruction would most likely begin with them. In fact, the operation on their demolition had already been set in motion. Spontaneous construction was not unknown during the Soviet period; however, it is only with the post-Soviet liberalization of political and economic regimes, commonly associated with the uplifting of restrictions on population movement and business activity but also eliminating thousands of jobs in rural areas and industrial company towns, which magnified the housing shortage in the city that it took place on a large scale. The city administration was aware of the on-going developments; but the state failed to introduce a legal framework that would regulate what was later defined as ‘‘land invasion.’’ Until 2003, the territory occupied by squatters was located just outside the Almaty jurisdiction and, technically, outside the city’s responsibility, which probably contributed to such inaction. Either way, the state authorities did not think that intervention would be a smart choice at the time of society’s deep dissatisfaction with poverty and unemployment. Consequently, the spontaneous construction on public wasteland came to be treated as a low-cost remedy versus the politicization of the most desperate masses. As it transpired later, however, the state not only tolerated squatters but also went on to acknowledge the rights of many. In 2006, 80% of Shanyrak and Bakay residents, including those who arrived between 1991
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and 1995, were in possession of titles granted by the state on the basis of A Law on Land Allocation for Gardening and Individual Construction in Districts Bordering the City that was issued in 1990, that is, during the Soviet time.6 Walking door to door in April and May, inspectors expressed serious doubts about those titles. Yet, the same individuals also held documents that confirmed those titles in 2001, and some of those documents were signed by the same bureaucrats who came with the inspection (PDC, 2006). As embarrassing as it was, they nevertheless turned down the paperwork with their autographs on the grounds of ‘‘remoteness of the date of issue’’ (Duvanov, 2006). For a number of years, those titles, most of which were sealed with tears and bribes, provided squatter occupants with some sense of security of their habitation. They erected permanent structures replacing tents, and gave beautiful names to their settlements, such as Ulzhan and Aigerim, which are Kazakh female names, and, of course, Shanyrak, which they regarded as microrayons just like regular residential areas to which they served as extensions. By 2006, when a modest flat in Almaty could be sold for USD 200,000, informal settlements formed an 800 ha belt along the southwestern city boundary that was populated by 75,000 inhabitants, most of whom were casual laborers and small entrepreneurs struggling to make the ends meet. Their simple housing ‘‘did not help to decorate the city gates,’’ as one journalist put it, but, on the other hand, squatters ‘‘did not create any problem for the city either’’ until the city ‘‘invaded their territory’’ (Grishin, 2006). Tasmagambetov tried to get rid of Shanyrak in the fall of 2005, just before the presidential elections in Kazakhstan. In response, over 1,000 Shanyrak residents went on a protest march on the 18th of September galvanizing public attention, which prompted the akim to change his tactics: he convinced the protesters that it was a ‘‘preventive’’ action against the incoming individuals, promising that, if they ‘‘vote right,’’ his administration would help them to formalize their property. The elections left President Nazarbaev in his seat, and, in April 2006, the city began a new wave of assaults, disregarding earlier promises. The first casualty was Aigerim that lost 18 houses (ibid., 2006). The others took it as a warning. Residents of Bakay were more worried than the others because their settlement was located in an area between the city center and the airport that became viewed as commercially most valuable in the past several years. In early June 2006, the court ruled that 26 dwellings in Bakay were built illegally and should be demolished, which caused another mass protest.7 This time dozens of women from Bakay went on a hunger strike. In response, the Parliament set up a commission in attempt to find an acceptable solution.
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They extracted a promise from the city administration that no measures would be taken against Bakay or any other squatter settlement while the commission was looking for an alternative solution. Residents engaged with the commission proposing that, if their property was formalized in the process of the anticipated legalization campaign, they would pay for the missing local infrastructure, canalization, water pipes, and sidewalks, something that used to displease the city authorities. Alternatively, if the land they occupied was indeed needed for other purposes, as the city administration claimed on other occasions, they would accept compensation, land plots, or economy housing elsewhere in Almaty.8 This dialogue was suddenly interrupted by the demolition of 350 houses in Bakay on June 7, 2006 (Morzaeva, 2006a). Ambushed victims compared this action to Hitler’s attack on the Soviet Union in 1941 in violation of a peace treaty. They organized a mass hunger strike and signed a petition to the President in which they defined the state’s action as a crime, demanding the resignation of akim. While the President remained completely disengaged, on July 14, 2006, the city launched an attack on Shanyrak, leaving 1 dead, 12 wounded among the residents, and 15 injured among the police. Neither the city administration nor police claimed responsibility for ordering it. By then, the victims of Bakay and Shanyrak were no longer alone in their protests against the unlawful actions of the state. Activists from different political parties and movements set up organizations whose agenda was the protection of citizens’ property rights. Opposition prodemocratic parties and their supporters used their platforms for public forums condemning the state and the motivations behind forced eviction. Bulat Abilov, one of the most vocal opponents of the existing political regime, set the tone of public debate: In his public statement, he [the akim] labeled them [squatters] as ‘‘social outsiders’’ who would ‘‘demand roads, schools, and hospitals’’ [if their property is legalized]. Why not? Is it a crime? y Thousands of people live in Shanyrak y in the conditions inhumane for the 21st century, inhumane for a country like Kazakhstan, which aims to be on the list of 50 most competitive economies in the world y There is no electricity, heat, gas, or roads. y They have to be compensated not only for the loss of their property but also for coping with such conditions for this long.’’ (2006).
Even the public that was usually politically inactive became alerted, siding with the squatters. Squatter eviction helped to reveal that state intervention in property rights was not only the problem of the poor informals. As the president of a newly established foundation ‘‘Zashiti svoy dom’’ (‘‘Defend Your Home’’) said, expressing the mood of the day: ‘‘Today, not only the
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residents of Bakay, anyone can lose their home at any time and in any part of the city. If somebody with big money is attracted to some land [holding], the state would claim it under the eminent domain [gosudarstvenniye nuzhdy]’’ (Aspandiyarova, 2006). The concept of eminent domain denotes the power of the state to appropriate property for public use, such as highways, power lines, or military installations. When the construction boom hit Almaty, a number of old and odd neighborhoods were demolished under its pretext and replaced by commercial property such as shopping malls, hotels, business centers, as well as condominiums. The state justified the improper intervention into property rights on the grounds that it helped to gentrify and upgrade the city, create jobs, and increase property value and tax revenues, contributing to business and economic development, a top priority on the state agenda. This practice also helped the convergence of this official agenda of the state and a personal agenda of bureaucrats seeking illicit financial reward. The state would claim the land under eminent domain and sell it to the first buyer at a low price who would sell it at a market price to the second. The amount from the initial transaction would go to the state account, making it look legitimate and complete, while the bureaucrats would get a respectable kickback from the second transaction. In 2006, hundreds of owners whose property was appropriated by the state filed law suits trying to get what they believed would be fair compensation (Tunik, 2007). In 2007, the Constitutional Council issued a bill specifying that the state can claim property only when this land is needed for noncommercial public purposes, thus taking away an important source of bureaucrats’ personal enrichment. In 2006, this was yet to happen, and there would be no bill to protect the most vulnerable population in Almaty: squatters from dispossession. In the course of the subsequent public investigation, it was revealed that, by the time of eviction in June 2006, the land under Bakay had already been sold to Investgroup Ltd., a company with many subsidiaries, and Shanyrak that was inhabited by hundreds of families had been sold in 2005 to eight anonymous buyers (Gubaydulin, 2008; PDC, 2006). After all it was not a coincidence that the issue of the law On Amnesty and forced eviction with demolition took place at the same time: the decision about the eviction was made long before the court ruled on the case and the police were given orders. The state wanted to execute the last step in a sequence – to remove the inhabitants of informal settlements from the scene so that the new owners could take possession of their property and the previous ones would no longer be able to build cases for the upcoming legalization.
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LEGALIZATION CAMPAIGN An amnesty program that allows legalizing hidden assets and flight capital is a recognized fiscal practice that was used at different times and on different scales in many countries around the world. It is intended to raise short-term tax revenue, stimulate the repatriation of capital, and transfer assets from the ‘‘underground’’ economy as a means of expanding the tax base in the future. The state grants a specific grace period under various conditions to tax dodgers and all those who find themselves in a precarious situation as a result of legal disruptions caused by a major shift in the tax system or the property regime.9 Historically, amnesty programs delivered varied outcomes, but even those regarded as the most successful failed to achieve their individual goals in terms of the revenue collection and the long-term impact on the tax base. The relatively low success rates of these programs are attributed to the controversial message that those very programs, offering pardon to tax evaders, sent to the public and the inability of the state to properly address the problems that generated hidden assets or the capital outside the legal framework in the first place. Despite the obvious shortcomings, however, the states still use this measure, voluntary and indiscriminative, often as the last resort in order to reduce the administrative cost of enforced tax extraction, hoping to improve compliance in the future (Keller, 2004; Uchitelle, 1989). In Kazakhstan, the amnesty program was implemented for the first time in 2001. Under the condition of complete anonymity, citizens and companies were invited to deposit unreported funds into accounts in national banks. The state set high expectations for that campaign, hoping to transfer billions of dollars circulating within the ‘‘shadow’’ economy into the legal sphere. However, only USD 480 million was reported. For the 2006 amnesty, the state did not set any monetary target; instead, it emphasized social and fiscal impacts of the program that was intended to (a) expand the national tax base, (b) stimulate rural markets, and (c) uplift the newly urban poor, that is, squatters. Since not only the urban poor and the farmers were invited to formalize their property but any citizen or a firm, the overall goal of the program was to contribute to ‘‘the building of a transparent economy’’ in the country.10 In Almaty, potential claimants of the noncommercial real estate property included three categories: (a) squatters occupying improperly registered land holdings and dwellings, (b) residents holding legal land plots on which they built chalets (dachas) without documenting such property development, and (c) recently constructed estates belonging to, as the Chief of Kazakhstan’s Journalist Union put it, ‘‘dispossessed ministers and other
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bureaucrats’’ that at the time of real estate boom could be sold for a million dollars each (Latysheva, 2007). The latter have been concentrated on the territory of Medeo National Park located to the southeast of central Almaty. During the Soviet period, this large mountainous area, home to Tiyan-Shan pine trees, old apple gardens that gave the name to the city, and rare animal species, such as snow leopards, was made into a recreational zone, including hiking trails and public facilities – summer camps for children and sanatoriums for families. In the aftermath of socialism, most of those facilities were privatized and transformed into private residencies. Over the time, new estates were built, transforming large portions of the national park into upscale suburbs away from the city pollution and the public eye. The status of the three- to fourstorey mansions around the national park has always been questionable, causing public concern; but, as one of the public activists pointed out ironically after the events in Bakay and Shanyrak, ‘‘nobody was evicted’’ there (ibid.). The public demanded investigation to which the akim who owns a four-storey home in that same area replied that the occupancy around Medeo was ‘‘a long story’’ and that they would not start the case in order to avoid what could potentially become a series of ‘‘complicated legal proceedings’’ (Kovtunskiy, 2006). The squatters claimed by the ‘‘newly rich’’ and the ‘‘newly poor’’ became the highlights of the nation-wide legalization campaign. The initial time frame for real estate was nine months from the day of issue (July 3, 2006– April 1, 2007) but then it was extended for another four months, until August 1, 2007. Similar to the 2001 campaign, the law guaranteed complete anonymity and confidentiality of all cases. This time, however, claimants were charged a tax amounting to 10% of the value of the property they were seeking to legalize, whereas the property value was to be determined by the claimants themselves. The media reported that the owners of small chalets and garages spontaneously came up with a ‘‘standard’’ value of KZT500 (USD 4.10). Although it has been stated in the law that the application would be returned to the claimant in case of ‘‘incorrect counting of a duty amount,’’ it was quite possible that the owners of multistory mansions declared 1% of their property value. The campaign was deemed to be inclusive; however, it has been outlined in the Law that ‘‘the property the rights to which are litigated in the court’’ was not eligible for the legalization. In July 2006, that is, in the immediate aftermath of the attack on Shanyrak, the court satisfied legal claims of a small group of Shanyrak residents whose housing was previously subject to demolition. However, it retained thousands of other cases that the city filed against squatter
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residents just before the campaign (Morzaeva, 2006b). They could still apply; but the decision-making on legalization was in the hands of a designated commission formed within the city or district akimat, that is, the same bodies that harassed the squatters in the first place. In the meantime, the residents of Bakay and Shanyrak stayed by their destroyed houses, safeguarding their belongings, along with the police that patrolled the area making sure that no dwellings were rebuilt. Many residents submitted applications for legalization, hoping for the best. According to the Law, applications were to be processed within 15 working days; but the commission held their documents for months (in some cases, 8–10 months). In the fall of 2006, still expecting to hear from the court or the commission concerning their cases, squatters were permitted to stay until spring. But on June 1, 2007, 200 hundred families in Bakay got eviction notices delivered by city officials arriving with bulldozers. No dwelling was demolished on that day, but the officials assured them that it was just a matter of time because the land they occupied had long been sold (Gubaydulin, 2008). By then, the commission had refused 10,000 claims made by the residents of informal settlements. Subsequently, the court overruled the decisions in 12 cases from Shanyrak in favor of the claimants, but it happened after the legalization campaign had ended (Kurmanov, 2008). Initially, the fact that the residents of Bakay, Shanyrak, and other informal settlements were consistently denied the possibility to formalize their property rights was linked to the city authorities who were accused of manipulating and abusing the law; however, in the course of the process, it transpired that it had been a coordinated effort involving members of the national government that drafted that very law. Public advocates, providing legal support to the residents of informal settlements, got hold of a letter signed by the Deputy Minister of Justice on October 5, 2006. Written as a reference guide to the Law on Amnesty, the letter laid it bare that ‘‘spontaneous construction and mass land invasion must not be allowed. [Therefore] such property may not be legalized’’ (ibid.). The publication of this letter provoked yet another series of mass protests but it was too late. In December 2007, the state declared the amnesty program, which involved 10% of the total population according to the official account, an overwhelming success. The value of legalized assets was reported as KZT844.7 billion (USD 6.8 billion), an amount standing for 8.7% of the national GDP. The opposition parties, on the other hand, defined the campaign as a large-scale money laundry operation since, as they argued, most of the legalized property did not include ‘‘the agricultural machinery’’
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Table 2.
Nationwide Legalized Assets (KZT 1 ¼ USD 125).
Type of Property Real estate Liquid cash Shares and securities Agricultural machinery Transport Real estate abroad Missing information Total legalized
Value (KZT, Billions)
Value (USD, Billions)
236.2 538.4 29.5 11.2 5.1 7.2 17.1 844.7
1.89 4.3 0.24 0.09 0.04 0.06 0.14 6.76
Source: Interview with Orazaly Sabden, Director of the Institute of Economics under the Ministry of Education and Science of the Republic of Kazakhstan (Nalogi i financy, 2007, pp. 2–4). There is still missing information in the breakdown of the legalized assets by categories, yet, even that gap would not mask the fact that a disproportionally large share of the legalized assets was liquid cash.
and dwellings of regular citizens, as the state tried to present it (Table 2), but cash (USD 4.3 billion), 90% of which came from Almaty, Astana, and foreign countries (Kesher, 2007). Even before the outcomes were made available to the public, the campaign provoked a serious critique in the Parliament: ‘‘Legalization has been conducted for the sake of legalization,’’ said one of the members, intending ‘‘to free all types of figures from the responsibility for committed crimes and offences.’’ ‘‘This law was conceived with an honorable goal in mind,’’ commented another member, ‘‘to help villagers who built homes in the city or in the country y However, it all came down to the law defending the rights of corrupters’’ (Itegulov, 2007). Likewise, economists expressed their skepticism about the economic impact of the campaign. In their opinion, the transfer of cash to the legal sphere, as opposed to the means of production, can only create groups of legitimate millionaires and billionaires in one day and not much else. The controversy surrounding the legalization campaign that was conducted behind the closed doors of state offices as opposed to being administered by the audit firms that could produce more impartial and professionally competent results (see Table 3)11 would have been debated for a long time after it was over; however, soon after the nation became preoccupied with a new set of pressing issues caused by the global credit crunch and economic recession that hit the country in the fall 2007, turning the construction boom into a bust, and diluting public attention from the old problems and the poor squatters.
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Table 3. Legalized Real Estate Property (KZT 1 ¼ USD 125). Legalized
Value (USD)
Volume (Units)
Value/Unit (USD)
Almaty Outside Almaty Total
12,000,000 1,877,640,000 1,889,640,000
More than 22,000 1,464,000 1,486,000
545.45 1,282.54 1,272.63
Source: Interview with Orazaly Sabden, Director of the Institute of Economics under the Ministry of Education and Science of the Republic of Kazakhstan (Nalogi i financy, 2007, pp. 2–4).
CREDIT CRUNCH AND ITS AFTERMATH While cautious about borrowing from the Breton Woods Institutions, the government of Kazakhstan favored commercial credits. Political stability, proved hydrocarbon reserves, and a well-crafted banking system – the ‘‘jewel’’ of the national economy – helped to raise Kazakhstan’s credit rating (Pomfret, 2008, p. 3). As one commentator said, ‘‘Kazakhstan became the darling of the international markets’’ in the past decade (Kielmas, 2008, p. 11). Based on conservative estimates, by 2007, the foreign debt of Kazakhstan’s banks was USD 40 billion (otherwise, USD 45 billion). Most of this foreign borrowing went to finance business centers and luxury condominiums in central Almaty and not to manufacturing and agriculture as anticipated initially. In the summer of 2006, the government and the National bank expressed concerns with the growing foreign debt that doubled in just one year, disallowing the banks to uptake the most risky short-term loans. But it was too late for an honest state intervention that could provoke sharp decline in construction and housing markets. The mortgage boom in Kazakhstan began as a social policy intended to promote home ownership. In the early 2000, the state signed a bill on home financing, and, in 2006, began promoting cooperative building or shareholder construction (dolevoye stroitel’stvo). The latter was expected to reduce the cost of new homes by means of pooling resources of developers and their buyers (‘‘shareholders’’) who by investing their funds in construction were able to buy condominiums at the prices lower than the current market value. The same measure was expected to control housing prices that had gone through the roof by then. The outcome was just the opposite: the cooperative building indeed stimulated the growth rate of the new housing construction that increased by 46.4% in the same year. At the same time, though, it boosted speculation that overheated the market: if, in 2005, the cost of square meter increased by 44% in relation to the previous year, it
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jumped up by 67–71.5% in 2006 (Dubyanski, 2007). By mid-2006, 95% of all housing transactions were debt-financed under 15–20% interest rate (Shodyrov, 2006, p. 57). At the price of USD 3,000–4,000/m2, an average monthly payment for a modest flat in Almaty was USD 1,000 and higher, which made home ownership unaffordable for the first-time buyers among the Almaty middle class, who had an average monthly income of USD 400–500. According to real estate agencies, only 10–15% of all flats and condominiums bought within several years did not change owners by 2007; the rest were resold two to three times. Evidently, access to credit did not work as a social policy; instead, it helped to blow the housing bubble and created the housing shortage. By 2007, many flats in the newly built multistory condominiums stayed empty, giving a clear sign to local observers that the bubble was about to burst, the only remaining question being when it would happen (Nevolin, 2007). In April 2007, after New Century Financial (a US financial giant specializing in subprime mortgages that sold many of its debts to other banks) had filed for bankruptcy protection, Almaty’s real estate market fell by 40%, triggering a dramatic slowdown. In the next couple of months, banks increased interest rates, which practically stopped sales and construction. In the summer of 2007, most real estate firms and developers went under and thousands of agents and construction workers were laid off. That summer, the ‘‘shareholders,’’ whose borrowings were frozen in dead assets, went on public protest, thus replacing squatters from Shanyrak and Bakay who had marched the streets in the previous year. In the fall of 2007, the government used USD 4 billion to bail out the construction projects that would otherwise have been abandoned left half-finished, and it implemented fiscal and political measures to control the interest rates (Pomfret, 2008, pp. 4–5). At the same time, international rating agencies lowered the creditworthiness of Kazakhstan, placing the country on the list of ‘‘high caution’’ economies (decline in oil and metal prices, Kazakhstan’s major export commodities, contributed to that as well), which generated a major liquidity shortage at the banks (Muzalevsky, 2009, p. 19; Pomfret, 2008, pp. 4–5). By the end of 2008, the government had issued a USD 15 billion rescue package to bail out the banks that were due to repay short-term loans in order to avert a possible collapse of the entire financial sector, which had shrunk by 70% (Muzalevsky, 2009, p. 20). This measure was shortly followed by a drastic cutback in the public sector that reduced wages by 15–20%. The global credit crunch thus bore direct implications not only on speculators and bankers but the entire society, including the squatters who, as a matter of fact, regained some degree of security of occupancy.
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In October 2007, the court closed the Shanyrak case by sentencing 23 men involved in the attack on the police, having 1 charged with the murder and the others with the organization of mass disturbances (4 men among them were given prison sentences). Earlier, two police officers who participated in the attack had resigned while others stated that if they were ordered to evict people from their homes again, they would leave law enforcement as well. The squatters were supposed to be finally evicted in the summer of 2007; however, under the pressure of the new problems in the mainstream economy, they simply fell out of focus. The recession seriously slowed down the process of property development, so that even unoccupied land that had been (re)sold recently showed no signs of investment-based improvement. And the grandiose plan for the city reorganization that was presented to the public in the summer of 2006 was abandoned, if not completely forgotten. Left alone, the squatters quietly prepared their dwellings for the coming winter. In October 2008, after the property market had collapsed, Ahmetjan Esimov, the newly appointed akim of Almaty, founded a public charity foundation ‘‘Zhana Alatau’’ (‘‘New Alatau’’). The sole mission of this foundation, it has been announced, is fundraising for the development of public infrastructure and social services in the Alatau district in Almaty – the one including Shanyrak, Bakay, and other self-built microrayons. The governing board of the foundation included representatives from the business community, parliament members, and prominent figures from the cultural elite. ‘‘I think, the most important thing,’’ the akim said at the inauguration ceremony, thanking the donors, ‘‘is to be a co-participant in the development of our beloved city’’ (Kudabayeva, 2008). Nothing was said at the ceremony or otherwise about what might happen to the legal status of the informal settlements, that is, whether the state would introduce a regulatory framework creating a public–private partnership, formalize their inhabitants’ rights to land and dwellings, or resettle them elsewhere (Fig. 4). After all, the squatters remained where they were and as they were before – unregulated – but, under the circumstances of the financial crisis and economic recession, normalized as the borrowed places whereas ‘‘illegalities are accepted and restrained’’ but only ‘‘for the time being,’’ that is, until the next construction boom (Smart, 2001).
CONCLUSION Capitalism is in crisis outside the West,’’ de Soto sums up poignantly, ‘‘because developing and former communist nations have been unable to
Eviction Wars and Property Rights Formalization in Kazakhstan
Fig. 4.
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The Same Street in Shanyrak, seen in Fig. 2 in July 2009. Photo by the author.
‘globalize’ capital within their own countries.’’ This takes him to an even more dismal note: ‘‘they still linger at the periphery of the capitalist game. They have no stake in it’’ (de Soto, 2000, p. 211). The cascading events that recently paralyzed the financial systems across the world have shown that the ‘‘developing and former communist nations’’ managed to ‘‘globalize’’ their capital more than they now wish they did, and much more than de Soto believed they were capable of. By 2007, Kazakhstan accumulated total USD 48.4 billion in foreign reserves, USD 27.4 billion of which belonged to the National Oil Fund (Economist, 2008b). The entire national savings thus, most of which were generated by the export of nonrenewable natural resources, exceeded foreign liabilities of the country’s banks (USD 40/45 billions), most of which went to finance speculative property transactions in Almaty and Astana, only by roughly 10%. The current global credit crisis might become yet another demonstration that deregulated markets work for some economies, but not for all. de Soto’s wisdom that the nations of the global South – now dealing with a serious liquidity shortage and enormous foreign debts accumulated by means of unrestrained borrowing by commercial banks – ‘‘are quite aware that they still linger at the periphery’’ is more relevant to this debt situation that was created as part of the ‘‘capitalist game.’’ The credit-giving economies of the global North, on the other hand, despite all the problems the deregulation generated for them, have great chances to emerge as the winners from the ‘‘financial Katrina’’
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similarly to the Asian crisis of 1997–1998 that was followed by what Wade and Veneroso captured as the ‘‘biggest peacetime transfer of assets from domestic to foreign owners,’’ that is, Western and Japanese firms. ‘‘In a depression, assets return to their rightful owners,’’ as the phrase attributed to Andrew Mellon goes (Wade & Veneroso, 1998, p. 18). Some interesting questions here are: who are the ‘‘rightful owners’’ in case of informal settlements and did they claim their assets at the time of economic recession? In this chapter, I identified major periods in the postSoviet informality shaped by the complex relationship between the state, the market, and the squatters. Those periods closely correspond to the social and spatial dynamics in Hong Kong that Smart has defined as ‘‘toleration,’’ ‘‘repression,’’ and ‘‘exclusion’’ (Smart, 2001). From 1991 to 2002, that is, during the time of economic crisis and slow recovery in Kazakhstan, the informality was of no particular concern to the state. The state tolerated informal settlements by denial, not of their rights, but their very existence. It was the squatters who came forward trying to negotiate their situation with the state on an individual basis, but their numerous requests did not prompt the state to develop a regulatory framework that would acknowledge the fast growing self-built settlements and put their development under control. By 2003, when the construction boom took shape and the real estate market was blown up, this period ended replaced with repression. After a decade of nonrecognition of squatters as a mass phenomenon, the state defined them as ‘‘land encroachers on public property,’’ which was an ‘‘ex post facto political conclusion’’ delivered to justify the forced eviction in 2006 (Smart & Tang, 2005, p. 82). The violent operation that failed to clear the land from squatter dwellings was followed by a short period of exclusion when the court was sorting out thousands of individual cases, declining some and ruling in favor of others, which helped some families but did not solve the predicament of informality. Finally, when the construction and real estate markets collapsed in 2007, the state ‘‘normalized’’ the informality of squatters’ settlements without any attempt of enforcing property rights or adopting a policy that would regulate their development. This latest period of tolerance of informality – ‘‘tolerance’’ in the sense that the state no longer tries to evict squatters – has been motivated by the same factors that shaped the earlier period of tolerance by denial, including the low rate of property development and fear of radicalization of the society, experiencing serious economic pressures after several years of steady improvement. ‘‘Tolerance’’ in the sense that the state has not come forward to provide assistance to the squatters in formalizing their property rights is most likely motivated by the fact that the public land they occupy came to
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be treated as a land ‘‘in reserve’’ that can be reclaimed in the future, as needed. The informality thus has figured in state practice as a temporary social remedy, a self-help arrangement tolerated during economic calamity, but not legalized, that is, open for criminalization at the time of market growth and increased competition. Some anthropologists have argued that the rights formalization is not a necessary condition for the tenure security in informal settlements because their inhabitants may already possess a greater degree of security stemming from informal arrangements among them as well as between them and the state. Yet, in urban areas with volatile real estate markets and the cyclical nature of property development, ambiguous rights seem to bear serious consequences for the squatters. Thus, the core issue that the inhabitants of Bakay and Shanyrak tried to push during the eviction wars in Almaty involved the meaning of their taking over the public land that from their standpoint was a legitimate act grounded in social justice. When the court satisfied several dozen of their claims (out of thousands) in the aftermath of the legalization campaign, which did not formalize their rights to property, but simply attested to the legitimacy of their occupancy, they took it as an important victory defining them not as criminals, but citizens and rightful owners. This is why I would argue that the period of the state’s tolerance of informality – or the downtime, when squatters feel relatively secure and are even being taken care of in some humanitarian sense and, for this reason, less likely to mobilize for a collective action – is crucial for addressing their legal claims, something that would inevitably become an acute matter in the future, once the country recovers from the economic downturn and the state would no longer be held political hostage of the market. It has been established, however, that legality, no matter how much it is desired, has negative consequences for the poor. Market value of the legalized assets, land in particular, rises sharply, attracting speculators and developers who push the original owners out. Informality, on the other hand, discourages speculative transactions, helping to keep property value low and assets intact. In addition, there is no evidence that the formalization of rights per se opens the way to prosperity for poor inhabitants of urban slums and members of rural communities, as de Soto and others suggest. Even in Peru, a country central to de Soto’s research, the impact of the rural titling program on the livelihoods of poor farmers has been reported as ‘‘largely inconclusive’’ and the legalization alone proved to be an insufficient measure. Legality did not give the poor farmers access to long-term credit, as was anticipated, and contrary to the expected increase in revenues, it hurt their ‘‘competitiveness in the land market,’’ threatening to ‘‘even force them
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out of the agricultural sector’’ (Fort, 2008, pp. 1, 21) – into urban slums, one might add. In the city, access to credit is easier, and yet, by itself, legality does not bring capital investment to the urban poor either. Commercial banks and financial corporations are reluctant to lend to them because of high risks of bankruptcy and foreclosure (unless banks are backed up with state subsidies). At the same time, there is not much demand for credit among the poor either. As Mitchell said: ‘‘all owners would prefer their homes to be legal, but not because they plan to use them as collateral’’ (Mitchell, 2004, p. 12). Recapturing narratives of her informants in Mexico City, Varley suggests that ‘‘accounts of legalization have to take on board what housing means to people’’ who built homes at great odds and ‘‘great cost to themselves.’’ She explains: The cost is financial, physical and emotional, a product of ‘‘suffering’’ y entailed in building from scratch in an unserviced area remote from public transport, jobs, markets, schools and other amenities. In these circumstances, housing means more to people than shelter or an economic asset. It has become part of their life story – and not only their own story, but the story of their family (2002, pp. 457–458).
‘‘Having something to leave to the children,’’ she continues, ‘‘is the most common response residents give when asked why they were prepared to build a home in an illegal, unserviced settlement’’ (ibid.). And, as the eviction wars in Almaty and elsewhere have showed, they are also prepared to defend their homes: in Shanyrak, they were ready to give up their lives, one of the women said, in order to claim the land for their children. The desire for formal titles among the poor squatters thus has nothing to do with the formula ‘‘property–collateral–credit–increased income’’ upon which many policy advisors and politicians build their reasoning and decision-making these days. For them, formal titles ‘‘represent y public recognition of their achievements in housing their family and building a home’’ (ibid.). Such inadequate understanding of people in informal settlements has inhibited the success, especially in terms of long-term effects, of the regularization efforts almost everywhere. One possibility to recognize a dignified effort of low-income squatters is to transform urban slums into public housing. But, as Davis correctly noted in The Planet of Slums, ‘‘the idea of an interventionist state strongly committed to social housing and job development seems either a hallucination or a bad joke’’ in the world where social ills are increasingly treated with market-based solutions (2006, p. 62). The latter solutions, however, do not reward but exploit what has been formally acknowledged by the World Bank as ‘‘the ability, the courage, and the capacity for
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self-help of slum people’’ (ibid., 72): if they managed to survive without any government support, the logic of development goes, they would do much better once their property is legalized. No subsidies are required. This is a common approach to the problem of appalling conditions in the informal settlements that states, including Kazakhstan among others, have still failed to implement. Kazakhstan’s government did not formalize squatters’ rights although that was the initial intention because by the time of the legalization campaign, their land, which had previously been outside the market radar, was desired for the development of property that could gentrify the area and increase revenues faster and to a much higher degree than the self-built dwellings of not so privileged squatters. The state could allocate land plots to the squatters further away, but at the price of land in 2006, it was feared that this measure would make ‘‘land invasion’’ an attractive opportunity, and not only for the poor migrants from the countryside but everyone else. Most Almaty residents remained in small flats, which they privatized in the aftermath of socialism because the speculative boom made the new housing unaffordable. It also dispossessed many of those whose property was claimed under the eminent domain in exchange for inequitable compensation. Oddly enough, this situation was fostered by the political formatting of the market that was designed to achieve quite the opposite, that is, to enable all residents of Almaty to improve housing conditions or become proper home owners. It was grounded in the market-based policy promoting access to credit and debt-financing that in the end paralyzed the state and made it unable to either deliver social justice or protect the market from the self-inflicted catastrophe.
NOTES 1. Evidence for this is documented in a number of studies, for example, Enste and Schneider (2002), Fernandez-Kelly (2006, p. 4), Kramer (2006, p. 123), and Itzigsohn (2006, p. 84). 2. For similar outcomes of the formalization program in Egypt, see Mitchell (2004). 3. Legality usually benefits wealthier landowners, not the poor tenants or small owners. How, for example, would legalization help starving families of tenants in favelas in Northeast Brazil, where the mothers let their weaker infants die because of, as Scheper-Hughes’ account (1993) shows, the endemic poverty? To borrow the words of Robert Neuwirth, ‘‘one of the reasons they are able to survive is because their neighborhoods are illegal’’ (2005, p. 297). 4. I conducted my research among recent urban migrants in 1999 and during my return trips to Almaty in 2003 and 2005. In the summer of 2006, when the eviction
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operations took place, I was in the Atyrau oblast, Kazakhstan, as noted earlier. I came to Almaty in the first week of August, that is, two weeks after the events. At that time, Shanyrak and Bakay (luckily nobody I knew from the bazaar in Zarya Vostoka was there) were under constant police surveillance, and the trauma of the events was still burning among the residents who were searching for practical solutions to their situation. I did not conduct interviews among residents in 2006, which is why I had to rely primarily on indirect observation and media reports in my analysis. In 2009, I went to Shanyrak and Bakay where I spoke with individual residents, local activists, and members of political parties and other public organizations about the past events and the ongoing situation. By then, the present chapter was already drafted. However, there is not much I would want to change in light of the newly collected data, which will be discussed elsewhere. 5. Here I draw on Fernandez-Kelly’s summary of recent conceptualization of informality as ‘‘part and parcel of the process of modernization’’ as opposed to a previous vision of it as ‘‘a vestige of earlier stages in economic development’’ (2006, p. 18, emphasis added). 6. Raspredileniye zemel’nyh uchastkov pod stroitel’stvo priusadebnyh kottedzhey, in Russian language. 7. About the same time, the court ruled that 115 dwellings in Shanyrak were illegally built (Reuters, 2006). 8. The city used various ‘‘reasons’’ for the dispossession of squatters, including the one that a major gas pipeline was buried underneath their houses. ‘‘Other ‘currents’ are at work there,’’ one of the committee members argued, pointing to political and economic interests of the city authorities (Morzaeva, 2006a). 9. Those that followed the reunification of Germany and the collapse of the Soviet Union are among the most notorious examples. 10. A full text of the Law on Amnesty is available at http://e.gov.kz, the Electronic Government of Kazakhstan. 11. Reported results of the campaign are filled with gaps and inconsistencies. Thus, one million 486 thousand units of real estate property were reported as legalized, that is, by 86 thousand units more than it was thought earlier belonged to the informal sector. The total cost of this property amounted to KZT236.205 billion (USD 1 billion 889,640 thousand). A vague number of ‘‘over 22 thousand’’ of the total legalized units are in Almaty, the value of which is quoted as KZT1.5 billion (USD 12 million). Yet, a simple calculation reveals the oddness of provided information. Thus, the mean value of a legalized property unit in Almaty, the highest market in the country, based on the reported data, is USD 545 while the legalized property unit elsewhere would double that value – USD 1,283 – which could not be the case.
REFERENCES Abilov, B. (2006). Interview with Bulat Abilov. Epoha, August 4, p. 1. Aspandiyarova, M. (2006). Epoha, July 14, p. 3. Berner, E. (1977). Defending a place in the city: Localities and the struggle for urban land in Metro Manila. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.
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Centeno, M. A., & Portes, A. (2006). The informal economy in the shadow of the state. In: P. Fernandez-Kelly & J. Shefner (Eds), Out of the shadow: Political action and informal economy in Latin America (pp. 23–48). University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Davis, M. (2006). Planet of slums. London: Verso. Dubyanski, V. (2007, January 8). Tendentsii na rynke vtorichnogo syr’ya. Gazeta KZ. Available at http://www.gazeta.kz/. Retrieved on October 25, 2007. Duvanov, S. (2006). Uroki Shanyrakskoy oborony. Ak Zhaik, (reprinted from ZONAKZ.net), July 27, pp. 1–2. Dzhalilova, A. (2006). Moy naklonny gorod. Novoye Pokoleniye, June 30, p. 2. Easterly, W. (2007). The white man’s burden: Why the west’s efforts to aid the rest have done so much ill and so little good. New York: The Penguin Press. Economist. (2008a, October 16). Link by link: A short history of modern finance. From the Economist print edition. Available at http://www.economist.com. Retrieved on November 2, 2008. Economist. (2008b, October 30). After the boom. From the print edition. Available at http://www. economist.com. Retrieved on November 2, 2008. Economist. (2009, March 6). What went wrong (web edition). Available at http:// www.economist.com. Retrieved on March 26, 2009. Engels, F. (1979). The housing question (Original 1887). Moscow: Progress Publishers. Enste, D., & Schneider, F. (2002). Hiding in the shadows: The growth of the underground economy. Economic Issues, 30. Epoha. (2006, July 14). Presidentu Respubliki Kazakhstan Gospodinu NAZARBAEVU N.A. ot zhiteley mikrorayona Bakay, p. 1. Fernandez-Kelly, P. (2006). Introduction. In: P. Fernandez-Kelly & J. Shefner (Eds), Out of the shadow: Political action and informal economy in Latin America (pp. 1–22). University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Fort, R. (2008). Assessing the impact of rural land titling in Peru: The case of the PETT Program. Group of Analysis for Development-GRADE, Lima-Peru. Gilbert, A. (2002). On the mystery of capital and the myths of Hernando de Soto. International Development Planning Review, 24(1), 1–19. Grishin, A. (2006, July 17) Shanyrak–noviy symbol sotsial’nogo protivostoyaniya v Kazakhstane. Ferghana.ru. Available at http://www.ferghana.ru/. Retrieved on January 27, 2008. Gubaydulin, O. (2008, December 25). Kto rasputayet bakayskiy klubok? Nomad. Available at http://www.nomad.su/. Retrieved on January 12, 2009. Hart, K. (1973). Informal income opportunities and urban employment in Ghana. Journal of Modern African Studies, 11, 61–89. Harvey, D. (2006). Spaces of global capitalism: Towards a theory of uneven geographical development. London: Verso. Itegulov, M. (2007). Kommentariy. Epoha, July 14, p. 3. Itzigsohn, J. (2006). Neoliberalism, markets, and informal grassroots economics. In: P. Fernandez-Kelly & J. Shefner (Eds), Out of the shadow: Political action and informal economy in Latin America (pp. 81–96). University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Karadzhaeva, D. (2006). Kaznit’ nel’zya, pomilovat. National Business, 5(31), 10–11. Keller, M. (2004). Tax amnesty 2004/2005 – An appropriate tool? German Law Journal, 5(4), 339–346.
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Kesher, A. (2007, August 7). Opposition says legalization was a money-laundering campaign. Kazakhstan.neweurasia.net. Available at http://www.neweurasia.net/. Retrieved on August 19, 2007. Kielmas, M. (2008). How financial alchemy engineered a Central Asian credit crunch. China and Eurasia Forum Quarterly, 6(1), 11–18. Kovtunskiy, V. (2006). Voyna hizhinam. Epoha, July 14, pp. 1–2. Kramer, M. (2006). Dispossessed: Life in our world’s urban slums. New York: Orbis Books. Kudabayeva, M. (2008). Kto vylechit Shanyrak? Strana i Mir, October 3, p. 4. Kurmanov, A. (2008). Splanirovanny otkaz v legalizatsii. Svoboda Slova, April 15, p. 2. Latysheva, Y. (2007, September 27). Snosit’ ili ne snosit? Gazeta KZ. Available at http:// www.gazeta.kz/. Retrieved on October 25, 2007. Lemke, Th. (2001). The birth of bio-politics: Michael Foucault’s lecture at the College de France on neo-liberal governmentality. Economy and Society, 20, 190–207. Leonard, R., & Na Ayutthaya, K. N. (2006, November 6). Monitoring paper: Thailand’s land titling program. Land Research Action Network. Available at http://www.landaction.org/. Retrieved on October 23, 2008. Litvinova, M. (2006). ‘‘Pust’ nas topchut, pust’ ubivayut.’’ Shanyrakovtsy gotovyatsya k snosu po bakaevskomu stcenariyu. Respublika, July 14, p. 1. Mayer, M. (2007). Contesting neoliberalization of urban governance. In: H. Leitner, J. Peck & E. S. Sheppard (Eds), Contesting neoliberalism: Urban frontiers (pp. 90–115). New York: Gulford Press. Mitchell, T. (2004). The properties of markets: Informal housing and capitalism’s mystery. Cultural Political Economy Working Paper no. 2. Institute for Advanced Studies in Social and Management Sciences, University of Lancaster, pp. 1–26. Morzaeva, Zh. (2006a). Vse grani ‘kvartirnogo voprosa.’ Deputaty sozdali-taki komissiyu po problemam Shanyraka i Bakaya. Respublika, July 23, pp. 1–2. Morzaeva, Zh. (2006b). Legalizatsiya vyshla na finishnuyu pryamuyu. Respublika, p. 1. Mumtaz, B. (2001). Why cities need slums. Habitat Debate, 7(3), 20–21. Muzalevsky, R. (2009). Fears of financial system collapse in Kazakhstan. Central AsiaCaucasus Analyst, January 14, pp. 19–20. Nalogi i financy. (2007). Interview with Orazaly Sabden, the Director of the Institute of Economics under the Ministry of Education and Science of the Republic of Kazakhstan, pp. 2–4, 1 December. Neuwirth, R. (2005). Shadow cities: A billion squatters, a New Urban World. New York: Routledge. Nevolin, I. (2007, April 18). Kvadratnye vetry-1: Kazakhstanskiy rynok podhodit k rokovoy otmetke. Liter. Available at http://www.liter.kz. Retrieved on January 27, 2008. PDC (Polyton Discussion Club). (2006, July 27). Legal evaluation of the situation in the microrayons Shanyrak and Bakay. Available at http://www.club.kz. Retrieved on January 27, 2008. Pomfret, R. (2008). Kazakhstan’s banking problems. Central Asia-Caucasus Analyst, 20(February), 3–5. Rajagopal, A. (2004). The menace of hawkers: Property forms and the politics of market liberalization in Mumbai. In: K. Verdery & C. Humphrey (Eds), Property in question: Value transformation in the global economy (pp. 227–250). Oxford, NY: Berg. Reuters. (2006, August 4). V Astane pochtili pamyat’ politseyskogo, pogibshego ot ozhogov pri stolknovenii s zhitelyami Shanyraka. Reprinted in Panorama, p. 30.
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Scheper-Hughes, N. (1993). Death without weeping: The violence of everyday life in Brazil. Berkeley: University of California Press. Shibutov, M. (2007, October 25). ‘Ustoychivost’ kazakhstanskoy bankovskoy sistemy i zavisimost’ eye ot rynka nedvizhimosti’ RELGA No. 15/160. Shodyrov, E. (2006). Rialtery v tsene. National Business, 5(31), 56–67. Smart, A. (2001). Unruly places: Urban governance and the persistence of illegality in Hong Kong’s urban squatter areas. American Anthropologist, 103(1), 30–44. Smart, A. (2008). The strength of property rights, the prospects for the disadvantaged, and constraints on the actions of the politically powerful. Presentation at invited Workshop on Comparative Urban Marginalization and Poverty Studies, 12–13th June 2008, Cardiff University, Cardiff, Wales, UK. Smart, A., & Tang, W. (2005). Irregular trajectories: Illegal building in mainland China and Hong Kong. In: J. C. Ma Laurence & F. Wu (Eds), Restructuring the Chinese city: Changing society, economy and space (pp. 80–97). Abingdon, UK: RoutledgeCurzon. Smith, A. (2007). Articulating neoliberalism: Diverse economies and everyday life in ‘postsocialist’ cities. In: H. Leitner, J. Peck & E. S. Sheppard (Eds), Contesting neoliberalism: Urban frontiers (pp. 204–222). New York: Gulford Press. Smith, S. J., Nuro, M., & Hazel, C. (2006). Performing (housing) markets. Urban Studies, 43(1), 81–98. de Soto, H. (1989). The other path: The economic answer to terrorism. New York: Basic Books. de Soto, H. (2000). The mystery of capital: Why capitalism triumphs in the West and fails everywhere else. New York: Basic Books. Stillwaggon, E. (1998). Stunted lives, stagnant economics: Poverty, disease and underdevelopment. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Tunik, S. (2007). Tretiy ne lishniy. Megapolis, September, 2007, p. 3. Uchitelle, E. (1989). The effectiveness of tax amnesty programs in selected countries. FRBNY Quarterly Review (Autumn), 48–53. Uzun, B., & Colak, H. E. (2007, May 13–17). Providing formal property rights to slum owners through tenure legalization process in Turkey. The Strategic Integration of Surveying Services, FIG Working Week 2007, Hong Kong SAR, China, pp. 1–9. Varley, A. (2002). Public or private: Debating the meaning of tenure legalization. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 26(September 3), 449–461. Wade, R., & Veneroso, F. (1998). The Asia crisis: The high debt model versus the Wall Street – Treasury – IMF Complex. The New Left Review, 228, 3–23. Yenikeev, D. (2006). Opat’ snesli rodnuyu hatu: Tasmagambetovshina. Epoha, July 14, pp. 1–2. Yermukhanov, M. (2006). Slum dwellers in south Kazakhstan defy government ruling. Central Asia – Caucasus Analyst, July 26, pp. 15–16. Yessenova, S. (2006). Hawkers and containers in Zarya Vostoka: How ‘bizarre’ is the postSoviet bazaar? Research in Economic Anthropology, 24, 37–59. Zhakiyanov, G. (2006). Vlast ne dolzhna byla primenyat silu. Interview with Galymzhan Zhakiyanov. Svoboda Slova, August 3, pp. 1–2. Zhusupov, S. (2006). Krisis nesootvetstviya. Epoha, July 14, p. 2.
RESOLVING THE PROBLEM OF INEQUITY IN THE DISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH IN BRAZIL: APPROACHES DERIVED FROM THE INFANTE DOM PEDRO OF PORTUGAL, ADAM SMITH, KARL MARX, AND LOUIS KELSO$ Sidney M. Greenfield ABSTRACT Income and wealth in Brazil is distributed as unequally and unjustly as in any other nation or region of the world. This chapter examines how wealth and income has been, is, or might be made available to the population. Using the conceptual framework of the substantive economics developed by Karl Polanyi, Conrad Arensberg, and their colleagues, the distribution of goods and services is analyzed as a socially ‘‘instituted process,’’ separate from production and other factors generally included $
A revised version of this chapter was presented at a joint meeting of the Columbia University Seminars on Brazil and Latin America, April 19, 2007.
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 47–76 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030006
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in studies of economics. Four approaches are presented as they were elaborated in the thinking of authors who wrote at different times in history: The Infante Dom Pedro of Portugal in the early 15th century, Adam Smith in the late 18th century, Karl Marx in the 19th century, and Louis Kelso in the mid-20th century. Each approach, three of which have been, and one which might be instituted, is explored in terms of its potential for reducing poverty and correcting distributive injustice.
‘‘[E]xtreme poverty,’’ writes economist Javier Santiso (2006, p. 134) ‘‘affects over 35% of Brazilians.’’ The country ‘‘exemplifies one of the most lopsided income gaps in the world.’’ According to the recent Human Development Index of the United Nations Development Program only, 7 countries (out of 177) had greater inequality in the distribution of income than Brazil (Saboia, 2007a;1 see also London˜o & Sze´lely, 2000 for Latin America and the Caribbean). Extending this dire assessment to the region, Lachman (2007, p. 38), formerly at the IMF and a resident fellow at the conservative American Enterprise Institute, reports that after two decades of ‘‘half-hearted’’ attempts at market reform, barely a dent has been made at reducing the region’s mass poverty and chronic income inequality. Latin America according to ‘‘various academic and multilateral bank studies,’’ he continues, ‘‘still has the most inequitable income distribution in the world.’’ Moreover, ‘‘there is more poverty and inequality y today than there was in the early 1980s when economic reform programs were being initiated.’’ Former President George Bush acknowledged this saying ‘‘that tens of millions of our brothers and sisters to the south have seen little improvement in their daily lives’’ (Rohter, 2007). In the past half century Brazil has industrialized and its economy has grown to make it one of the more powerful second tier nations in the world. With Russia, Indian, and China, it forms the BRIC group that has challenged the position of the US dollar as the world’s reserve currency. Although Brazilian administrations have made efforts to reduce poverty and redress the gross inequity in the way wealth is distributed, these attempts, based on policies derived from formal economics and its theories, have been less than successful, as conditions are worse than ever. One reason for this is that the economic thinking used does not deal with distribution per se. Its primary goal is efficiency in increasing production and it treats making what is produced available to the members of society almost as an afterthought that will take place according to workings of the invisible hand of a rational market. This assumption has never been tested, nor verified empirically.
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Since the evidence seems to imply that there is little improvement, another way of thinking about distributing wealth may be in order. To do this I suggest following the vision of the anthropology practiced half a century ago when governments of emergent nations like Brazil chose instead to base their development planning strategies on the teachings of economists. Whereas the latter assumed a universal single line of development leading to progress for all nations – the high point of which was the United States and its institutions – anthropologists, who long recognized diversity, advocated the possibility of mixing old, new, and different cultural forms as nations moved into the modern world. Karl Polanyi,2 an economic historian, and anthropologist Conrad M. Arensberg developed the framework for this position for matters economic in their Ford Foundation sponsored project on the ‘‘economic aspects of institutional growth’’ in the 1950s when they differentiated between formal and substantive economics. Substantive economics referred to the ways groups of human beings organize interactions among themselves, and between them and their environments, to produce and distribute the goods and services that enabled them to maintain their existence (Polanyi, Arensberg, & Pearson, 1957). Formal economics, in contrast, is the theoretical system that first appeared in late 18th century Western Europe at the time the industrial revolution began that, as it was elaborated and modified, has served to orient, and advise those who determine and implement the policies of most postEnlightenment national governments. Using data from ancient history and comparative anthropology, Polanyi et al. noted that prior to the modern era, human groups organized the distribution of the items they produced in at least three distinctive ways. They designated these as redistribution, reciprocity, and markets. Their explicit premise was that the allocation of goods and services was a component of culture, which can and does vary from time to time and place to place. It is not, in this thinking, an aspect of an inevitable, evolving single universal system as assumed in formal economics. It recognizes that there have been, and are, alternative ways by which what is produced in a society can be distributed, and anyone may be instituted, and changed, along with or independent of other institutions. The implication of this position is that the members of a society select (consciously and intentionally or not) from a range of possible alternatives the one they think best suits their needs. For much of the 19th and early 20th centuries, two polar models (both purported to be universal and inevitable) with contrasting ways of distributing wealth vied in the minds of those fashioning the institutions of the newly independent nations of Latin America and the Caribbean. One of these,
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drawing on the writings of Adam Smith, David Ricardo, and other 18th century Enlightenment thinkers developed to become what Polanyi et al. referred to as formal economics and today as ‘‘neoliberalism.’’ The other is based primarily on the 19th and early 20th century critique by Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and their revisionist colleagues who were seeking a way to reduce, if not eliminate, the gross inequities and poverty they observed in societies that had instituted the system adapted from the writings by their economist predecessors. In the cities where the governments that ruled the new nations of Latin America were located and where the intellectuals and elites resided, the system based on 18th century formal economics was established, although in the rural hinterlands, where most production took place, an earlier system of distribution held sway at least until the middle of the 20th century. The birth of the Soviet Union in 1917 witnessed the creation of the first major nation that would attempt to apply, in broad outline and with modifications, the Marxist critique of the production and allocation system that had been instituted in the United States and the nations of Western Europe that dominated the world. For most of the century, it served as a potential alternative for those in Latin America reacting to a reality they deemed unjust. The implicit threat the Soviet experiment posed led the market-oriented governments to take measures to undermine what they believed to be a hostile and threatening adversary. After briefly joining together to defeat the common enemies of Germany, Italy, and Japan, a half-century long ‘‘Cold War’’ followed during which the primary advocates of the surviving oppositional politico-economic philosophies relied on proxy states to fight a series of devastating military conflicts. Brazil, not unlike other Latin American nations, experienced a political coup that launched a 20-year military dictatorship. By the time, the Soviet Union collapsed at the end of the 1980s and the authoritarian regimes were displaced, Brazil had a fully functional market system for its now rapidly growing industrial economy and urbanized society. North American and European intellectuals and political leaders who accepted the idea of a single line of universal evolutionary development interpreted the fall of the Soviet Union as a victory for their way of organizing the productive forces of society. This implied a clear winner in the economic battle and the subsequent disappearance of alternatives. The market system had survived the competitive test and would now hold sway into an undetermined future.3 In Fukuyama’s words, ‘‘What we are witnessing is not just the end of the Cold War, or the passing of a particular period of postwar history, but the end of history as such: that is, the end point of mankind’s ideological evolution’’ (quoted in Wheen, 2006, p. 116).
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In the 1990s, under pressure from Washington, Brazil and most nations in the region followed the implicit directions of the market model. They moved to privatize their industries and other means of producing wealth and pursued the path of free trade. In response to continued poverty and deepening inequality, pressure from the bottom that could not be controlled in the new democratic climate led some political actors to raise questions and seek new directions. Hugo Chaves in Venezuela, Evo Morales in Bolivia, and others attempted to rework the socialism still practiced by Fidel and Raul Castro in Cuba. In Brazil, a former union leader steeped in the history of the capitalist–socialist debate was elected president as the head of a Workers Party. It was the first time in the nation’s history that someone raised in poverty and in the struggles of the labor movement governed the country. Luiz Ina´cio ‘‘Lula’’ da Silva used the tax machinery to establish programs of redistribution to help the very poor while simultaneously he attracted investment capital to create wealth and jobs. Vast amounts of oil have recently been discovered deep under the territorial waters off Brazil’s Atlantic coast. Who will own these riches? And how will the new wealth be allocated? Will it be used to reduce inequality and poverty? Or will it go, as great fortunes have gone in the past in Brazil, to a small elite? In October of 2010, presidential elections will be held in Brazil. If the Brazilian people and their candidates were to follow the perspective of the substantive economics of Polanyi, Arensberg, and anthropology, they could use the election campaign to move beyond the limited horizons presently available to them. Alternative ways to distribute the vast new national wealth could be explored that might help to further reduce inequality and poverty. To assist in this exercise, the following pages examine four systems of distribution: (1) the practice of patronage and dependency that preceded the market in Brazilian history, (2) the extant market modality, (3) the socialist alternative that engaged the market in a competitive struggle in the universalistic evolutionary framework, and (4) a model devised by a North American investment banker that seems worthy of being included as one of many possible viable alternatives. Each will be presented in the seminal thinking of the author on whose writings they were based. It was in an obscure 15th century composition by the Infante Dom Pedro, in whose book, O Livro do Virtuoso Bemfeitoria, that the outlines of the distributive system instituted in Brazil by its Portuguese colonizers, and which held sway in most of the nation well into the 20th century, were found. The Portuguese prince’s vision of the way wealth was to be distributed, later attacked by Adam Smith in his critique of Mercantilism, ironically was proposed as a way to eliminate poverty. Smith, from whose
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An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations and The Theory of Moral Sentiments much of contemporary formal economics and market thinking were derived, is discussed next. The writings of Karl Marx and his associates whose Capital and Communist Manifesto still orient those who oppose the system based on the thinking of Smith are then examined. The fourth model is found in the little known writings of Louis Kelso, who presented his vision between the late 1950s and mid-1980s.
THE INFANTE DOM PEDRO AND THE CADEA DE BEMFEITURIAS4 When King Dom Fernando died without leaving a male heir, in 1385 the cortes5 elected his illegitimate son successor to the throne of Portugal. Dom Joa˜o I, the new monarch, married Philippa of Lancaster, the daughter of John of Gaunt, the pretender to the crown of England and together they founded the House of Avis. Philippa brought Jeffrey Chaucer, her tutor, to her new home. He then educated the royal couple’s seven offspring. Pedro was the second son of the Portuguese King and Queen and perhaps the brightest and most talented of their children, especially when contrasted with his older brother Duarte, who did eventually become king.6 Whereas Duarte was sickly and retiring, Pedro was strong and vibrant. Because of the heir’s fragile health, the second son took his place representing their father and the kingdom on state visits to the courts and councils of the continent.7 When he returned victorious from the landmark attack on the North African city of Ceuta in 1415 that his father is said to have undertaken to give his sons the opportunity to ‘‘win their spurs’’ in battle against the infidel, Pedro started a translation of Seneca’s volume, On Benefits (De Beneficiis), completing it in 1418. Later that year he promised to write a guide for the training of kings and great lords – his peers who ruled the kingdoms of Europe – but a war with Castile and a period of official travels delayed its completion. The guide, titled O Livro da Virtuosa Bemfeitoria (Dom Pedro, 1946), was not completed until 1433 when Duarte, to whom it was dedicated, ascended to the throne. As the Portuguese kingdom was about to embark on the conquests and discoveries that would lead to world dominance, the scholar nobleman wrote his treatise with every expectation of succeeding his father as king since Duarte was given little chance to survive. But Duarte did survive, until 1439 when Pedro became regent for Duarte’s 5-year-old son, Dom Afonso V.
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The central issue Pedro addressed in his directive to his fellow rulers was poverty, human want, and the misery it engendered. Squalor and depravation were commonplace in all the societies with which the Portuguese Prince was familiar. How could this contradiction in what he – like most thinkers of the period – believed to be God’s intended plan for those created in His image be explained? And what could be done to remedy the situation? What role were kings and great lords to play in the undertaking? Pedro’s thinking reflected the culture and theology of his place and time. The nobles and lords he was addressing, like the presidents and legislators that economists advise today, were the rulers of the kingdoms that were to become the nations of the modern era. Unlike their present day counterparts, who speak in secular and egalitarian terms, Pedro’s audience saw hierarchy as the natural order of things. Following St Augustine, the Portuguese political leader-scholar assumed that humans were sinful by nature. For their own sakes, and to achieve the just and moral life God intended for them, they needed constraints and directions that were provided by the church on the one hand and the hierarchical political order of the state, with its laws enforced by its rulers, on the other. At the apex of the human or social order were the kings who owed their position not to those they governed, but to God, to whom alone they were answerable. Their primary obligation, as the prince understood it, was to lead in implementing the creator’s divine plan. Below them, in descending order, were the organic parts, the corporate bodies of society that included the nobility, the church, the municipalities, the artisans, etc., each with its own function. At the bottom were the peasants and the poor. What was wrong, in Pedro’s view, that caused poverty and misfortune at the bottom of the social hierarchy was that those at the top were failing in their duties. To correct this, he turned to Seneca’s concept of the gift, which he called a ‘‘benefit.’’ But unlike the Latin author and others to write from comparative anthropological (Mauss, 1990; Sahlins, 1972; Weiner, 1976) and historical (Davis, 2000) perspectives who saw gift giving as an individual attribute, Pedro transformed it into the moral responsibility of everyone, and specifically of those who occupied the highest stations in society. Kings and nobles who governed in God’s name, he argued, should give from the (relative) material abundance they had to those directly below them in the hierarchy, who, inspired by the love and generosity of God and their social betters, in turn, should bestow benefits (gifts) on their immediate social inferiors.8 In this way, the prince proposed a descending flow of resources as gifts down the social hierarchy. When completed, the chain, cadea de bemfeitorias, would provide help to everyone, even the most
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humble and destitute, thereby reducing, if not eliminating, poverty and making society approximate more closely the Creator’s intent. Benefits were to be given voluntarily. The giver was to expect no direct return from the recipient. Instead the beneficiary was to show gratitude: first to God, with acts of devotion such as prayer and the giving of alms, then piety to parents and ultimately to the state with respect for the authority of its rulers. All recipients of benefits were to praise, honor, and give glory to their benefactors and exhibit to them deference and submission, with loyalty implied. Pedro distinguished four types of benefits that correlate inversely with the position of the recipient in the social hierarchy: (1) necessary benefits – needed for physical and spiritual survival, (2) profitable benefits – intended to provide some comfort to those whose survival already is assured, (3) honor-related ones – to enhance the reputation and public image of the recipient, and (4) agreeable or pleasant benefits – intended for those at the upper reaches of the social hierarchy. Book III of the treatise is devoted to petitions: How God, the saints, and humans with access to and control of needed resources may be asked for gifts and benefits. Looked at from the perspective of the total society, in return for benefits received, everyone, no matter their station, was to display the loyalty and deference characteristic of a medieval vassal to those above them and, because of the interrelatedness of the chain, to the state and its rulers. At the macrolevel, Pedro’s system looks similar to Polanyi and Arensberg’s redistribution as resources were allocated to a center and then distributed downward as they had been in most premodern states. At the microlevel, there is reciprocity, but it is asymmetrical and diffuse in that the parties, since they occupy different positions in a hierarchy, have access to, and the need for, different kinds of items. An individual in the superior position in this asymmetrical transference of gifts, for example, may give material goods in return for which he receives deference, loyalty, and submission from his inferior. In brief, this was the patron–client exchange anthropologist Foster (1961, 1963) noted in the 1960s and that so many described and analyzed for Brazil and the rest of Latin America in the late 1960s and 1970s and in the 21st century (see Faoro, 1958; Greenfield, 1972, 1977a, 1979; Greenfield & Cavalcante, 2006; Hutchinson, 1966; Kenny, 2002; Nelson & Finan, 2009; Roniger, 1987, 1990). By then electoral politics, never imagined by Dom Pedro, had been established and lower-status partners had their votes to give – as loyalty – in exchange for the patronage gifts of their politically connected – and more affluent – superiors. While kings and nobles of Portugal and the other kingdoms of Europe in the 15th century had considerably more than others in their domains, they
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did not have sufficient wealth to fuel the chain of benefits Pedro was proposing as the way to eliminate poverty and achieve distributive justice. How were they to obtain the additional resources that would enable them to implement the prince’s vision – which was to become what later was called the patrimonial state with a mercantile economy – and behave so as to achieve God’s intent? The prince’s answer was the trade that followed from discoveries and expansion. Under his regency Portugal initiated, as national policy, making discoveries and promoting commercial trade rather than extending the reconquest and pursuing crusades as advocated by his adversaries. In the eight years in which he ruled the nation, no crusades were undertaken while 198 leagues of the coast of West Africa were explored. In exchange for monopolies to trade in the newly discovered regions granted in the name of the crown, merchants were to reciprocate with loyalty and deference to the royal administration and to pay the treasury one-fifth of their profits. The crown also gave grants of land, first in uninhabited islands in the Atlantic – such as Madeira, the Azores, and Cape Verdes – and then in sparsely populated Brazil where Portuguese (and other) settlers extracted gold and diamonds, or established plantations on which they grew commercial crops such as sugarcane. The recipients of these properties (benefits) gave part of them to others who used them to organize the settlements and productive enterprises. They, in turn, gave a portion of what they received as gifts to those who administered the work.9 In return, all those down the chain were expected to pay a share of their earnings to the royal treasury, in addition to defending their benefactor and the expanding national (or imperial) state. The arrangements proposed by the prince and instituted by his royal successors provided a nonmarket means for distributing wealth. The Portuguese conquers brought it to the New World where it became normative practice in Brazil. If its intent was to eliminate poverty, it did not work and only intensified the problem that is still with us today.
ADAM SMITH AND GROWING THE WEALTH OF THE NATION The Wealth of Nations was written as a criticism of mercantile political economy and to propose an alternative to it. Dom Pedro’s model of distribution had been incorporated into the system to be replaced. During the three centuries that elapsed between the time Pedro wrote his prospectus and the composition of Smith’s, Portugal and Spain led the other European
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nations in discovering, conquering, and ruling much of the world. The gold, silver, diamonds, and other forms of wealth that was considered the basis for the riches of nations under mercantilist thinking were extracted primarily in their colonies in the Western Hemisphere. But times were changing and new forces appeared on the European scene that was to undermine and transform the social and economic order of the previous era. A different view of the world was in the process of replacing the one based on the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church, the framework on which Pedro relied in drafting his instructions for his royal confreres. Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), John Locke (1632–1704), David Hume (1711–1776), Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), and others had provided an ‘‘enlightened’’ Social Contract view of the state, the social unit the formation of whose wealth Smith sought to examine and increase. Aristotle’s concern with justice, which had become part of Church philosophy centuries earlier, was jettisoned leaving the provision of security for the individual and his property as the primary, if not sole, purpose of the institution. Justice, according to this view, was to become the punishment of individuals for transgressions against others, their property, or the rules of the system. Adam Smith had little need to address explicitly what had been the primary concern of the Portuguese nobleman when he wrote about the wealth of nations ‘‘for the rising class of businessmen, their political executive committees in the parliaments of the world and their intellectual executive committees in the academies’’ (Lerner, 1937, p. vi). To make his case for ‘‘free trade’’ between nations – to replace imperial control by the powers that dominated world commerce to the disadvantage of newcomers on the international stage such as England – Smith began with his model of the market at the microlevel. Hobbes (see Hampton, 1986), whose thinking Smith appreciated and made reference to, had already provided a secular creation myth that hypothesized an individual in a state of nature – existing prior to the establishment of society – who made rational decisions and choices based on the information available that assumedly maximized his material goals. Smith accepted the ontological reality of this imagery invented to legitimize the new conception of the state and applied it to the exchange of goods and services by the hypothesized presocial human being. This enabled Smith to present a compelling picture of people – taken out of their familial, social, and political contexts – behaving exclusively as producers and consumers of goods and services: economic man. The industrial revolution was more than the application of energyefficient technologies. Its reorganization of production in factories that brought together large numbers of individuals – physically removing them
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from their domestic social settings – to operate the machines in exchange for which they were paid wages was becoming the norm. Smith’s imagery, however, was of individuals exchanging what they themselves had produced for what others making different items made available. Every workman has a great quantity of his own work to dispose of beyond what he himself has occasion for; and every other workman being exactly in the same situation, he is enabled to exchange a great quantity of his own goods for a great quantity, or, what comes to the same thing, for the price of a great quantity of theirs. He supplies them abundantly with what they have occasion for, and they accommodate him as amply with what he has occasion for, and a general plenty diffuses itself through all the different ranks of the society (Smith, 1937, p. 11).
Speaking of butchers, bakers, shoemakers, and wheat farmers, each bringing their surpluses – what they would not consume themselves – to market, Smith provided a model for (individual) decision-making that focussed on a single factor: the price of the item being offered for sale. As he turned to the analysis of supply and demand, he assumed that the sole motivation human beings have is to maximize their self-interest by requesting as high a price as possible for what they offer and bidding as low as possible for the produce of others. This ‘‘propensity to truck, barter, and exchange one thing for another’’ (ibid., p. 13) enabled him to argue that with the constant increases and decreases in price, the invisible hand (presented as a metaphor) led to all of the items in the market being purchased. It made no difference who went home with what, as long as the entire amount was sold. This operation of the rational forces of the market, as each participant pursued his or her self-interest, was assumed to somehow promote the general welfare. ‘‘By acting according to the dictates of our moral faculties,’’ he wrote in The Theory of Moral Sentiments, ‘‘we necessarily pursue the most efficient means for promoting the happiness of mankind’’ (Wikipedia, n.d.). Before he developed his model of the operational market and metaphor of the invisible hand, the father of economics made another assumption of great import to his followers. While most people associate the labor theory of value with Karl Marx, Smith, building on Locke (1994), presented it in the very first paragraph of his magnum opus.10 Later, he wrote explicitly with respect to the relationship between labor and economic growth: ‘‘The annual produce of the land and labor can be increased to its value by no other means, but by increasing either the number of its productive labourers, or the productive powers of those labourers y .’’ (Smith, 1937, p. 326). What he claimed was that all wealth was the product of the labor input of the nation’s workers. Furthermore, he argued that the value of all of the goods and services brought to market was that of the labor of those who produced it. To develop his
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vision of free trade between nations as the means of increasing the wealth of each at the macro level, the Scottish intellectual assumed that the primary, if not sole, contribution to the productive process – and hence to the creation of wealth – was the labor of individual workers. ‘‘Labour,’’ he wrote, ‘‘is the real measure of exchangeable value of all commodities’’ (ibid., p. 30). While it may be said that this is true in a society of small-scale producers as he presented in his microlevel analysis, it certainly was not so in the socioeconomic world that was emerging as he penned what was to become the rationale for the rules of the new socioeconomic order. Even so, the labor theory of value remained a central tenant of the academic discipline that emerged in great part out of Smith’s writings. What he missed, the theoretical implications of which are still neglected by most of those who accepted his image of the world was that while it is professed that labor made the primary contribution to the creation of wealth, the earnings from what was produced by that labor, when it was combined with capital, did not go to the laborers, but to those who developed the technologies, financed their application to the production process, and manage the organizations that employed workers to produce goods. Labor, which according the Smith and his followers, made the primary contribution to the creation of wealth, came to be treated as a cost of production, a commodity bought and sold on the market like raw materials and all other inputs. Meanwhile, the earnings from production are distributed disproportionately to those who own and manage the enterprises established to bring together the machines and workers. As a result, the lion’s share of the spectacular increase in productivity and wealth over the years since Smith first wrote have gone to the owners of the capital assets and not to labor. How is this justified? The answer again was found in the wondrous workings of the invisible hand. ‘‘The rich,’’ writes the father of economics, y consume little more than the poor, and in spite of their natural selfishness y They are led by an invisible hand to make nearly the same distribution of the necessaries of life, which would have been made, had the earth been divided into equal portions among all its inhabitants, and y advance the interest of the society, and afford means to the multiplication of the species (Wikipedia, n.d.).
So, unequal distribution does not matter because it filters to the poor.11 For our purpose this means that as more and more of the wealth of the increasing numbers of nations is produced by organizations that have taken a corporate form, the greater part of the wealth they earn is distributed to a relatively small number of owners of capital. A progressively smaller percentage of that wealth goes to those employed as workers. Completely left out of the distribution system that emerged from the writings of Smith
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and his followers are the large numbers of people who have no capital and do not have a job. How are they, the poorest and most vulnerable segments of society, expected to subsist?
KARL MARX AND THE REVOLUTION OF THE PROLETARIAT Karl Marx was not the only one to react strongly to the negative consequences of the productive process instituted with the Industrial Revolution for those who received their share of the rapidly growing national wealth from wages for work. Unlike others, he turned the thinking of those who had shaped the new world order on its head by taking its assumptions to their logical conclusions. Implicit in the writings of the 17th and 18th century Western European authors who contributed to the intellectual underpinnings of the ‘‘modern’’ social order was an evolutionary model, one that saw social transformation in terms of a single, inevitable, universal upwardly sloping straight line to which the term ‘‘progress’’ was applied.12 The Enlightenment thinkers were not referring only to themselves in their texts, or to their fellow countrymen. Their proposals were universal and the objectives intended for all humanity. When the ‘‘rights of man’’ were argued they were not those of Frenchmen, Englishmen, or Americans, but of every human being. Smith might have been writing for his fellow European intellectuals when he proposed how to increase the wealth of a nation, but he actually was referring to all humanity since it was assumed that everyone, eventually, would organize themselves into nations. Consequently, Smith’s analysis and conclusions, and those of his disciples, including proposals for policies to be implemented by governments, were applicable to, and assumed of advantage to everyone, as all were citizens of one nation or another. Marx adopted this universalistic, evolutionary framework and advanced it into a new view of world history. He started with the labor theory of value and modified the unilineal developmental model focussing on the ill-treated workers. Instead of conceptualizing them as a collectivity of individuals, as did his predecessors, Marx presented them as a social category, to which he attributed the motivations of individuals. Marx’s world was of people organized into social classes, with the conflict and struggle between them the driving force in the dynamic of historical transformation. The context in which the struggle took place was the nation. The class that controlled its government, he maintained, dominated and exploited all others. It made and enforced the rules that enabled it to appropriate the lion’s share of the
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wealth produced. ‘‘The modern State,’’ he and Engels wrote in the Communist Manifesto (2003, p. 127), ‘‘is but an executive committee for administering the affairs of the whole bourgeois class.’’ The bourgeois included those who took ownership of the new productive machinery and were able to control the workers, and the unemployed who were viewed as a reserve labor force. Given the premises of Marx’s universal view of history, it followed that the proletariat, as the subjugated class that contributed most to the creation of national wealth and received the least,13 inevitably would become alienated, revolt, and overthrow not just the bourgeois, their immediate oppressors, but the institutional arrangements created to legitimize the exploitation. ‘‘The immediate aim of the Communists’’ he and Engels (2003, p. 136) wrote, ‘‘is the same as that of all other proletarian parties: organization of the proletariat on a class basis; overthrow of the supremacy of the bourgeois; conquest of political power by the proletariat.’’ Marx’s variant of the universalistic model of Enlightenment progress took the inevitable next step beyond capitalism to state socialism. The problem, for our purposes, was that it never provided any specifics on how wealth would be distributed. Nowhere did he, or any of his followers, state how the workers, after they fomented their revolution and took control of the state and its machinery, were to reorganize social life so as to improve the inequities in distribution to create a just social order and eliminate poverty. The Communist Manifesto simply states, ‘‘y the gradual and spontaneous organisation of the proletariat as a class is to be replaced by an organisation of society specially invented by themselves. The future history of the world becomes for them, the propaganda and practical application of their social plans’’ (Marx & Engels, 2003, p. 148). What were those plans? In terms of Polanyi and Arensberg’s framework, what forms of substantive economic arrangements, specifically distributive ones, would be instituted? The answer it seems was to be invented after the fact subsequent to the revolution, by the workers at best guided by slogans such as, ‘‘from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.’’ We do not find in Marx’s writings, or those to build on his thinking, new rules that would alleviate the inequities of the past that were described and analyzed with such depth and clarity. As a result, each national proletariat to move along the supposedly inevitable path has had to determine a way to redress these problems after the revolution. In the Soviet Union, China, Cuba, or other countries where Marx’s theories were applied, the ownership of the productive assets, the land, machinery, and other forms of capital, after being confiscated by the state in
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the name of the people, were turned over to political bureaucrats who were given their de facto ownership. The earnings were used, to create and administer the machinery needed to run the nation – such as a criminal justice system with police, judges and prisons, a military (with the most modern weapons), a school system, health care, and other programs. The proletariat continued to work for wages, but the amount was determined, not by a market controlled by the owners of capital, but by the bureaucrats. While unemployment was reduced, those on whose behalf the revolution had been fought continued to receive their share of the societal wealth in salaries, the value of which remained a disproportionately small part of the whole. In sum, since Marx did not provide a substantive economy that contained institutional arrangements that led to the more equitable distribution of the wealth of the nation, inequity, poverty, and want remain problematic in self-proclaimed Marxist states.
LOUIS KELSO AND THE EXPANSION OF CAPITAL OWNERSHIP Louis Kelso, who built critically on the writings of Smith and Marx, did not adopt their universal evolutionary framework (see Kelso & Adler, 1958. 1961; Kelso & Hetter, 1967; and Kelso & Kelso, 1986). His proposal for alleviating poverty and inequity accepted the productive arrangements established in the wake of the Industrial Revolution but offered a distinctive substantive system for distributing the ever-increasing amounts of wealth. In contrast with conventional economists, and the governments they advised who maintained that labor was the primary if not exclusive creator of wealth, Kelso reminded us that, since the beginnings of industrialization, nonhuman factors, such as machines, financing their purchase, the knowledge to run them, and information, made a progressively larger contribution to the productive process than has labor. Thus, he explained why the majority of earnings went to the owners of the capital – increasing the inequalities decried by both the left and the right. The solution to the problem of inequity and poverty, Kelso argued, was not to (have the state) confiscate the assets of the owners of capital and turn them over to some government bureaucracy – to use them to create programs for the benefit of all – as critics on the extreme left advised. Nor was it only for investors to strive to increase their wealth, and in the process hopefully create jobs, as was advocated by those on the right. Instead Kelso proposed to make the
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ownership of the capital that was contributing ever more to the creation of value available to all members of society. To do this, he asked how those who presently hold it have obtained capital ownership? As an investment banker, he was familiar with the process. His task was first to debunk the commonly held myth that capital was acquired through work and saving. The truth is that most capital has been and is obtained with the earnings of capital. ‘‘Of the billions of dollars of capital acquired each year,’’ writes one of his disciples, ‘‘almost all of it is paid for with the earnings of capital, and much of it is acquired with borrowed money’’ (Ashford, 1998, p. 41, italics in the original). Let us take as an example an individual who already is the owner of considerable capital and wishes to expand a business, or start a new one. While this person may invest his/her own previously acquired resources, in most instances a bank or the financial markets will be approached to borrow what is needed. The expectation, shared by the lenders who provide the funds, is that within a period of 5–7 years after it is operational, the new venture will earn enough to pay back the loan, plus the going rate of interest and miscellaneous charges. In this way, those who already own capital increase their holdings – and earnings – using someone else’s money. Should this owner of income earning assets choose not to undertake a new productive venture, or even buy into an existing one through the purchase of its stocks or bonds, in today’s ‘‘casino’’ economy, earnings may be increased without using previously acquired wealth.14 A bank or the financial markets might lend, accepting other holdings as collateral, $100,000.00 that might be placed in one of many speculative equity funds. The manager of the fund would combine the amount entrusted by our hypothetical investor with monies from other clients and place it – more accurately wager it – on the future prices of the stocks of a variety of companies, or raw materials, commodities, or even the value of one national currency against another. Should the fund manager be skilled and lucky, the assets will grow in value.15 If, after all fees and expenses are deducted the fund were to increase 10% a year – to make the arithmetic simple – our investor would have $10,000.00 annually as profit. Since half of this would go to pay the interest on the loan, at an assumed 5%, our investor would clear $5,000.00. Kelso wrote about the United States where interest payments can be deducted from other earnings in calculating the amount of taxes. If our investor were in the highest tax bracket, not uncommon for those with substantial amounts of capital, the value of the deduction would mean that only approximately 60% of the $5,000.00 in interest or $3,000.00 would be paid. The yearly earnings from the fund would be close to $7,000.00.
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Were the investor not to spend the earnings on yet additional consumption, it might be used to pay down the loan. If this were done annually, in roughly 14 years, or less, the loan would be paid off. Then the borrowed $100,000.00, along with the $10,000.00 a year profit, would belong to the investor. The borrowed capital would have paid for itself from its own earnings. Those who do not have any capital – the vast majority of the working population and the unemployed – cannot do this. What if one of them were to be given the opportunity to make the same type of investment as their well-capitalized compatriot, not in something as speculative as a stock fund or the exchange rates of currencies, but in a business seeking to expand production that can be expected to pay regular dividends from earnings. That is, although our hypothetical person does not have collateral, with help from a bank, or other agency, $100,000.00 can be borrowed and invested in a company seeking to expand production. Since the loan is not secured, a small amount will be added to the interest rate to cover the cost of insuring repayment. If this person is presented with the same tax break as the rich one, in approximately 15 years, the debt will be paid off from the earnings of the borrowed money. Now this person, like the rich one, will have $100,000.00 plus annual earnings of $10,000.00. Without taking anything from anyone, since no redistribution of income and wealth would be required, our poor individual would have an income from the earnings of capital equal almost to what would be earned from a job paying the current minimum wage.16 For a couple, both profiting from the earnings of capital, their combined income would exceed the official (US) poverty level. And if both held even minimum wage jobs, their total combined annual earnings would exceed $40,000.00, an amount far above what many working poor are able to earn at present. Kelso devised eight financial plans that enabled individuals to become owners of capital.17 All started from the perspective of a company or corporation expanding its production (Kelso & Kelso, 1986). Kurland, Brohawn, and Greaney (2004), disciples of Kelso, proposed the 19th century Homestead Act as a model for what they call Capital Homesteading. It is based on the conviction that every citizen of a contemporary, civilized national society has the right to a share of the wealth, the goods, and services produced in it. Although Kurland et al. are addressing the United States in this example, it readily could be adapted for Brazil, or anyplace else in the world. If local banks or the central bank in Brazil were to make available to each child born starting tomorrow an annual ‘‘capital’’ credit18 of the equivalent of $3,000.00 that would be used to buy in their name shares in start up companies or those seeking to expand production of goods and/or
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services,19 and the necessary changes in the tax code were made along with the establishment of an insurance and reinsurance program, by the time the child is 10 – as can be seen in Table 1 – he or she would have an accumulated $33,000.00 in holdings that would be earning $4,950.00, $3,450.00 of which would be applied to pay back what was borrowed. This would leave a residual of $1,500.00. By the time a student completes high school, or at the age of 18, the accumulated capital would be $57,000.00 that would be earning $8,550.00. Payments of principle plus the cost of servicing the loan would amount to $3,450.00 leaving our new graduate with $5,100.00 in disposable income for the year. Voters could decide whether or not each person, when they reach adulthood, should be given control over their capital account. Some agency, established to manage the funds borrowed on behalf of each child, would, through public debate and the democratic political process, decide if the capital should be held and only the earnings left after payment of the principle and servicing fees distributed. Alternatively, the judgment might be that on reaching adulthood everyone should become responsible for managing their own assets. The table shows how by the time our hypothetical individual reaches the age of 25, the portfolio will be worth $78,000.00, earning $11,700.00 each year of which $3,450.00 will go to paying and servicing the loan, leaving a balance of $8,250.00. The income available will increase to $10,500.00 at the age of 30, $15,000.00 at 40, and $19,500.00 at 50. A portfolio worth almost $200,000.00 at age 65 with an income slightly in excess of $26,000.00 is possible. And all this would be in addition to what may be earned from employment.20 Having this income in the hands of those at the lower end of the distribution curve would help solve the problem of unutilized productive capacity, stimulating economic growth. As we entered the 21st century, the major companies of the world boasted ‘‘that they are ready to feed, clothe, and shelter the world if there were only sufficient income to buy what can already be produced’’ (Ashford, 2002, p. 10, italics added). Instituting Capital Homesteading would put earnings in the hands of those presently without. This money would be spent, enabling companies, financed from capital accounts, to grow, improving the well-being of all.
A CHOICE What if the people of Brazil were to be given the opportunity to choose among the alternative systems for distributing the vast wealth from the oil
Homestead Accumulated ($)
3,000.00 6,000.00 9,000.00 12,000.00 15,000.00 18,000.00 21,000.00 24,000.00 27,000.00 30,000.00 33,000.00 36,000.00 39,000.00 42,000.00 45,000.00 48,000.00
Age
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
450.00 900.00 1,350.00 1,800.00 2,250.00 2,700.00 3,150.00 3,600.00 4,050.00 4,500.00 4,950.00 5,400.00 5,850.00 6,300.00 6,750.00 7,200.00
Annual Earnings ($) 2,666.67 5,000.00 7,000.00 8,666.67 10,000.00 11,000.00 11,666.67 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00
Acquisition Debt Balance ($)
Accumulation beginning at age: 0 Annual capital credit allocation: $3,000.00 Annual service and risk fees on outstanding principal: 3.00% ‘‘Pretax’’ rate of return on ‘‘full-payout’’ shares: 15.00% Term of acquisition loan in years: 9
333.33 666.67 1,000.00 1,333.33 1,666.67 2,000.00 2,333.33 2,666.67 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00
Payment of Principal ($) 90.00 170.00 240.00 300.00 350.00 390.00 420.00 440.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00
Service and Risk ($)
423.33 836.67 1,240.00 1,633.33 2,016.67 2,390.00 2,753.33 3,106.67 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00
Total Debt Fees Service ($)
26.67 63.33 110.00 166.67 233.33 310.00 396.67 493.33 600.00 1,050.00 1,500.00 1,950.00 2,400.00 2,850.00 3,300.00 3,750.00
Residual to Householder ($)
What Capital Homesteading Would Mean to the Average Individual: Projected Wealth and Income Accumulations (from Kurland et al., 2004, pp. 171–172).
Parameters (Assumptions):
Table 1.
Resolving the Problem of Inequity in the Distribution of Wealth in Brazil 65
Homestead Accumulated ($)
51,000.00 54,000.00 57,000.00 60,000.00 63,000.00 66,000.00 69,000.00 72,000.00 75,000.00 78,000.00 81,000.00 84,000.00 87,000.00 90,000.00 93,000.00 96,000.00 99,000.00 102,000.00 105,000.00 108,000.00 111,000.00 114,000.00 117,000.00 120,000.00 123,000.00 126,000.00 129,000.00 132,000.00 135,000.00
Age
16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44
7,650.00 8,100.00 8,550.00 9,000.00 9,450.00 9,900.00 10,350.00 10,800.00 11,250.00 11,700.00 12,150.00 12,600.00 13,050.00 13,500.00 13,950.00 14,400.00 14,850.00 15,300.00 15,750.00 16,200.00 16,650.00 17,100.00 17,550.00 18,000.00 18,450.00 18,900.00 19,350.00 19,800.00 20,250.00
Annual Earnings ($) 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00
Acquisition Debt Balance ($) 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00
Payment of Principal ($)
Table 1. (Continued )
450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00
Service and Risk ($) 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00
Total Debt Fees Service ($) 4,200.00 4,650.00 5,100.00 5,550.00 6,000.00 6,450.00 6,900.00 7,350.00 7,800.00 8,250.00 8,700.00 9,150.00 9,600.00 10,050.00 10,500.00 10,950.00 11,400.00 11,850.00 12,300.00 12,750.00 13,200.00 13,650.00 14,100.00 14,550.00 15,000.00 15,450.00 15,900.00 16,350.00 16,800.00
Residual to Householder ($)
66 SIDNEY M. GREENFIELD
45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65
138,000.00 141,000.00 144,000.00 147,000.00 150,000.00 153,000.00 156,000.00 159,000.00 162,000.00 165,000.00 168,000.00 171,000.00 174,000.00 177,000.00 180,000.00 183,000.00 186,000.00 189,000.00 192,000.00 195,000.00 198,000.00
20,700.00 21,150.00 21,600.00 22,050.00 22,500.00 22,950.00 23,400.00 23,850.00 24,300.00 24,750.00 25,200.00 25,650.00 26,100.00 26,550.00 27,000.00 27,450.00 27,900.00 28,350.00 28,800.00 29,250.00 29,700.00
12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00
3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00
450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00 450.00
3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00 3,450.00
17,250.00 17,700.00 18,150.00 18,600.00 19,050.00 19,500.00 19,950.00 20,400.00 20,850.00 21,300.00 21,750.00 22,200.00 22,650.00 23,100.00 23,550.00 24,000.00 24,450.00 24,900.00 25,350.00 25,800.00 26,250.00
Resolving the Problem of Inequity in the Distribution of Wealth in Brazil 67
(Continued )
Homestead Accumulation ($)
198,000.00 198,000.00 198,000.00 198,000.00 198,000.00 198,000.00 198,000.00
Age
66 67 68 69 70 71 72
29,700.00 29,700.00 29,700.00 29,700.00 29,700.00 29,700.00 29,700.00
Annual Earnings ($) 9,000.00 6,000.00 3,000.00 – – – –
Acquisition Debt Balance ($) 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 3,000.00 – – –
Payment of Principal ($) 360.00 270.00 180.00 90.00 – – –
Service and Risk Fees ($) 3,360.00 3,270.00 3,180.00 3,090.00 – – –
Total Debt Service ($)
‘‘Retirement (No Further Additions, Begin Accelerated Payments of Principal)’’
Gross benefits to homesteader by age 65 (homestead accumulation plus ‘‘residual’’): Cost to government/taxpayers (taxes avoided on ‘‘tax free’’ homestead accumulation (28%)): Taxes on dividend income (28% marginal rate, all homestead income assumed marginal): Net tax benefit to government due to homestead program: Net benefits to homesteader by age 65:
‘‘Residual’’ Received by Homesteader During Period of Accumulation $780,450.00
Table 1.
26,340.00 26,430.00 26,520.00 26,610.00 29,700.00 29,700.00 29,700.00
Residual to Householder ($)
$978,450.00 $55,440.00 $218,526.00 $163,086.00 $759,924.00
68 SIDNEY M. GREENFIELD
Resolving the Problem of Inequity in the Distribution of Wealth in Brazil
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resources recently discovered within their national territory that would best advance the general welfare and reduce inequality and poverty? This could be done by means of a plebiscite, or while democratically electing a president in 2010.21 The discussion could be extended to include the great riches accruing from the sale of agricultural commodities – such as beef, soy, and sugarcane/ethanol – raised on lands in the vast rainforests. Advocates of the old patronage system examined in its prototypic form in the writings of Dom Pedro, would have the government, the successor to the crown, give concessions for land that has underwater oil, or other sources of wealth as gifts to selected members of the national elite.22 There are parallels here to earlier events in Brazilian history. Shortly after the national territory was first discovered, the royal government of Portugal gave grants of land to elites on which sugarcane was grown for export or gold and diamonds were extracted. The recipients of the royal gifts were to show their gratitude by paying a fifth of their earnings (taxes) to the royal treasury while giving part of the benefit to others below them in the hierarchy as a production system and a colony were established. Today the concessions would be given as bemfeitorias to members of the business community at the top of the contemporary world of socioeconomic classes rather than to an elite composed of nobles at the apex of a 15th century society of corporate groups. This elite would then be implored to give benefits to those immediately below them. In this way, the chain, the cadea de bemfeitorias, through which wealth would flow downward for even those at the bottom to obtain a share, would be established. Unfortunately, the prince’s system, while creating great individual wealth, exacerbated inequality and poverty during previous Brazilian boom and bust economic cycles. And there is little reason to believe that it would be any different today, especially as the Roman Catholic Church, on whose moral authority the prince’s system depended, no longer dominates the symbolic universe of Brazilians. Disciples of Adam Smith whose thinking presently holds sway would prefer to have Petrobras give contracts to private firms invited to submit bids. These firms would drill, process, refine, and market the petroleum, hiring workers and paying royalties to the states and/or state monopoly that would pay taxes. Earnings over the costs of production would go to these companies and their Brazilian and foreign shareholders.23 Brazilians are currently demonstrating to prevent the state monopoly from negotiating concessions with foreign firms. President Lula seems to agree with them having proposed changes in the law to assign the primary role in developing the oil resources to Petrobras. The protestors fear that multinational companies would act in Brazil as they have elsewhere, earning great profits
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while leaving little for the people. Certainly jobs would be created that would pay better wages given the recent increases in the minimum wage.24 And the national treasury would benefit, but past experience shows that oil wealth does not usually translate into improving the circumstances of the people in whose nation oil is located and extracted. The invisible hand of the market has not helped reduce inequality and poverty in the past nor could such expectations be hoped for now or in the future. In theory, investment was to lead to the creation of jobs, putting more people to work. This additional income would increase the share of total earnings going to the existing work force and those added from the pool of unemployed. Government programs financed with tax revenues might provide resources to assist the lowest level of wage earners and the remaining unemployed. In what is perhaps the most comprehensive compilation and analysis of data on poverty and inequality in Latin America and the Caribbean over a period of more than a quarter of a century, London˜o and Sze´lely (2000, p. 93) conclude that economic growth alone does not translate into poverty reduction and greater equity in income distribution. And that data that showed differences in the magnitude in earnings of 300–400% between the topmost decile and the bottom one did not include earnings from capital, which go exclusively to those at the top. Since they have no income, the unemployed, who were not included in the analysis, would remain as destitute as ever. In Brazil, the gross domestic product, a measure of the wealth of the nation, increased by 4.9% in 2005 and another 2.9% in 2006. Incomes during the period grew by 0.05%. The 10% plus unemployed, the official rate considered by critics to be a substantial underestimate, continued to receive nothing, although many of them have been helped by redistributive programs such as the Bolsa Famı´lia (Family Allowance) and the Benefı´cio de Prestac- a˜o Continuada – that primarily helps the elderly and disabled. If foreign investors and Brazilian owners of capital, who already are at the upper end of the socioeconomic hierarchy, continue to benefit most from economic growth, how long it will take for those who work for them to catch up? The current global economic downturn adds further doubt that market forces would be able to reduce income inequality and poverty. The followers of Marx, in the examples of Cuba, Venezuela, and Bolivia, where energy resources have been nationalized, advocated having political bureaucrats – elected or appointed – administer the earnings and create jobs and social programs to benefit the poor. If Brazilians were to select this direction, there is little reason to doubt that those who hold public office would benefit disproportionately. The degree to which the programs for
Resolving the Problem of Inequity in the Distribution of Wealth in Brazil
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those presently receiving the smallest share of national wealth would help them rise out of poverty, thereby reducing distributive inequalities, remains problematic. Kelsonians would have Petrobras award to Brazilian or multinational companies concessions to extract the oil. They would maintain other aspects of the market system and most other social institutions. Furthermore, they might continue to reward the owners of Petrobras stock – and its top-level management – disproportionately. Most importantly, however, they would make it possible for all Brazilians to purchase – with borrowed money – shares in the oil monopoly, the subcontracting companies, and eventually all firms producing the nation’s wealth. Citizens would come to have a minimum of income with which to sustain themselves. Their increased purchases of basic goods would lead to greater consumption of current excess productive capacity, leading to expansion and growth. The already rich might continue to benefit disproportionately, but the situation of the multitudes added to the ranks of owners of capital would be bettered. Would it be a panacea? Of course not! Inequality will not be eliminated, but extreme poverty could be reduced. The circumstances of those at the bottom end of the social order most likely would be improved. In a truly democratic world the alternatives presented above, plus others, some of which have been tried in different institutional settings, and others only proposed or still to be thought of, would be placed before the voters who would examine and debate them. They would use their ballots to choose what they believe would be in both their own best interest and the general well-being of their nation. Time will tell if the Brazilian democracy has reached the point where, in terms of the framework proposed so long ago in the anthropological approach to economics of Polanyi and Arensberg, it can explore these alternative systems of distribution and perhaps even change some strongly held beliefs and social arrangements.
NOTES 1. Saboia (2007b) reports that the situation did improve between 1995 and 2005 as the government gradually increased the minimum wage, bringing it more in line with the purchasing power it had when it was introduced more than half a century ago. The improvement, however, had but minimum effect on the inequality in the distribution of wealth. 2. Polanyi had teamed up with Arensberg to add the exploration of the comparative ethnographic record to his studies of ancient history as he searched for a solution to the problem his father and four siblings were to devote their lives: ‘‘to overcome the
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nineteenth century and find a new society that would be free and yet not ‘bourgeois’ or ‘liberal’; prosperous and yet not dominated by economics; communal and yet not a Marxist collectivism’’ (Drucker, 1994, p. 127). Adolph, Karl’s older brother, who, like Otto the eldest – who went to Italy and after a successful career as an industrialist became the patron of a radical anarchist named Benito Mussolini – also changed his name to Pol. Adolph had taken his pursuit of the family quest to Brazil where he moved in the early years of the 20th century. Trained as an engineer, he achieved success as a consultant on the building of the nation’s railroads, harbors, power stations and industries. Taken by the country, in the years after World War I, he was at the center of a group of sociologists, novelists, musicians, painters, and politicians attempting to create a new society, ‘‘different from the ‘decadent capitalism’ of Europe; an interracial society in which whites, blacks, and Indians would meld to create a new civilization y’’ (Drucker, 1994, p. 129). Drucker describes Adolph as tirelessly preaching Brazil’s continental mission and wondrous future. 3. This was expressed politically to become the official belief of the victors in the memorable TINA comment attributed to Margaret Thatcher, TINA meaning: There Is No Alternative – to our Western, capitalistic way. 4. This section is adapted from Greenfield (1977b). 5. The deceased monarch’s legitimate daughter, Joa˜o’s half sister, was married to the King of Castile. Her claim to the throne was rejected on the grounds that it would have resulted in Portugal being annexed by her neighbor. 6. The third son was D. Henrique, known in English as Henry the Navigator. 7. From 1425 to 1428, for example, Pedro traveled across Europe to the Holy Land. He was made a Knight of the Order of the Garter in his material homeland and was taken into the service of Sigismund, the Holy Roman Emperor. Pedro also led Portugal’s armies against its enemies. 8. Portuguese society at the time was organized in extended family households on the Roman model. In practice the gifts were to be distributed starting with the head of the royal household – who controlled the royal treasury – to the head of a household of a station immediately below following a downward trajectory. The implicit assumption was always that a household head would distribute a part of what he received to his domestic dependents. Portugal and Spain were to transfer this model of gift giving and generalized reciprocity to Brazil and their other colonies. 9. Since slaves performed most of the labor in a system that continued until emancipation in 1888, a full understanding of that system would require a detailed examination of Brazilian slavery. 10. ‘‘The annual labour of every nation,’’ he writes, ‘‘is the fund which originally supplies it with all the necessaries and conveniences of life which it annually consumes, and which consists always in the immediate produce of that labour, or in what is purchased with that produce from other nations’’ (Smith, 1937, p. lvii). 11. According to Kennedy (2009, p. 239), Smith did not credit the invisible hand metaphor with the importance that authors, from the mid-20th century onwards, give it.’’ He maintains that it was Paul Samuelson who first reformulated Smith’s usage in the 1948 edition of his Economics textbook (Kennedy, 2009, p. 250). 12. Modernization theory, so popular in the social sciences in the second half of the 20th century, is just one of many examples.
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13. Marx (1995, pp. 135 ff.) rules out any possible contribution of machinery and other forms of capital in the productive process when he reduces it to its labor-use value. 14. This example is offered to show that the already rich, the owners of sizeable amounts of capital, presently may increase both their assets and/or earnings by entering into the new ‘‘casino,’’ or ‘‘gaming economy’’ (see Strange, 1986) that has emerged based on and as an extension of the one in which goods and services are produced. This is the world of finance that makes money for gamblers at the expense of production (see Korten, 2001, pp. 175–229). I introduce it to acknowledge its existence and to emphasize that the investments proposed by Kelso are in the production economy and not this secondary, casino economy of the financial markets. 15. Even with the economic meltdown, the decline of the production economy and consequent increase in unemployment, many financial speculators continue to make enormous profits. 16. In the Brazilian context, we would use a figure lower than the equivalent of $100,000.00 so that the earnings would approximate the lower minimum wage. 17. One, the ESOP, or Employee Stock Option Plan, already has enabled many workers to be owners of stock in the companies that employ them. 18. That would be ‘‘restricted to the purchase of assets that are expected to pay for themselves out of revenues generated from the capital project which financed it, and thereafter y expected to earn a continuing flow of profits for whoever owns the assets’’ (Kurland, 2004, p. 10). 19. The money actually would be lent to the companies. The borrowers would have accounts at banks or other agencies. The value of the accounts would be used to purchase for them shares in the firms receiving the loans (see Kurland et al., 2004). 20. Since companies invested in vary in efficiency and earnings over time, the average figures used will differ from individual to individual with some people doing better than others. Personal reasons may lead some to dip into their capital thereby reducing the amount of their earnings. To prevent them from becoming impoverished again we may wish to introduce the Old Testament idea of a periodic jubilee year. The agency that administered the original borrowing and purchase of shares in the name of each individual, and paid for them with the earnings of capital, will recalibrate, forgiving debts and, using the same methods employed previously, return everyone’s account so that it approximates the amount in the table. At death, ownership of each capital account would be placed in a fund and recycled for allocation to a new generation of capital homesteaders. 21. In Brazil, where there are numerous political parties and the candidates of each have access to free time on television, it would be easier to raise and discuss such matters than in the United States. Since the same rules apply at the state and local levels, it also would be possible to introduce them there. 22. With respect to oil, in 1953, long before significant amounts were discovered, the administration of Getu´lio Vargas, perhaps the last president elected under the vestige of the patronage system, founded the company Petrobras and awarded it the oil monopoly. With the push toward privatization following the full institutionalization of the market, in 1997 foreign firms were allowed to participate in exploration and production. Therefore, Petrobras will control access to Brazilian oil.
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23. Legislation already has been proposed in the Brazilian congress to allocate royalties from the earnings from the oil equally to all of the 27 states in place of the current practice of the revenues going only to the states that have the resource off their shores. 24. This increase in the minimum wage would have a beneficial incremental effect since most salaries in Brazil are multiples of the minimum wage.
REFERENCES Ashford, R. (1998). A new market paradigm for sustainable growth: Financing broader capital ownership with Louis Kelso’s Binary Economics. Praxis. The Fletcher Journal of Development Studies, 14, 25–59. Ashford, R. (2002, November 7–9). Using Christian principles to enhance economic theory and practice: Louis Kelso’s binary economics as the more Christian and scientific way. Paper presented at the Symposium on ‘‘Christianity and Economics: Integrating Faith and Learning in Economic Scholarship’’ Baylor University. Davis, N. Z. (2000). The gift in sixteenth century France. Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press. Drucker, P. F. (1994). Adventures of a bystander. New York: Wiley. Faoro, R. (1958). Os donos do poder: Formac- a˜o do patronato politico Brasileiro. Rio de Janeiro: Editoˆra Globo. Foster, G. M. (1961). The dyadic contract: A model for the social structure of a Mexican peasant village. American Anthropologist, 63, 1173–1192. Foster, G. M. (1963). The dyadic contract in Tzintzuntzan: Patron-client relationships. American Anthropologist, 65, 1280–1294. Greenfield, S. M. (1972). Charwomen, cesspools and road building: An examination of patronage, clientage and political power in southeastern Minas Gerais. In: A. Strickon & S. M. Greenfield (Eds), Structure and process in Latin America: Patronage, clientage and power systems (pp. 71–100). Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Greenfield, S. M. (1977a). Patronage, politics and the articulation of local community and national society in pre-1968 Brazil. Journal of Inter-American Studies and World Affairs, 19(2), 139–172. Greenfield, S. M. (1977b). The patrimonial state and patron client relations in Iberia and Latin America: Sources of ‘‘the system’’ in the fifteenth century writings of the Infante D. Pedro of Portugal. Ethnohistory, 24(2), 163–178. Greenfield, S. M. (1979). Patron-client exchanges in southeastern Minas Gerais. In: M. Margolis & W. Carter (Eds), Brazil: Anthropological perspectives. Essays in honor of Charles Wagley (pp. 362–378). New York: Columbia University Press. Greenfield, S. M., & Cavalcante, A. M. (2006). Pilgrimage and patronage in Brazil: A paradigm for social relations and religious diversity. Luso-Brazilian Review, 43(2), 63–89. Hampton, J. (1986). Hobbes and the social contract tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hutchinson, B. (1966). The patron-dependent relationship in Brazil: A preliminary examination. Sociologia Ruralis, 6(1), 3–30. Kelso, L. O., & Adler, M. J. (1958). The capitalist manifesto. New York: Random House. Kelso, L. O., & Adler, M. J. (1961). The new capitalists. New York: Random House.
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Kelso, L. O., & Hetter, P. (1967). Two-factor theory: The economics of reality. New York: Vintage Books. Kelso, L. O., & Kelso, P. H. (1986). Democracy and economic power: Extending the ESOP revolution through binary economics. Cambridge, MA: Ballinger. Kennedy, G. (2009). Adam Smith and the invisible hand: From metaphor to myth. EWJ Journal of the American Institute of Economic Research, 6(2), 239–263. Kenny, M. L. (2002). Drought, clientelism, fatalism, and fear in northeast Brazil. Ethics, Place, and Environment, 5(2), 123–134. Korten, D. C. (2001). When corporations rule the world (2nd ed.). San Francisco and Bloomfield, CT: Co-publication of Kumarian Press, Inc. and Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc. Kurland, N. G. (2004, July 8–10). Justice-based management and the just third way. Paper presented at the 12th Biennial Conference of the International Association for the Economics of Participation, Saint Mary’s University, Halifax. Kurland, N. G., Brohawn, D. K., & Greaney, M. D. (2004). Capital homesteading for every citizen. Washington, DC: Center for Economic and Social Justice. Lachman, D. (2007). Cry for Latin America. International Economy, 36–39(Winter), 61. Lerner, M. (1937). Introduction to Adam Smith: An inquiry into the nature and causes of the wealth of nations. New York: The Modern Library. Locke, J. (1994). Two treatises of government. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. London˜o, J. L., & Sze´lely, M. (2000). Persistent poverty and excess inequality: Latin America, 1970–1995. Journal of Applied Economics, 3, 93–134. Marx, K. (1995). In: D. McLellan (Ed.), Capital. New York: Oxford University Press. Marx, K., & Engels, F. (2003). The manifesto of the communist party. In: B. Blaisdell (Ed.), The communist manifesto and other revolutionary writings (pp. 123–150). Mineola, NY: Dover Publications. Mauss, M. (1990). The gift: The form and reason for exchange in archaic societies (W. D. Halls, Trans., forward by Mary Douglas). New York: W.W. Norton. Nelson, D. R., & Finan, T. J. (2009). Praying for drought: Persistent vulnerability and the politics of patronage in Ceara´, northeast Brazil. American Anthropologist, 111(3), 302–316. Pedro, D. (1946). In: J. Costa (Ed.), O livro da virtuosa bemfeitoria. Portugal: Porto. Polanyi, K., Arensberg, C. M., & Pearson, H. (Eds). (1957). Trade and market in the early empires. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Rohter, L. (2007). Bush to set out shift in agenda for Latin America. The New York Times, March 6. Roniger, L. (1987). Caquismo and coronelismo: Contextual dimensions of patron brokerage in Mexico and Brazil. Latin American Research Review, 22, 71–99. Roniger, L. (1990). Hierarch and trust in modern Mexico and Brazil. New York: Praeger. Saboia, J. (2007a). O sala´rio mı´ nimo e seu potencial para a melhoria da distribuic- a˜o de renda no Brasil. In: R. P. de Barros, M. N. Foguel & G. Ulyssea (Eds), Desigualdade de renda no Brasil: Uma ana´lise da queda recente (2, pp. 479–497). Brası´ lia: Instituto de Pesquisa Econoˆmica Aplicada. Saboia, J. (2007b). Efeitos do sala´rio mı´ nimo sobre a distribuic- a˜o de renda no Brasil no perı´ odo 1995/2005 – Resultados de simulac- o˜es. Econoˆmica, 9(2), 270–295. Sahlins, M. (1972). Stone age economics. Chicago: Aldine. Santiso, J. (2006). Latin America’s political economy of the possible: Beyond good revolutionaries and free-marketeers. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
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Smith, A. (1937[1776]). An inquiry into the nature and causes of the wealth of nations. New York: The Modern Library. Strange, S. (1986). Casino capitalism. Oxford: Blackwell. Weiner, A. B. (1976). Women of value, men of renown: New perspectives in Trobriand exchange. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Wheen, F. (2006). Marx’s Das Kapital: A biography. New York: Grove Press. Wikipedia. (n.d.). Invisible hand. Available at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invisible_hand. Retrieved on September 21, 2009.
IS JOSEPH SCHUMPETER’S THEORY OF ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT STILL USEFUL? THE CASE OF A SEMIRURAL COMMUNITY IN COLOMBIA Andre´s Marroquı´ n Gramajo ABSTRACT This chapter claims that the La Chamba community in central Colombia exhibits some characteristics of Schumpeter’s (1949) concept of economic development. This case is important because it represents several mestizo communities in Latin America, which are deeply involved in domestic and international craft markets. The market economy penetrates the ceramic community of La Chamba, fostering technological change, improving economic development (as Schumpeter defines it), and creating economic differences across households.
INTRODUCTION Fundamentally, the case in this chapter illustrates an example of market penetration bringing both positive and negative consequences to a Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 77–98 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030007
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community. It brings employment and wealth to some, and modest income to others; it brings sales and more transactions at market prices. The case reveals most of the changes that make neoclassical economists proud of market expansion, but increased market involvement carries with it an accentuation of differences, inequalities, and social tensions that make most anthropologists and some political philosophers critical of it.
Economic Development and Technological Change: Anthropological and Economic Approaches In a rural setting, new technologies and innovation (or what Schumpeter calls ‘‘new methods of production’’) can originate from within or from outside communities. Changes come from within when they are developed by community members to facilitate daily work or make even simple artifacts to improve the household. These changes are a function of context rather than calculation. Even if they bring no monetary profits to their makers, they are akin to development in the market, such as producing new medicine or food (Gudeman, 2001, p. 41). Calculation can play a larger role in promoting change when communities are more integrated into the market economy (Polanyi, 1968, p. 88). In contrast, government agencies, NGOs, foreign individuals, or locals that return to rural communities introduce changes coming from outside. These changes are mostly a function of economic calculation and monetary profits. The introduction of new technologies from outside has been analyzed in the anthropological literature in terms of resistance to change, which means that in some cases the adaptation of a new technology depends on how well it fits (or affects) the local social structures, cultural values, and historical trajectory of a particular community (Lance & McKenna, 1975; Nash, 1988; Vessuri, 1980). During the 1960s and 1970s, anthropologists tended to stress sociocultural resistances toward technological change; they saw technological change as a tool to reinforce inequality and power structures (see Ehlers, 2000; Nash, 1988; Vessuri, 1980, p. 360). From the economic perspective, technological change is defined as any change in the application of information to the production process, resulting either in the production of a given output with fewer resources (i.e., lower costs) or in the production of new or better products (Mokyr, 1990, p. 2).1 In general, the current economic literature has converged at the idea that technological change is positive for development and growth, because it translates into lower prices for consumers, better quality products, higher
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productivity, and a more efficient allocation of resources across the economy; in summary, technological change fosters economic growth (Globerman, 2000) – a collection of changes which has been called ‘‘Schumpeterian economic growth’’ (Mokyr, 1990, p. 2). Some economists, however, are less optimistic and emphasize the inefficiencies of changes in technologies (see Arthur, 1985, 1988, 1994; David, 1985; Mokyr, 1990, p. 55, p. 115; Wright, 1997). After surveying the history of technological change during a large span of time, Mokyr (1990, p. 7) suggests that the record of technological change is a sequential chain of unexpected discoveries that introduce discontinuities that open new directions for innovation. Economists tend to embrace technological change; anthropologists, on the other hand, tend to be more critical of it. This chapter claims that, at the community level in the context of La Chamba (a semirural locality in Colombia), technological change and the penetration of the market can increase the cultural history of a community and can improve economic conditions on the one hand, but that on the other hand, these benefits are allocated asymmetrically across families. This chapter is based on four weeks of fieldwork in La Chamba, which included 35 semistructured interviews conducted during November 2005. During this time, I stayed with a family of potters, visited several artisans, and participated in and observed the daily lives of potters in La Chamba and in two nearby communities. To describe the penetration of the market into the community, and its consequences, I use Schumpeter’s theory of economic development. Schumpeter’s theory is important as a methodological guide, it is also a starting point to explore and describe the process of economic development (centering around market penetration) in the community. The chapter begins with a brief description of Schumpeter’s theory of economic development; it then contrasts this theory with other important economic development theories. Following this, it presents a description of the community – economic characteristics, production structure, and technological change – under the light of Schumpeter’s theory, and then offers some concluding remarks.
Schumpeter’s Theory of Economic Development vs. Other Theories According to Joseph Schumpeter, economic development occurs when combinations of uniting or disconnecting things are freshly woven, or existing ones are substantially altered. For example, development takes place when new products are brought to the market, new methods of production
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are devised, different and cheaper sources of supply are found, or new forms of business organization are brought into being. These ‘‘new combinations’’ add value to the economy (Gudeman, 1992, p. 142; Schumpeter, 1949).2 This concept of economic development is a theory of social change, a ‘‘process of adaptation,’’ (Schumpeter, 1949, p. 63); it is a static theory that explains a dynamic economy (p. 82). Schumpeter’s analysis differs from contemporary economic (and in some cases philosophical) theories of development – especially theories put forward during the past 50 years – in the sense that it characterizes the elements of change without linking them to the living economic conditions of the societies that are changing. Schumpeter’s theory is more descriptive but less informative of the ‘‘whole socioeconomic picture’’ as compared with Arthur Lewis’ theory of economic development, which underlines the transformation from agriculture to a broad manufacturing base in a society (Lewis, 1954). The same can be said if one compares Schumpeter’s framework with Rostow’s theory of stages of economic progress (Rostow, 1960). Other theories of economic development such as Rosenstein-Rodan’s (1961) ‘‘big push,’’ rooted in Gunnar Myrdal’s (1944) idea of poverty traps, focus on different processes – such as increasing returns to scale – as indicators of an active mechanism of economic development. Other theories such as those proposed by the Nobel laureate Theodore Schultz focus not on the characterization of development but on the obstacles to reach it; one of these obstacles can be the negative impact of government alteration of the incentives that guide rational peasants and farmers in the developing world (Schultz also addresses the role of investment in health and education – in human capital).3 Finally, Schumpeter’s theory differs from Amartya Sen’s capabilities approach in the sense that Sen characterizes development as the process that provides choices and opportunities that go beyond income and warranty a meaningful and dignified life (1992, 2002); elements that Schumpeter does not take into account. For the purpose of this article, however, Schumpeter’s theory is very useful. Indeed, most of the changes that Schumpeter describes are observed in the recent history in a semirural community in Colombia’s Department of Tolima: La Chamba. Although this is not a methodological exercise, the chapter demonstrates that even though there are several theories of economic development, some more widely accepted than others, some theories might fit the facts better when applied to particular contexts, which in turn implies that a community might, at the same time, be developed (or developing economically) according to one theory but might not according to another theory. This assumes, however, that one performs what economists call a positive analysis, as opposed to a normative analysis, which requires value
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(ethical) judgments. La Chamba might or might not be developed according to Amartya Sen’s capabilities approach, but it is a clear representation of what Schumpeter called the process of economic development and change. Schumpeter’s theory proposes that the entrepreneur creates new combinations; he is the bearer of the mechanism of change (1949, p. 61). The case of La Chamba illustrates this point and also provides evidence that expands this theory and shows that the sources of the new combinations are plural and include a variety of actors: entrepreneurs (artisans and intermediaries), tourists, and organizations that happened to be in the right place at the right time. Technological changes in La Chamba in some cases increase the stock of cultural knowledge of the community through cultural diffusion (Gudeman, 1992, p. 143), and in other cases replace existing knowledge with new knowledge (Cowen, 2002), while old knowledge (such as prewheel pottery methods) is embraced as part of the community’s cultural history. La Chamba exhibits an institutional structure divided between house economies (individual artisans), family businesses, and small corporations (intermediaries for the local and international markets). Three important lessons can be derived from this case: (1) the interaction of the community and the market economy, through intermediaries, increases diversity in production, (2) technological changes have improved economic conditions and increased the cultural capital of the community, and (3) the penetration of the market has created large disparities across households.
LA CHAMBA Until the 17th century, the Pijao, a pre-Colombian indigenous group belonging to the Carib-language family, occupied most of the region where La Chamba is now located. The Pijao disappeared after a heroic and persistent resistance to the conquest. The Spaniards first attacked the Pijao in 1550 and finally defeated them around 1611 (Duncan, 2000, p. 40; Waugh, Milligan, & Kruckman, 2001; p. 9).4 Constant fighting with the Spaniards and other groups established a clear division of tasks within the Pijao society: men dedicated to war and women to the creation and production of ceramics (Arango, 1976). Pijao ceramic had zoomorphic and anthropomorphic characteristics and their products were utilized in rituals and burials, although it eventually evolved to serve utilitarian purposes. The Pijao tradition helps explain the ceramic production that persists today in La Chamba and other communities of southwest Colombia (Cifuentes, 1994).
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During the 20th century, Colombia experienced two violent episodes that affected the Department of Tolima: the first one during the Guerra de los mil dı´as (The Thousand Days War, 1889–1902) and La Violencia (The Violence, 1948–1953). This intense fighting resulted in the area around La Chamba having one of the highest death rates in the country (Waugh et al., 2001). However, the recent history of La Chamba differs significantly from many other regions of the country. In the context of the Colombian Civil War, La Chamba has been very peaceful during the past 30 years. Guerrilla groups have never entered the community.5 The peaceful environment has favored the smooth development of the pottery industry in the town.
Pottery Industry in La Chamba Today, most of the approximately 300 families that live in La Chamba actively participate in the production of bright red and black ceramics. The families are spread out across an area of approximately 10 km2. Fully 90% of the households are directly involved in the production of pottery, and around 98% of women are directly or indirectly involved. Women represent the sole head-of-household in 27% of the homes and invest longer hours in ceramic production than women who are married or coreside with a man (ibid., p. 12). La Chamba’s economy is based on three activities; ceramic production, agriculture, and cattle breeding. Soils support primarily cotton, rice, ajonjolı´ (sesame), yucca, and sorghum. Ethnographic evidence suggests that women in the village were producing ceramics in 1800 (Waugh et al., 2001), but the oldest evidence of ceramics in Colombia dates from around 1300 B.C. (Ocampo, 1994, p. 19).6 Most of the families in La Chamba produce ceramics for the local Colombian market, and a few produce for intermediaries that export to the United States, Canada, and Western Europe. Exports started in the mid-1980s when items were marketed by Macy’s under the trade name ‘‘ChambaWare’’ as part of an ‘‘ethnic’’ marketing campaign (Waugh et al., 2001, p. 9). La Chamba is an interesting case because it represents hundreds of rural communities in Latin America that are now experiencing deepening involvement in the greater market economy. Waugh et al. (2001, p. 5) eloquently explain this dynamic: The Mestizos of La Chamba in many ways represent at least two billion humans on the planet who are between cultures, making the transition from traditional family-centered agrarian rural life, to an urbanized, industrialized existence.
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La Chamba potters are not affluent, but they experience relative economic progress compared to the Wayu´u artisans of the rural Guajira or the Ticuna of the Colombian Amazon (Marroquı´ n Gramajo, 2007, 2008), for example. The community has electricity, running water, TVs, stereos, and refrigerators. Gas and electric stoves are also common. There are 12–15 motorcycles, 3 pickup trucks transport passengers to the nearest city daily, and gas suppliers come at least once a week. There are around five small foodstuff shops. An average man’s income for agricultural work is around 420,000 Colombian Pesos (CP) (US$ 210) a month, and 350,000 CP (US$ 175) for a women artisan. Taking into account the combined income and an average of six children per family, the per capita income is approximately US$ 2 a day (although the variance is high). These figures can be put in perspective considering that, if both parents work and earn the minimum wage – approximately 381,000 CP (US$ 191) – the daily income per capita is US$ 1.6. In terms of technological change, artisans adopted the manual wheel around 2000, and there are two gas kilns in town, although one is not operating. Three families participated in Expo-artesanı´ as 2005, the largest crafts show in Colombia and arguably in South America – two of them with the financial support of an NGO.
Ceramics La Chamba ceramics today retain a few Pijao origins and have decorative and utilitarian uses. During the past decade, which coincides with the boost of the export market, the diversity of products and volume of production have increased dramatically. On average, each household will produce about 200 pots per week (Waugh et al., 2001, p. 12). New designs, promoted by exporters,7 tourists, an NGO, and a government agency, are constantly being created and produced in large volumes. For example, the line of products of the largest workshop includes around 140 different types of pieces, varying in size and design, which represents a significant increase compared with only 4 designs in the 1960s. Innovation also comes from artisans inspired by books, magazines, museum pieces, and even by dreams.8 Waugh et al. explain that, historically, new designs were responses to the availability of metal cooking pots (2001, p. 23). In the past, Peace Corps volunteers also introduced new designs such as small statues and piggybanks (Kruckman, Waugh, & Milligan, n.d.). La Chamba potters do not strongly associate their products with their Pijao historical heritage, although artisans consider some designs as
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traditional and part of the history of the community. As an example, a young Chambuno woman said: New designs are a way to make more attractive crafts for the international markets. I like this, but it is bizarre that there is not a formal study about the culture and meaning of crafts. This might be a problem in the future because the changes in design could be only generated by a temporal demand that might die off.
Duncan also noticed this during the 1970s and 1980s: ‘‘The people of La Chamba think of themselves as mestizos, Colombians, Tolimenses, and Chambunos, rather than Indian y.’’ (2000, p. 14). Two or three families are exceptions. One of them, for example, makes figures inspired by Katios, Quimbayas, Calimas, and Pijao’s pre-Hispanic motives, and some mythological figures such as the Moan. The family has recently exported some of these products to an exclusive market in Spain, which, according to a member of the family, ‘‘is increasingly interested in these models.’’ Each figure is priced at US $15 to $20. Consequently, the penetration of export commercialization maintains, and in some cases enhances, the production of figures that artisans consider traditional. This tendency is also reflected in the production of the small soup bowl (cazuela), one of the oldest designs currently made in large quantities even by younger generations.9
INNOVATION AND CHANGE In La Chamba, design innovation and monetary income are strongly related. For example, families that consistently innovate and create good quality products are better off economically than others. It is more difficult for families that do not innovate to improve their economic situation even if they work longer hours. One artisan10 who is aesthetically and economically successful describes her creative and productive strategy saying: ‘‘I do not like to do things others do. I immediately think in doing things differently, I think about going in the opposite direction from the will of the clay.’’ Innovation translates into higher prices and higher income, as another economically and aesthetically successful artisan11 pointed out: ‘‘The good thing about new designs is that you can charge higher prices.’’ Women in La Chamba usually work long hours, sometimes around 14–16 h a day, combining ceramic work and household work. On average, women spend 6–8 h a day obtaining and preparing food, cleaning the house, and handling matters related to clothing, education, and health care (Waugh et al., 2001, p. 12). Indeed, the two types of work are so closely integrated that
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it is often difficult to discern where work and family life begin or end (ibid., p. 4). Although the domain of adult males lies outside the household, usually in agriculture, some men and children help with tasks related to ceramics; men usually help with firing, mining, carrying clay, and gathering firewood.12A large number of people who work with ceramics in Tolima are under 16, representing almost 30% of the total potters (CMED, 1998, p. 110). Children usually work 4 h a day in ceramic production – a figure steady since the 1960s. In spite of these efforts, though, the economic conditions of some households do not improve. In fact, most households in La Chamba are in a stage called obra negra, meaning ‘‘black work,’’ or unfinished construction (Duncan, 2000). On the other hand, there are elements in La Chamba that indicate relative prosperity and positive economic changes in the standards of living such as the increasing presence of motorcycles and boat engines, the omnipresence of TVs, stoves, refrigerators, and often telephones, and the fact that most of the artisans are able to send their children to elementary, middle, and high school (though not to college). Lara (1972) collected interesting artisan comments in the early 1970s in which they describe their socioeconomic situation: ‘‘We make the ceramic and they (the intermediaries) are the ones who have houses, televisions, send their children to school, and have improved their lives selling our work’’ (p. 143). This quotation not only suggests the artisans’ discontent with their economic situation at the time, but most importantly shows that their economic situation and their work are judged in terms of material accumulation and levels of education. As stated above, this situation has changed significantly. Ceramic production has also contributed to the economic independence of women who decide the destiny of their income (Lara, 1972). For example, an artisan indicated: ‘‘Sometimes my husband does not have money and I do, sometimes I pay or sometimes he pays the expenses of our household. When I was not working it was only his income and was not enough.’’ It is also common inside a family that income from both man and woman must go to ‘‘the same pocket,’’ where expenses become joint decisions. When a girl is not married, she manages her own income, works enough hours to cover her expenses beyond food, clothing, and housing, and negotiates her amount of work with her mother. In some cases, she contributes to the family income. But when she gets married her amount of work usually increases significantly, due to her need to cover household expenses including those related to raising children. The majority of potters in La Chamba attribute economic improvements to the production and commercialization of their crafts. About 80% of the
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artisans interviewed would like their children and grandchildren to become artisans. One artisan said, ‘‘In spite of the problems I want my grandchildren to learn to do what we do.’’ A retired artisan indicated that she now lives by the sale of cattle products, but that she bought cattle with savings from ceramic production. In addition, the proportion of households dedicated to ceramics has increased considerably: in the early 1970s, it was 77% (Lara, 1972), but by the early 2000s, it was 93% (Waugh et al., 2001). This evidence suggests that ceramic production is vibrant. A male artisan succinctly stated: ‘‘If it were not because of crafts, people would be hungry in La Chamba.’’
EXPLAINING THE RELATIVE SUCCESS There are some important elements that explain the relatively better socioeconomic conditions of La Chamba potters: (1) the technological innovations in La Chamba, which are almost nonexistent among other artisans in rural Colombia; (2) the fact that, despite low prices, commercialization is active (they must sometimes reject orders due to a lack of production capacity); (3) the geographic location of La Chamba, placing it close to important cities such as Ibague, El Espinal, and the capital Bogota´ (around 4 h away) – other artisan communities of Colombia being located farther away from markets; and (4) the fact that La Chamba ceramics resist high temperatures, making them ideal for cooking. The uniqueness of La Chamba ceramics is due to the special qualities of the local clay (which is volcanic) and also to the production process. In term of decorative quality, however, La Chamba pottery has some competitors – a domestic one being the ceramics of Ra´quira, a town in the Department of Boyaca´, and an international one being the black pottery of Oaxaca (Fabricant, 1987; Sayles, 1955; Van de Velde, 1939). Interestingly, the main exporter of La Chamba ceramic, a company called ‘‘The Pottery,’’ also produces another type of ceramic in gas kilns that is painted by hand and cannot be used for cooking. Nevertheless, Colombian consumers highly appreciate the bright look of La Chamba pots, which they consider part of their country’s folklore and artistic heritage. In fact, restaurants of typical Colombian food in Bogota´ and in other large cities such as Medellin, Cali, Bucaramanga, and Barranquilla serve food on La Chamba tableware – a trend that has appeared over the past 50 years.13 Finally, the penetration of the market in La Chamba’s economy has not only created competition among workshops on prices, but also in terms
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of levels of effort (Cowen, 2005; Farrell, 2003), especially among the bigger workshops. This competition also explains the economic success of some workshops. Two artisans in a joint interview gave the following explanation: In La Chamba there are mainly five last family names: Betancourt, Cabezas, Ca´rdenas (y) So everybody comes from those families, this is good and bad (y) – good because people see themselves as part of the same family and treat themselves with cordiality, harmony, etc. This is bad because this has created egoisms, and some families feel superior to others, and there is some kind of competition, which manifests itself in arguments like ‘‘I am the one who works the most, or the one who gets most of the orders.’’ People work very hard, they intertwine ceramic work with household work, and some do not stop working until one in the morning.
A similar situation was identified in Oaxaca (Foster, 1959a).
THE SEQUENTIAL OUTSOURCING SYSTEM OF LA CHAMBA In La Chamba, there are five large workshops (talleres), while the rest are smaller ‘‘satellite workshops’’ (talleres sate´lites). When the production orders surpass the large workshops’ production capacity, which occurs very often, they outsource to the satellites workshops services that deal with different parts of the production process. The smaller workshops at the same time subcontract work to even smaller shops or to individual artisans. In this way, the production orders to bigger workshops spread out to reach smaller workshops, poorer artisans, and even artisans in nearby communities. In one example, the biggest workshop subcontracts the services of 12 families, for a total of 60 people. This process of sequential outsourcing results in a reduction of margins in every step of the chain. Larger workshops retain a higher margin, smaller workshops a lesser amount, and so on. As a consequence, large discrepancies in the level of development emerge across households. On the other hand, the sequential outsourcing system has the positive outcome of expanding the benefits of technological innovations. Producing for the big workshops that sell directly to exporters generates more income (around 40% higher), even when rejected or defective items are taken into account. Bigger workshops that sell to exporters generally pay satellites higher prices, within a range of 20–60%, depending on the type and quality of the product. In general, people in these workshops have motorcycles to transport ceramics and raw materials, can afford a college education for their kids, and own the nicest houses in the
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community. On the other hand, the members of satellite workshops transport ceramics on big aluminum plates carried over their heads or by bicycle, cannot afford to pay for college, and live in unfinished houses. Artisans that own bigger workshops are proud of their work, while satellites usually see themselves as slaves of their work, claiming that in spite of the long working hours their living conditions today are the same they were 20 years before. Indeed, some of the potters in the satellites perceived the production chain as unfair. Cohen (1998) also identified this perception among a community of artisans in Oaxaca, Mexico. Nevertheless, artisans, regardless of the size of their workshops, generally say that they like their art. One said: ‘‘We grew up doing this, it is a tradition; our mother taught this to us. I like it and one gets used to it. Around two months ago I broke my wrist and was desperate. I wanted to work.’’ Another said: ‘‘I would like for my grandchildren to become artisans. This art helped me to raise my children and send them to school. I am not ashamed of it.’’ The sequential outsourcing system in La Chamba has also reached nearby communities. A town called Chipuelo, 7 km away, is an example. In Chipuelo, several families produce for various La Chamba workshops, performing such tasks as molding and burnishing.14 The lack of diversification and inferior quality explains why the living conditions in Chipuelo are lower that those in La Chamba. Interestingly, some people from La Chamba suggest that living conditions in La Chamba 20 years ago were like conditions in Chipuelo today, and that as time passes, Chipuelo might catch up with the current socioeconomic conditions of La Chamba. Since some of La Chamba’s production was redirected to the export market, there was an apparent supply gap in the Colombian market that Chipuelo helps fill. Indeed, some of the intermediaries who formerly bought in La Chamba buy now in Chipuelo. There is therefore a sort of progressive transition toward relative prosperity in the production processes of these two geographically linked communities as novel designs and new commercialization channels develop. Even people in the nearby village of Rinco´n Santo, traditionally an agricultural community, are now working in the burnishing stage of ceramic production. In addition, La Chamba workshops also outsource the burnishing process to El Olvido (The Forgotten), a community located 2 km away by the Magdalena River. By burnishing, many women can palliate their deteriorated economic situation. The following section explains that the differences in development across workshops and individual artisans are directly related to technological change.
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TECHNOLOGICAL CHANGE The changes in technology in different stages of the ceramic production process (such as the transition from a prewheel process to a manual wheel) are important for understanding social change in La Chamba. Gudeman (1992, p. 147) proposes that invention and innovation expand cultural capital, enhance the quality of life, and may increase the volume of savings. He claims that imitation spreads the possession of exchange values, thereby sharing the benefits of productivity and raising living standards among a population. In La Chamba, there is a clear pattern: artisans who work in the stages of production where technological change spreads the most are better off than those who work in stages where the effect is lesser or nonexistent. In Gudeman’s terms, artisans located over the diffusion channel of technology have derived larger economic benefits. In La Chamba, technological change has occurred in the sense that well-known technologies outside the community have just recently been incorporated in the production process. Production of ceramics in La Chamba can be divided into four stages: (1) mining, transporting, and preparing the three types of clay; (2) molding, rounding, decorating, and glazing the ceramic pieces; (3) burnishing (polishing) of the pieces – which is a technique also used in the black pottery of Coyotepec, Oaxaca; and (4) burning or firing in the kiln – a stage which includes a reduction process that is done with donkey dung, giving pottery its black color.15 In the past six years, there have been two important changes in technology, each one affecting a different stage of the production process: the manual wheel affecting the second stage; and the gas kiln affecting the fourth stage. The Manual Wheel Some anthropologists examining the progression of technological change in pottery production claim that there is an evolutionary continuum in the adoption of new artifacts, in which the most recent evolve naturally from those that came before (Foster, 1959a, 1959b). In Mokyr’s (1990) taxonomy, this implies a sequence of microinventions. Foster applies this analysis to the evolution of the modern pottery wheel. For Foster, the essential characteristic of a wheel is associated with the centrifugal forces that operate when it is rotating. He suggests that four basic types of implements, from simple to complex, can be delineated in which centrifugal forces in
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different degrees operate in the rotary motion: (1) the unpivoted turntable – an uncommon artifact, like the kabal used in Coyotepec, Oaxaca; (2) the pivoted turntable that permits the use of centrifugal force to throw the rim of vessels (like the neck of a pot); (3) the simple wheel, used to throw part of, or a whole, pot; and (4) the double or kick wheel, which Foster classified as the most advanced. If one uses the concept of centrifugal force as the distinctive characteristic of a wheel, as Foster suggests, La Chamba’s process of rounding and decorating (the second stage of the production process) can be divided into two periods: (1) from pre-Hispanic times up to the mid-20th century, when centrifugal forces were almost nonexistent, and (2) from the mid-20th century to the present, during which time centrifugal forces have existed to different degrees. In the first period, which included production of Pijao ceramics, artisans sat on the floor and used their feet to turn and mold the piece of clay. This technique differed from the method used by the Spanish artisans who worked on tables during the conquest period. La Chamba potters rejected the Spanish system and retained the Pijao method. Indeed, the use of the toe was common in the ceramic process, so much so that artisans jokingly described it as a third hand (Waugh et al., 2001, p. 20). Because of the slow movement of the piece and the absence of centrifugal forces, this period corresponds to the use of the unpivoted turntable. The 1950s witnessed the introduction of centrifugal forces in pottery production, after which artisans started to rotate pieces using the discs of farm tractors, which a few artisans still use. Their convex form allows rotation and the creation of centrifugal forces. This is the equivalent of the pivoted turntable in Foster’s classification. Wooden nonconvex variations of the disk used in La Chamba have been observed among the Gelib of Italian Somaliland, in the Philippines, in the Malay Peninsula, and in the Congo, to name only a few examples (see Foster, 1959b, p. 107). The situation began to change when a sculptor who visited La Chamba as a tourist introduced the manual wheel around 2000. She saw the production process and thought that artisans would greatly benefit from using the wheel. Following Foster’s classification, the shift from the disc to the manual wheel represented a step toward greater levels of complexity. La Chamba, therefore, has gone through Foster’s first three stages. La Chamba’s manual wheel is made of metal and consists of a rim connected to a base through a tube. It is rotated by hand and, once the wheel is in motion, the artisan uses both hands to shape the pot. Other variations of this wheel are rotated with a stick, and some are larger and heavier than those used in La Chamba, such as the Indian and East Pakistani wheels (Foster, 1959b).
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Anthropologists agree about the positive impact of the wheel on potters’ working conditions and productivity. They describe reductions in time and physical effort, improvements in quality, and more precision (ibid.). TurneyHigh attributes the industrialization of pottery to the wheel: The invention of the potter’s wheel enabled the artisan to make from ten to twenty vessels in the time formally required to produce one, thus introducing mass production in ceramics. Pottery thenceforth became a cheap and easily manufactured commodity and the standard of living consequently rose for the bulk of the people (cited in Foster, 1959b, p. 101).16
Extensions to this wheel eventually gave rise to the double wheel, which is not yet used in La Chamba. In La Chamba, the artisan who first used a wheel spoke of greater physical comfort and claimed that the wheel allowed her to mold, round, and decorate faster. After that, Artesanı´ as de Colombia, the government agency that promotes development in the craft sector, first donated and then sold manual wheels, chairs, and tables. Indeed, the manual wheel that artisans see as part of the tradition today improved productivity significantly, reducing the time required for molding and decorating (the second stage of production), and allowing artisans to work in a less tiring position. Two artisans who work together indicated that before the manual wheel they spent 2.5 h to mold, round, and decorate 12 pieces, but that with a wheel they can finish 15 pieces. They also said that the manual wheel ‘‘has helped us a lot. Before, we used the feet, but now you don’t need to push the piece, it ‘dances’ by itself.’’ Another artisan said: ‘‘Before (the wheel) we used to work until 10 at night, now we stop at 6:30 in the evening and produce the same amount.’’ The satellite workshops that mold, round, and decorate ceramic pieces earn a higher income than individual artisans or satellite workshops that perform other stages of the production process that technology has not penetrated yet. Indeed, due to technology, productivity has increased where this technology is used and has been constant where it is not. For example, the third stage (burnishing) is considered the bottleneck of the whole process. It can take 3 min to mold a piece, and 3 min more to round and decorate it, but it takes almost 0.5 h to burnish it, and 1 h for bigger jars. According to Waugh et al. (2001, p. 18), the average potter can produce roughly 525 small bowls every three weeks, enough to keep six polishers at work. Although burnishing is easier to learn than molding and decorating, it is a time-consuming process. Burnishing is done by hand with semiprecious stones or agates, and it produces the particularly beautiful shiny look, and it also makes the pottery waterproof.17
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The absence of technological changes in the burnishing stage explains why the amount of burnishing time today is the same as it was 40 or 50 years ago, and also partially explains why the income of a burnisher is lower than that of an artisan who works in the second stage. For example, a burnisher who makes four workloads a day (which is considered heavy) and charges 9,000 CP (US$ 4.50) per load earns approximately 55% of the income of an artisan who molds, rounds, and decorates. A burnisher who makes two workloads a day earns 30%. An artisan who molds, rounds, and decorates earns an income of around 300,000–350,000 CP (US$ 150 to 175) a month (not including the opportunity cost of time).
The Gas Kiln In La Chamba, innovation is spurred by the interaction of house-businesses, intermediaries, and an NGO. In the case of the gas kiln, the intermediary took the initial step. The leading role of the intermediary, who is also the main exporter, shows that, under circumstances of high demand, technological change can emerge. Before the conquest, pre-Hispanic groups fired ceramics in underground holes (Arango, 1976). Later, the burning of ceramic was done in an adobe kiln using firewood. The kilns were probably adapted from a Middle Eastern design brought to the region in the 1500s by the Spanish Conquest (Waugh et al., 2001, p. 24). The kilns are constructed over a framework of bamboo, after the initial firing of the kiln the adobe hardens and the remaining bamboo is burned away. The traditional process of burning usually takes 3 h for the first burning (of 10 ceramic containers), and the following burnings take less time because the kiln is already hot.18 The burning is generally performed by men and is the hardest stage of the process, due to the difficulties of manipulating the wood and the ceramic containers through the extremely hot mouth of the kiln. There are around 50 kilns in La Chamba, and some families borrow or rent kilns from neighbors. During the past three years, two gas kilns have been built.19 Artesanı´ as de Colombia built the first, and less successful, one. An intermediary designed the second, more successful one. The American NGO Aid to Artisans (ATA) lent the money to build it, and an artisan family, the Betancourt Garcı´ a, paid for it. Potters are not using the first gas kiln due to design deficiencies. The designer of the second gas kiln took into account the deficiencies of the first and created a better design that has been very successful. The second gas kiln has several advantages over the traditional one. First, it allows burning even during rain, which is not possible
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with the traditional kiln due to the need to warm the ceramic under the sun before burning. Second, it does not need firewood, which benefits the environment.20 Third, the process of burning is less difficult because it is not necessary to manipulate firewood and the ceramic containers during the burning process. Finally, the gas kiln burns the ceramic uniformly which makes it brighter, reduces the number of defective pieces, completely closes the porous surface, and it is particularly effective in burning small and delicate pieces. With the traditional kiln, it is difficult to measure the exact amount of wood needed. When the wood is not allocated uniformly, color and brightness are inconsistent, and sometimes the ceramic ends up under- or over-burned. The gas kiln generates important benefits for the Betancourt, the largest exporter’s main producer. Before the gas kiln was built, rain created many production and delivery delays, but the ability to work through rain has allowed them to complete orders on time. Greater regularity in production has also led to an increase in the number of orders recently. The trickle down effects of the satellite system also extend the benefits of the gas kiln to at least eight other families in the community. The gas kiln functions with a gas container of 300 gallons and started operating in late April 2005. It was designed for four containers per burning, but after some burnings they discovered that it was possible to add another smaller container between the others. It takes 1 h and 10 min per burning. This means that it can burn eight large containers and two smaller ones in 2 h and 20 min – approximately the same amount of time it takes to burn 10 large containers in a traditional kiln. The Betancourts have burned up to 10 times a day, compared to three times in a traditional kiln, by starting at seven in the morning and ending 12 h later. The initial investment in the kiln was 10 million CP (around US$ 5,000). ATA lent the money to cover the whole amount. Afterward, ATA retained 2–3 million CP (US$ 1,000–2,000) from every order and the artisan family paid everything back in only five months. The cost of burning per container is approximately 5% higher than the cost of the traditional kiln. But according to the Betancourts the numerous advantages more than compensate for this. The manager of the family business said: ‘‘Comparing time vs. production, (the gas kiln) is more effective y I couldn’t go back to the older (way of burning).’’ Several challenges remain, however. Eight families now use the kiln, and more probably would if it were easier to transport ceramic from other workshops to the Betancourts’. Also, some members of the community have not even seen the kiln because they fear the gas container may explode. When the process started several family members were skeptical because of the failure of the first gas kiln. But three other members of the family were
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optimistic. The technical and financial support of ATA was instrumental in accomplishing the project. Finally, the main intermediary offered the warranty of payment, which was in his best interest since the Betancourt family would be more likely to complete his orders on time. In general, there was an effective cohesion between artisans, an intermediary, and ATA.
CLOSING REMARKS Social change in La Chamba presents several characteristics of Joseph Schumpeter’s theory of economic development: (1) new products are brought to the market – more than 100 designs have been introduced since the 1960s, most of them created during the past 10 years; (2) new methods of production have emerged such as the manual wheel and the gas kiln; (3) new forms of business organization are brought into being – the Betancourt family is currently organized as a formal family business with welldelineated roles, such as a general manager and a finance manager; and (4) new markets in North America and Western Europe have been opened during the past 10 years. These developments show the high dynamism of the local economy of La Chamba. I have shown these outcomes and have explored their causes and effects following Joseph Schumpeter’s framework. Schumpeter’s theory is limited, especially when one considers more recent contributions in the field of socioeconomic development. Nevertheless, his theory is very important and useful as an analytical framework to study social change and current economic transformations that have an impact in economic well-being and social inequalities. La Chamba experiences a progressive accommodation to the market economy, representing hundreds of mestizo communities in Latin America that are going through similar socioeconomic changes. As stated by Waugh et al. (2001, p. 28), first the Spanish Conquest and now the global economy have pushed the villagers slowly away from subsistence agriculture toward day labor and ceramic entrepreneurship. These dynamics create large economic disparities and differing levels of development across workshops. The sequential outsourcing system helps to spread technological innovations across the community and to disseminate benefits derived from the higher bargaining power of bigger workshops. A concern in La Chamba is the decreasing level of interest that younger generations have in working with ceramics. They often prefer to migrate to cities such as Bogota´ or Ibague´ to work in a wide variety of occupations such as construction or the police in the case of men, or household cleaning in the case of women. A few leave to attend college. Men migrate more often
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than women. In some families, 9 of 12 sons and daughters have left. Even in the biggest and most economically successful workshop, the two sons left for Bogota´ while the four women stayed. The sons own a percentage of the family business, however, and come back often to help with different tasks. One of the main implications of the La Chamba case is that the programs to stimulate economic development, and specifically in the case of the gas kiln, have been reasonably successful because they represent a suitable continuation of the production and artistic activities that have been practiced in the community for hundreds of years. In addition, there has been an important degree of ownership of the development programs by certain families. Hands-on development practitioners will benefit by closely looking at this case.
NOTES 1. Mokyr (1990) notes that the choice of the words ‘‘application of information’’ is deliberate: much growth is derived from the employment of previously available information rather than the generation of new knowledge. 2. More specifically, economic development, according to this theory, covers the following cases (Schumpeter, 1949, p. 66): (1) the introduction of a new good (with which consumers are not yet familiar) or of a new quality of a good, (2) the introduction of a new method of production not yet tested in the branch of manufacture concerned, but which many have already been used elsewhere, (3) the opening of a new market into which the particular branch of manufacture of the country in question has not previously entered, whether or not this market has existed before, and (4) the conquest of a new source of supply of raw materials of half-manufactured goods, again irrespective of whether this source already exists or whether it has first to be created. 3. See Schultz’s Nobel Prize lecture (http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/economics/laureates/1979/schultz-lecture.html) for more details. 4. Cubillos (1946) provides an anthropological study on the Pijao. 5. There was only one isolated case in which the right wing paramilitaries entered La Chamba to eliminate delinquency groups. 6. Artisans in the Department of Tolima, where La Chamba is located, are mainly dedicated to ceramic production, followed by weaving, crocheting, and woodcarving. Approximately 53% of artisans work with ceramic, 35% weave and crochet, 4% work with wood, and the rest work with different materials (CMED, 1998, pp. 40–41). The majority of potters of Colombia (37%) are located in Tolima, followed by the Department of Huila with 19%, and Boyaca´ with 9% (ibid., p. 92). 7. One of the most innovative designs exported to Europe is the combination of clay and a metal element called peltre. 8. Clusters of innovation and cooperation exist inside families who make uncommon pieces, such as small sculptures, etc. A member of one of these families says: ‘‘I like to produce with my mom, because we talk about our lives, etc. My mom likes to work with us, and new ideas emerge, we combine them, and criticize each
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other too. We think about the final environment where the products will be displayed and talk about it.’’ 9. A situation not emphasized here is that these artisans do not calculate their costs or consider the opportunity cost of time, which is important, given that production of ceramic is a labor intensive activity. When artisans do not know the production costs, their bargaining power is reduced. The lack of measurement is due partially to the illiteracy of most adult artisans, but mostly to the complexity of the production process, which involves different subprocesses and numerous actors (even a trained technician will face problems in calculating the figures). See Gudeman (2001, p. 14) on the complexity of the measurement of costs in rural Latin America. 10. She has received several national and international awards. 11. Her work is usually exhibited at national festivals in Bogota´. 12. See Duncan (2000) for a description of men’s role in agriculture. 13. Although not emphasized here, the constant influx of buyers has created a risk-averse attitude among artisans who are reluctant to leave town and sell their crafts in other markets. 14. In Chipuelo, there are around 130 households and only around 10% of them make high-quality ceramic (cera´mica fina). 15. Other potters from Pueblo (Rio Grande, United States), and Catawba (Southeast United States) reduce their ceramics by using leaves, juniper, and elm bark (Kruckman et al., n.d.). 16. Foster (1959b) cites other authors who relate pottery industrialization with the wheel. 17. Waugh et al. (2001, p. 21) explain that burnishing has been used by wide varieties of cultures including the Hopi, Zuni, San Idelfonso (Mexico), Navaho, Catwaba, Aztec, and Maya. 18. Friday and Saturday used to be the weekly firing days as dealers arrived on Sundays, but today firings take place any day of the week, depending on the need to fill orders. 19. Oscar Rodriguez’s kiln is another one that heats faster. It combines a modern brick material with the traditional kiln shape. 20. Most of the forest in the surrounded areas belongs to the community and there is no evidence that reforestation takes place (Rinco´n, 2003). The general manager of the Betancourt Garcı´ a family business estimates that by using the gas kiln they spare the consumption of approximately 20 middle-sized trucks of wood a year.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I acknowledge the help and collaboration of the potters of La Chamba, especially of the Betancourt family, who provided me with a cordial family environment in La Chamba. I also acknowledge financial support from Francisco Marroquı´ n University in Guatemala, and logistic support of Aid to Artisans, Colombia. I also thank Tyler Cowen for his support and timely advice, and Michele Greet, Jon Rundle, Pedro Romero, Rachel Jablon, and
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Phyllis Puffer for their comments. I especially thank Carrie Meyer, Donald Wood, and an anonymous reviewer for extensive and valuable comments. I retain responsibility for any errors.
REFERENCES Arango, J. (1976). Cera´mica Quimbaya y Calima. (Ceramic of the Quimbaya and Calima Groups). Bogota´, Colombia: Plaza & Jane´s. Arthur, B. (1985). Competing technologies and lock-in by historical small events: The dynamics of allocation under increasing returns (CEPR Publication 43.). Stanford, CA: Stanford University. Arthur, B. (1988). Self-reinforcing mechanisms in economics. In: K. Arrow, P. Anderson & D. Pines (Eds), The economy as an evolving complex system (pp. 9–33). Redwood City: Addison-Wesley. Arthur, B. (1994). Urban systems and historical path dependence. In: B. Arthur (Ed.), Increasing returns and path dependence in the economy (pp. 99–110). Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Cifuentes, A. (1994). Tradicio´n alfarera de La Chamba (Pottery tradition of La Chamba). Boletı´n de Arqueologı´a, Bogota´, 9(3), 3–78. CMED (Ministerio de Desarrollo Econo´mico: Artesanı´ as de Colombia S.A.). (1998). Censo econo´mico nacional: Sector artesanal (National economic census: Crafts sector). Santa Fe de Bogota´. Cohen, J. (1998). Craft production and the challenge of the global market: An artisans’ cooperative in Oaxaca, Mexico. Human Organization, 57(1), 74–82. Cowen, T. (2002). Creative destruction: How globalization is changing the world’s cultures. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Cowen, T. (2005). Markets and cultural voices: Liberty vs. power in the lives of Mexican amate painters. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Cubillos, J. C. (1946). Apuntes para el estudio de la cultura Pijao (Notes for the Study of the Pijao Culture). Boletı´n de Arqueologı´a, Bogota´, 2(1), 46–81. David, P. (1985). Clio and the economics of QWERTY. American Economic Review, 77, 332–337. Duncan, R. (2000). Crafts, capitalism, and women: The potters of La Chamba, Colombia. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Ehlers, T. (2000). Silent looms: Women and production in a Guatemalan town. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Fabricant, F. (1987). The black pottery of Oaxaca. New York Times, March 8. Available at http:// www.nytimes.com/1987/03/08/travel/shopper-s-world-the-black-pottery-of-oaxaca.html Farrell, M. (2003). Collaborative circles: Friendship dynamics and creative work. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Foster, G. (1959a). The Coyotepec Molde and some associated problems of the potter’s wheel. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 15, 53–63. Foster, G. (1959b). The potter’s wheel: An analysis of idea and artefact invention. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 15, 99–117. Globerman, S. (2000). Linkages between technological change and productivity growth. Industry Canada Research Publication Program: Occasional paper 23. Available at http://strategis.ic.gc.ca. Retrieved on June 2, 2007.
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Gudeman, S. (1992). Remodeling the house of economics: Culture and innovation. American Ethnologist, 19, 139–152. Gudeman, S. (2001). The anthropology of economy: Community, market, and culture. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. Kruckman, L., Waugh, I., & Milligan, M. (n.d.). Las mujeres alfareras: La cera´mica de La Chamba. Unpublished manuscript. Instituto Colombiano de Antropologı´ a e Historia, Bogota´. Lance, L., & McKenna, E. (1975). Analysis of cases pertaining to the impact of western technologies on the non-western world. Human Organization, 34, 87–94. Lara, C. (1972). La Chamba: Ana´lisis de una comunidad campesina en transicio´n (La Chamba: Analysis of a peasant community in transition). Unpublished undergraduate thesis. Department of Anthropology, University of the Andes, Bogota´, Colombia. Lewis, W. A. (1954). Economic development with unlimited supplies of labor. Manchester School of Economic and Social Studies, 22, 139–191. Marroquı´ n Gramajo, A. (2007). Wayuu´ crafts: A dilemma of culture and development. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 217–238. Marroquı´ n Gramajo, A. (2008). Rationality as a social construction: What does behavior have to say about development in an Amazon community? Journal of Economic Issues, 42(1), 115–132. Mokyr, J. (1990). Twenty-five centuries of technological change: An historical survey. In: F. Scherer (Ed.), Fundamentals of pure and applied economics. New York: Harwood Academic Publishers. Myrdal, G. (1944). An American dilemma: The Negro problem and modern democracy. New York: Harper & Brothers. Nash, J. (1988). Implications of technological change for household and rural development: Some Latin American cases. In: C. Weil (Ed.), Lucha: The struggles of Latin American women (pp. 37–71). Minneapolis, MN: The Prisma Institute, Inc. Ocampo, J. (1994). Historia ba´sica de Colombia. (Basic history of Colombia). Bogota´, DC, Colombia: Plaza & Jane´s. Polanyi, K. (1968). Aristotle discovers the economy. In: G. Dalton (Ed.), Primitive, archaic, and modern economies: Essays of Karl Polanyi (pp. 78–115). New York: Anchor Books. Rinco´n, A. (2003). Informe asistencia te´cnica para el mejoramiento del proceso de coccio´n de productos de cera´mica en el departamento del Tolima. Unpublished report. Ministerio de Comercio, Industria y Turismo, Artesanı´ as de Colombia. Rosenstein-Rodan, P. (1961). Notes on the theory of the big push. In: H. Ellis & H. C. Wallich (Eds), Economic development for Latin America. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Rostow, W. (1960). Stages of economic growth. New York: Cambridge University Press. Sayles, E. (1955). Three Mexican crafts. American Anthropologist, 57, 953–973. Schumpeter, J. (1949). The theory of economic development. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Sen, A. (1992). Inequality reexamined. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sen, A. (2000). Development as freedom. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Van de Velde, P. (1939). The black pottery of Coyotepec, Oaxaca, Mexico. Los Angeles: Southwest Museum Papers 13. Vessuri, H. (1980). Technological change and the social organization of agricultural production. Current Anthropology, 21(3), 315–327. Waugh, I., Milligan, M., & Kruckman, L. (2001). The potters of La Chamba, Colombia. Indiana, PA: The University Museum. Wright, G. (1997). Towards a more historical approach to technological change. The Economic Journal, 107, 1560–1566.
COMPADRAZGO NETWORKS AND IMMIGRANT ADAPTATION IN A NEVADA TOWN Tamar Diana Wilson ABSTRACT In the case of migration to new destinations where the immigration stream from a particular locale is of little historical depth, it can be asked what people make up ego’s adaptation network. It is argued here that networks of reciprocal exchange fortified by the creation of compadrazgo relationships (ritual kinship ties) provide the new immigrant with economic and affective benefits.
INTRODUCTION Brettell and deBerjeois (1992) make a valuable distinction often not made in the migration literature: that between migration networks facilitating the migration process and adaptation networks after arrival. In their words: There are two types of networks. One serves the purpose of chain migration, where individuals channel their efforts to reunite extended family groups y The other type is community based and operates to support newcomers as they adjust to the demands of the new environment (1992, pp. 46–47).1 Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 99–109 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030008
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For Mexican immigrants (and others), these two types of networks are often overlapping to a great extent; however, there are degrees of overlap depending, for example, on the density and historical depth of the migration stream from origin to destination. If many from the rural community (and perhaps even urban barrio) have migrated to a locale – a phenomenon that usually occurs during a relatively protracted time period – immigrants can interact mainly with kin or friends from the same place of origin or previous residence. This will lessen the need to seek intense social interaction with acquaintances met at destination. When there are few kin and few members of the community of origin or past residence in the destination locale, social interactions will be sought with people who were heretofore strangers. In any case, most immigrants will make friends in the new society, especially at work sites, and over time, these friends sometimes become affinal relatives, or compadres (ritual kin). In this chapter, I will be looking at a case of multiple compadrazgo ties formed in a new migrant destination among people with few kin there. Although migration of Mexicans to Nevada is not new, migration to this particular town began slightly more than a decade ago. Reciprocity networks in which information, job assistance, loans, goods, services, and moral support are exchanged between people are important in both the migration and adaptation processes. Based on trust, network ties often lead to the establishment of compadrazgo (ritual kinship) relationships, which solidify the more informal interactions of network members. An important consideration here is the difference between weak ties and strong ties and the strengthening over time of the former. Granovetter (1973, 1982) has explored the importance of weak ties in information flows, especially those concerned with finding employment. Strong ties encompass those between close friends and/or kin who together form a dense network in which members interact on a continual basis and share the same information about the social environment, including job opportunities. Weak ties, on the other hand, are those formed by ego’s ‘‘acquaintance network.’’ The members of this acquaintance network may be unknown to each other or to those in ego’s dense network. Granovetter argues that information about new job opportunities flows most effectively from weakly tied acquaintances because they have information about the social world not accessible to and shared by dense network members (Wilson, 1998, p. 397). As a study of emigration from the rancho ‘‘Los Arboles’’ in Jalisco to various destination points in the United States has shown, weak-tied individuals may eventually be incorporated into ego’s dense network of strong-tied members (p. 400). This often happens through marriage, as for example when ego’s acquaintance comes to be a good friend and then marries ego’s sister,
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becoming ego’s brother-in-law. It can also happen when weak ties are strengthened to the point that compadrazgo relationships are established. Compadrazgo relationships have both a horizontal and vertical dimensions. The horizontal dimension is between compadres (coparents), with women being comadres (comothers) and men being compadres (cofathers). The godchild may be either an ahijada (goddaughter) or ahijado (godson) to their padrinos (godparents, f. madrina, m. padrino). Such relationships are established during religiously sanctioned life-cycle events such as baptism (the most important of the compadrazgo relationships), confirmation, first communion, and marriage. Compadragzo relationships may also be established for ‘‘secular’’ (Kemper, 1982, p. 6) events such as quincean˜era parties (celebrated on a girl’s 15th birthday) requiring at a minimum padrinos who pay for the mass, or graduation from primary, secondary, high, or technical school, with madrinas sponsoring girls and padrinos sponsoring boys (Kemper, 1982, p. 19; Nutini & Bell, 1980, p. 131).2 According to Kemper (1982, p. 19) while a number of the ‘‘‘secular’ compadrazgo ties are ephemeral y sometimes they may lead to more significant, long-term relationships cemented by baptismal or other sponsorships.’’ This reflects the fact that compadres chosen for one occasion may be chosen for another, sometimes more serious sponsorship. The most important link in compadrazgo is between compadres (whether male or female) and the most important occasion is baptism (Kemper, 1982, p. 18; Lomnitz, 1977, p. 164; Nutini & Bell, 1980, pp. 69–70). Nonetheless, padrinos are expected to give gifts to their ahijados on special occasions such as birthdays or saint’s days, help them along in their careers, and stand in lieu of parents should parents die. Compadres are expected to speak to each other with respect, using Usted (the formal ‘‘you’’ in Spanish) rather than the familiar tu´, and addressing one another as comadre or compadre (Kemper, 1982, see also footnote 1). This is true even if compadres are close kin such as sisters or brothers or aunts and uncles. As Kemper’s (1982) review of 21 case studies of compadrazgo in Mexico shows, kin are quite often asked to serve as compadres. There are several principles as concerns compadrazgo. First, compadrazgo relationships ritually cement and reinforce other social relationships. Regarding the reinforcement of relationships in reciprocal exchange networks, Lomnitz (1977, p. 159) writes: The role of compadrazgo is a mechanism for strengthening social solidarity in the networks of reciprocal exchange. If a reciprocity network is a social field based on exchange networks, this social field may reinforce and strengthen its solidarity texture by
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means of certain traditional institutions that are recombined in such a way as to meet new and unfavorable ecological challenges, such as urban marginality.
Although Lomnitz’s conclusions are based on a study of a squatter settlement in Mexico City that contained many in-migrants from the countryside, her statement can be generalized to Mexican immigrants to the United States. Second, therefore, compadrazgo is a valuable institution for the socially marginal, whether marginalized through rural–urban internal migration to a new and unknown environment (Lomnitz, 1977; Nutini & Bell, 1980, pp. 258, 269) or, as the cases given below, through international migration. As in the squatter settlement written about by Lomnitz (1977), compadrazgo as practiced by Irma and Rau´l3 (see below) and their compadres in the Lake Tahoe, Nevada region can be seen as ‘‘an example of a ritual institution harnessed to the needs of a new social situation.’’ Establishing a compadrazgo relationship involves a ‘‘maximization of friendship’’ that fulfills the desire for immediately available sources of social gratification, that is, people whom the labor migrant can count upon for intensive, everyday interactions; reliance on people who can lend money, provide economic support or a job, engage in cooperative enterprises, and so on y (Nutini & Bell, 1980, p. 269).
Thus, compadrazgo ties fill both socioemotional and economic needs. It has also been found that children’s health status improves or is better if the child’s parents are involved in reciprocity networks with extended kin and compadres due to emotional and financial resources provided (Kanaiaupuni, Thompson-Colo´n, & Donato, 2000). Third, compadrazgo relationships are not only egocentric and dyadic – binding together two persons or two couples – but also exocentric, forming a web or a system of compadres with aspects of a corporate group. In other words, compadres of my compadres often are or will become my compadres as well (Lomnitz, 1977, pp. 133–134; Nutini, 1984, pp. 35–38). In Nutini’s (1984, p. 38) words: While dyadic relationships among compadres predominate y, there is a certain dimension in which the compadres-compadres dyad is transcended, and functionally – though perhaps not permanently – the sum total of such dyads must to some extent be regard as a corporate whole, with the dyads standing in a global-exocentric relationship.
This will be seen to be the case among the Mexican immigrants living in ‘‘Lake Tahoe Town.’’ Fourth, compadrazgo relationships can be intensified in at least two ways, as mentioned above. On the one hand, compadres for one occasion may be
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asked to become compadres for another occasion. On the other hand, couple A – who asked couple B to become their compadres – may in turn be asked by couple B to become their compadres on some occasions.
A CASE STUDY The couple on whom this case study centers are Rau´l and Irma, both of whom I have known since I did my Ph.D. research in Mexicali from 1989 to 1991 (Wilson, 1992). I interviewed them (and their compadres) in ‘‘Lake Tahoe Town,’’ Nevada in August 2003 while I stayed with them in their rented house.4 Although Rau´l and Irma lived in the same colonia in Mexicali for some years, they had migrated to that border city with their parents. Rau´l’s parents came from two different neighboring ranchos (unincorporated rural settlements) near the small city of Tepititla´n, Jalisco. Rau´l was born on his mother’s rancho. Irma’s mother was born on a rancho near the small town of Yagualica, Jalisco, but had lived in Tepatitla´n and Mexico City before settling definitively in Mexicali. Irma was born in Mexico City, but had often accompanied her mother on visits to the state of Jalisco when she was a child. Rau´l, after beginning to live with Irma, decided to join four cousins (three male and one female) in Los Angeles to seek employment, partially because of the high clinic fees for the cesarian birth of his first born, a daughter whom I will call Erlinda and partially because neither his father’s nor his brickmaking enterprise was going well. Later, Irma and the child joined Rau´l in Los Angeles. In due course, his cousin Leticia and her husband became Rau´l and Irma’s compadres, honoring the closeness of their relationship. Irma and Rau´l eventually returned to Mexicali with Erlinda and a US-born son. But Rau´l’s luck was poor: more than 20,000 bricks he had made were destroyed by heavy rainfall. And thus he lost the family patrimony. Although Leticia and her husband had remained in Los Angeles, the three male cousins, all of whom worked in construction, had moved on to Lake Tahoe Town, where the contractor whom they worked for in Los Angeles also had projects. Rau´l had also worked for the same contractor as his cousins, having been networked into the job by them. Rau´l crossed the border without documents, as he had the first time, and joined these cousins in Nevada. He worked with them putting up a tourist hotel. His network had little depth: the only people he knew in Lake Tahoe Town were these three cousins, pioneers in their family in coming to Nevada. Irma soon followed Rau´l to Lake Tahoe Town. No one from the family had any other network members in the area.
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While I stayed with Rau´l and Irma, now with five children, two life-cycle events of importance were celebrated: Rau´l and Irma’s church wedding, after 16 years of living together, and their daughter Erlinda’s quincean˜era party, scheduled for the same day. These two events helped strengthen some compadrazgo ties and create new ones. Rau´l and Irma’s first compadres in Lake Tahoe Town were Cesar and Manuela. Cesar and Rau´l worked at the same pizza restaurant – Rau´l’s evening job after working in construction during the day.5 When Rau´l and Irma’s fifth child – a daughter I will call Alicia – was born, Cesar asked to be padrino of the baptism. Cesar and Manuela thus became compadres of Rau´l and Irma and padrinos of Alicia. They also became padrinos of the coins (aras, symbolizing hopes for prosperity) at Irma and Rau´l’s wedding. Notably, Manuela’s mother was from Tepititla´n, Jalisco, though Manuela had been brought up in Guadalajara. However, this proximity of origin was enough to establish some commonalities between members of the two families. Manuela and Cesar were also compadres with Manuela’s first cousin Jonathan and his wife Carolina – both from the Tepititla´n region. They facilitated Jonathan and Carolina’s becoming Irma and Rau´l’s compadres. Later Jonathan and Carolina became Irma and Rau´l’s padrinos de misa (godparents of the mass), the most important ritually sanctioned of the padrinos that Irma and Rau´l would have for their wedding. Some years before, Manuela and Cesar had introduced Irma and Rau´l to the former’s compadres Hortensia and Gilberto. Hortensia and Gilberto were from a rancho in the state of Durango, bordering on Jalisco. Manuela and Hortensia had met in a Laundromat, become friends, and then later compadres. Irma and Rau´l eventually entered a compadrazgo relationship with Hortensia and Gilberto when they became the padrinos of Erlinda’s first communion. These ties were reinforced when the two couples again became compadres on the occasion of Erlinda‘s quincean˜era celebration. Hortensia and Gilberto became her padrinos de velacio´n, or godparents of the nuptial benedictions at the mass for her (along with other quincean˜eras) in the local Catholic Church. Compadres became compadres of compadres, showing the near corporate structure that compadrazgo can have (see Fig. 1). Furthermore, compadres were sought and compadrazgo ties reinforced within the network. Notably Manuela and Cesar seem to be playing the role of patrons in a kind of patron–client relationship: they recruit people into their compadrazgo network and encourage sets of compadres to become compadres with each other. The benefits they gain are egalitarian, however: the guarantee that reciprocal exchanges will be carried out is strengthened for all parties. There is
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Irma and Rau´l’s Compadrazgo Network in Lake Tahoe Town.
no ‘‘asymmetrical distribution of power’’ (Adler, 2002, p. 135), characteristic of most patron–client relationships. Manuela, by extending her network, does gain in social capital (as do all parties to the compadrazgo contract). In other words, everyone’s social capital increases. Social capital has been defined in a number of ways, most of which see social networks and the aid they can potentially provide to members as its foundation (e.g., Bourdieu, 1986; Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992; Portes, 1995). Although the concept of social capital has been disputed (e.g., Durrenberger, 2002) on the grounds that it obscures the class structure of society – in other words, it ignores that some people have access to capital in the economic sense and some do not – I contend that it is a useful concept as long as it is distinguished from economic capital. Economic capital according to Marx consists of resources (especially money) that can be invested to gain more resources (especially money). This is encapsulated in his famous M-C-M equation showing the activity of capitalists as consisting in investing money in commodities that are then sold at a profit for more money. Economic capital and social capital may feed into each other: social contacts can be assumed to help one to know where and in what to invest and economic capital may lead to
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multiplying and/or fortifying social relations, that is, social capital. Nonetheless, they are conceptually distinct. Here I will define social capital as valued resources embedded in and accessed though networks that permit network members to avail themselves of the economic and affective goods, services, and labor of other members, whether through strong ties (such as kinship and fictive kinship) or through weak ties in the process of being strengthened. Under economic goods, services, and labor, I would include such things as exchanges of labor (e.g., repairing a roof or a car or providing child care), the provision of loans or shelter, and information about employment possibilities. Under affective goods, services, and labor, I would include invitations to meals, social events, and life-cycle celebrations as well as providing meals for a sick neighbor. (There is some overlap, obviously between economic and affective exchanges.) All of these goods, services, and work may be offered within friendship and kinship networks, but ideally they are forthcoming even more predictably between compadres. Although social capital is obviously distinguishable from capital in the Marxist sense, it does provide goods, services, and labor of economic value. When Rau´l was incapacitated for more than a year, after falling off the roof of a hotel he was repairing, his and Irma’s compadres rallied around to help the family. Once a week – if not more often – at least one set of compadres would invite Irma and Rau´l to dinner or bring food to the house which a comadre would help Irma to prepare. Small gifts of money, anywhere from 20 to 100 U.S. dollars were pressed on them. They knew that if they needed a loan they could get one (or several). Although this has no relationship to economic capital at the macrolevel of society (or even at the individual level), it shows how monetary resources and goods that would have to be bought flow through webs of affiliation at the microlevel. Notably, Irma’s sister Anamaria and Anamaria’s husband Roberto, who migrated to ‘‘Waters,’’ Arizona, developed no such institutionalized solidarity network to ease their adaptation. Although Roberto’s mother, uncle, and cousins, as well as a friend from the colonia formed part of his network in Waters, neither he, brought up in an evangelical religion, nor Anamaria, who had abandoned Catholicism upon marrying him, formed compadrazgo ties with the friends they met in Waters. Thus, they did not have the Catholic institution of compadrazgo among their array of adaptation network possibilities. Almost all of their friends were met at work sites and the ties were often ephemeral. Their most usually commonality, outside of sharing a common workplace, was their origin or recent residence in Mexicali. In many cases, once a friend left the work site, the social relationship weakened: visits
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tapered off as did mutual child care. This was especially true if the work site friend was from someplace other than Mexicali, where Anamaria and Roberto had been born.
CONCLUSIONS Although weak ties may offer economically related resources such as information about job openings that would not be available to a tight network or corporate group due to the redundancy of their information (Granovetter, 1973, 1982), these weak ties may be strengthened over time. One way of strengthening them is through initiating a compadrazgo (or padinazgo) relationship. This is what happened with Rau´l and Irma: acquaintances became friends and then compadres at their destination. This aided their adaptation in a situation in which few kin or friends from origin or previous residence had migrated to Lake Tahoe Town. Initially socially marginal in Lake Tahoe Town – first, because of their structural position as undocumented workers in the United States, second, because of their labor force position as low-waged workers, and third, because of the shallow depth of the migration stream from places of residence or previous residence in Mexico – their marginality was at least partially overcome through establishing compadrazgo ties with other immigrants. Sources of commonality were the region of prior residence or origin of self or parents. Some of these migrants (including Jonathan) were in the United States legally, but most were undocumented. But through compadrazgo relationships they reestablished an affective community at destination. And such affect provided some economic benefits – those common to reciprocity networks. Over the time, Rau´l and Irma’s compadrazgo ties moved from egocentric, dyadic relationships to exocentric, multistranded relationships similar to those of a corporate group, or of an extended family in which all members have reciprocity relationships with all other members. Compadres of compadres became Rau´l and Irma’s compadres (and/or padrinos). This sharing of compadres is only one aspect of the intensification of compadrazgo relationships. In the case outlined above, compadres were sought to baptize children, but also (and often the same compadres) to become padrinos of the wedding, of the quincean˜era, or of the first communion, etc. making them compadres two or three times over. This would typically be the case where the pool of potential compadres is shallow, due to lack of depth of the migration stream from places with which ego could establish a commonality.
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In the case of a more mature migration stream, in which kin and friends made prior to immigration are present in the destination locales, some of these may be chosen for compadres, with the same motive of strengthening reciprocal ties and exchanges. In both cases, following ritual religious practices confirms one’s cultural identity in a foreign land. Notably, geographical propinquity is central to keeping up frequent contact and intense reciprocal exchanges.6 It is also necessary for compadrazgo ties to take on a corporate form since ego’s new compadres may be recruited (or at least suggested) by existing compadres in a particular locale. Thus, Irma and Rau´l’s compadres Leticia and her husband, who came to attend the wedding and quincean˜era party from Los Angeles, were somewhat peripheral to the Lake Tahoe Town-based compadres who were all linked to one another, with reciprocal exchanges occurring weekly (e.g., in the form of visits and invitations to meals). Because of Leticia and her husband’s geographical distance, they were not easily defined as potential compadres of Rau´l and Irma’s Lake Tahoe-based compadres.
NOTES 1. Chain migration has also been called network migration and network-mediated migration in the migration literature. 2. Furthermore, people may become compadres or comadres either as couples or as single persons on the completion of a house, the opening of a business, or upon the gift of a statue or image of a saint, among other occasions. For people to serve as godparents of a variety of material goods at a wedding is also common, such as the rings and the wedding cake (each one usually paid for by a couple) and a prayer book and the wedding bouquet (usually paid for by a madrina). See Nutini and Bell (1980) for an extended discussion of types and occasions for compadrazgo in Tlaxcala, which are also found elsewhere in Mexico. Notably, little research has been done on compadrazgo and migration in recent decades, although occasionally in the literature compadrazgo is mentioned in passing as one of the social ties that facilitate the process of migration. 3. All names are pseudonyms. 4. The following sections are based on chapters in my book Women’s Migration Networks in Mexico and Beyond (University of New Mexico Press, 2009). 5. This grueling work schedule is notable because Rau´l had had polio when a child and had difficulty walking. 6. Kanaiaupuni et al. (2000) make this point: it is geographical proximity of extended family and/or compadres that has a positive effect on children’s health.
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REFERENCES Adler, R. H. (2002). Patron-client ties, ethnic entrepreneurship, and transnational migration: The case of Yucatecans in Dallas, Texas. Urban Anthropology, 31, 129–162. Bourdieu, P. (1986). The forms of capital. In: J. G. Richardson (Ed.), Handbook of theory and research in the sociology of education (pp. 241–258). New York: Greenwood Press. Bourdieu, P., & Wacquant, L. D. J. (1992). An introduction to reflexive sociology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Brettell, C. B., & deBerjeois, P. R. (1992). Anthropology and the study of immigrant women. In: D. Gabaccia (Ed.), Seeking common ground: Studies of immigrant women inn the United States (pp. 41–64). Westport, CN: Greenwood Press. Durrenberger, E. P. (2002). Why the idea of social capital is a bad idea. Anthropology News, 43(9), 5. Granovetter, M. (1973). The strength of weak ties. American Journal of Sociology, 78, 1360–1388. Granovetter, M. (1982). The strength of weak ties: A network theory revisited. In: P. V. Mardsen & N. Lin (Eds), Social structure and network analysis (pp. 105–130). Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications. Kanaiaupuni, S. M, Thompson-Colo´n, T., & Donato, K. M. (2000). Counting on kin: Social networks, social support and child health status in Mexico. CDE (Center for Demography and Ecology) Working Paper no. 2000-10. University of Wisconsin, Madison. Available at http://www.ssc.wisc.edu/cde/cdewp/2000-10.pdf. Retrieved on May 30, 2008. Kemper, R. V. (1982). The compadrazgo in urban Mexico. Anthropological Quarterly, 55(1), 17–30. Lomnitz, L. A. (1977). Networks and marginality: Life in a Mexican shantytown. New York: Academic Books. Nutini, H. G. (1984). Ritual kinship: Ideological and structural integration of the compadrazgo system in rural Tlaxcala. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Nutini, H. G., & Bell, B. (1980). Ritual kinship: The structure and historical development of the compadrazgo system in rural Tlaxcala. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Portes, A. (1995). Social capital: Its origins and applications in modern sociology. Annual Review of Sociology, 24, 1–24. Wilson, T. D. (1992). Vamos para buscar la vida: A comparison of patterns of outmigration from a rancho in Jalisco and inmigration to a Mexicali squatter settlement. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, UCLA. University Microfilms, Ann Arbor, Michigan. Wilson, T. D. (1998). Weak ties, strong ties: Network principles in Mexican migration. Human Organization, 57, 394–403.
THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY AND ITS IMPLICATIONS FOR SOCIAL COMPLEXITY: SPONDYLUS CRAFT PRODUCTION IN COASTAL ECUADOR Alexander J. Martı´ n ABSTRACT Archaeological evidence from the prehistoric Spondylus industry of coastal Ecuador is analyzed here to clarify how craft production was structured and the role that it played in the rise of social complexity. Many models of social development propose that elite cooption of specialized craft production can be a useful avenue through which aspiring elites can gain differential status. Contrary to the expectations of these models, data from coastal Ecuador indicates that craft production of sumptuary goods was an activity primarily carried out by household units for the benefit of the domestic economy. Increased trafficking with northern Peruvian states at ca. 750 seems to have promoted local social stratification by attracting large numbers of households to the restricted locales where they could exploit these resources, which in turn prompted a strengthening of the kinds of political conditions that facilitate orderly interaction and minimize internal social conflict. Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 111–155 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030009
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In recent decades, researchers have tended to place a strong emphasis on the role of political elites when explaining the mechanisms through which societies become more complex. Particularly, it has often been noted that in societies in the early stages of social stratification elites can co-opt certain types of production, such as that of luxury items, often by controlling full-time craft workers called attached specialists. This allows aspiring elites to either acquire social prestige or direct economic surplus from the control or trade of these items, in turn separating them more markedly from the general population, and sometimes resulting in the institutionalization of their differential status (e.g., Baines & Yoffee, 1998, pp. 235–240; Kipp & Schortman, 1989; Kristiansen, 1987; Peregrine, 1992, 2000; Stanish, 2003, 2004; Vaughn, 2006). With some degree of variation, models of social development such as these note that it is the control – and often monopoly – of craft production on behalf of potential elites that can be the critical factor that allowed some prehistoric populations to develop distinct political economies (Earle, 2002; Johnson & Earle, 2000, pp. 22–27; Smith, 2004, p. 78). These approaches, however, have tended to downplay the economic role that the manufacture of sumptuary goods can have on the general population. For example, Blanton and Feinman (1984) have noted that in Mesoamerica, the availability of large numbers of consumers in the central Mexican capitals pressured peripheral populations to specialize in the manufacture of textiles for long distance trade to meet this demand. They are clear in seeing this as a fundamental reorganization of the division of labor in order to meet general societal needs, which significantly modified the basic economic organization of the peripheral populations. For the coast of Ecuador, Masucci (1995) has similarly noted that the production of exotic shell beads for trade provided domestic units with a supplemental, but more stable, form of income that helped them cope with years of low agricultural returns. Works such as these accentuate the key economic role that production of nonessential goods can play on the livelihood of the general population, yet they have been much less prominent in recent debate. Furthermore, while craft production has often been studied along the axis of its possible role in the formation of a political economy, it has commonly been cited that, for most prehistoric cases, craft production took place within the domestic unit or in workshops associated with the household (Feinman & Nicholas, 2000; Smith, 2004, p. 83). In fact, from a large crosscultural comparison of societies of different levels of complexity, Clark and Parry (1990) show that the type of full-time attached craft specialists often invoked in models of elite control of craft production are strongly correlated with complex states, and not with societies in the early stages of social
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stratification. This suggests that for less stratified societies it might be more appropriate to think of craft production as associated with the domestic subsistence economy rather than the formation of a political economy. Unfortunately, it is difficult to determine precisely what role the manufacture of nonessential goods played in social change – if any – because to date not much research emphasis has been placed on exploring the actual character and distribution of these activities in societies in the early stages of social differentiation. This has meant that while we continue to invoke craft production as an agent of social development, our concepts of the role of this activity are based more on plausibility and preconceptions than on empirical determinations of its nature or distribution. Coastal Ecuador provides an excellent opportunity to enhance our understanding of the nature and role of craft production because it is often cited as a prime example of widespread prehistoric production of luxury goods for export. Researchers working in coastal South America have regularly noted that the Spondylus mollusk held considerable ritual and symbolic importance for the prehistoric populations of this area. The shell appears in large quantities in the archaeological record of northern Peruvian states – both iconographically and as actual shell remains – even though it does not thrive in large quantities in the cold Peruvian waters (Abbott, 1974; Carter, in press; Keen, 1971; Olsson, 1961). This put prehistoric Ecuadorian populations in a singular position to specialize in the manufacture and trade of Spondylus items to meet central Andean demand (Marcos, 1995; Martı´ n, 2007; Paulsen, 1974; Pillsbury, 1996; Zeidler, 1991). Historical accounts from the time of European contact note that the traffic of Spondylus beads and other decorative objects radiated in part from a unified polity referred to as C - alangome, located in present-day Machalilla National Park, southern Manabı´ , Ecuador (Currie, 1995a, 1995b; Pizarro, 1527, 1571). This traffic was complemented by the trade of luxury goods made from the pearl oyster species Pteria sterna and Pinctada mazatlanica, which were similarly consumed by central Andean populations (Mester, 1990). The social groups that resided in this part of coastal Ecuador were referred to ethnically as the Manten˜o. Within C - alangome, ethnohistoric sources indicate that shell manufacturing took place at four precolumbian settlements: C - alangome town, Tuzco, C - alango, and Seracapez (Fig. 1). These have been tentatively identified as roughly corresponding to the modern day towns of Agua Blanca, Machalilla, Salango, and Lo´pez Viejo (Currie, 1995a, 1995b; Silva, 1984). This example of prehistoric production for export represents one of the most well-known archaeological cases in the Americas where production is argued to have been critical in the social
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development of the producer population (cf. Marcos, 1995; Muse, 1991; Norton, 1986; Zeidler, 1991). An exploration of the organization of craft production in this region can clarify if this was an activity undertaken by just a few full-time specialists – possibly working in association with elites – or if there is evidence that these activities were carried out by the population at large. To this end, a systematic full-coverage survey was carried out in an area of roughly 100 km2 (Fig. 1) located so as to include two of the four precolumbian towns aforementioned, Machalilla and Agua Blanca – or ancient Tuzco and C - alangome, respectively (Currie, 1995a, 1995b; Silva, 1984). Survey teams systematically covered the study area and every time an artifact scatter was discovered, the scatter was divided into units of roughly 1 ha or less. At the center of each hectare unit, a systematic collection of artifacts was carried out so as to be able to determine changes in artifact density and variation in
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modern Machallla town limits (not surveyed)
artifact scatter
Collection units (approx. 1 hectare)
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artifact composition between collection units. Fig. 2 shows an example of several units within a large artifact scatter near the present-day town of Machalilla and the location of collection circles within them. Considerable amounts of ceramic, lithic, and shell remains were recovered. Ceramic materials were sorted into their different chronological phases to reconstruct the settlement changes across time (cf. Martı´ n, 2009, pp. 30–52). The density
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and artifact variations of these collection units provided the backbone of the settlement and demographic reconstructions presented later, as well as the main data source for the distribution and nature of craft production within the survey area. Absolute demographic projections were extrapolated from the average ceramic material produced per century by a domestic unit of between 5 and 10 members, providing a lower and upper range for the population.1
SOCIAL CHANGE IN COASTAL ECUADOR The survey revealed that during the Formative Period (3300–300 bc) the study area was essentially composed of a few scattered, isolated farmsteads surrounding a small hamlet by the ocean near the present-day town of Machalilla. The regional population did not appear to surpass 100 inhabitants and the Machalilla hamlet itself only presented enough ceramic material to account for between 5 and 10 families. This is fully consistent with the general picture reconstructed by other researchers of the Formative societies of coastal Ecuador (e.g., Zeidler, 1991). By comparison with its neighbors on the north coast of Peru, coastal Ecuador has tended to produce relatively unimpressive burial contexts and a general lack of investment in monumental construction, with the distant site of Real Alto being a commonly cited exception (Marcos, 1988). In terms of investment in nonhousehold architecture, the best example in southern Manabı´ comes from the Salango site, where Lunniss (2007, p. 416) and Norton, Lunniss, and Nayling (1983) excavated a ceremonial can˜a house that had as its main structural supports a series of small wooden posts without any type of structural foundation stone-work or elaborate architecture. The low regional population and the general lack of evidence for marked social stratification suggest kin relations were the most likely matrix of social organization. Within the study region, the miniscule population nucleation around Machalilla Bay appears fundamentally linked to basic subsistence strategies based on maritime resources. This type of evidence is fully compatible with simple egalitarian forms of social organization. There was not much change in the succeeding Regional Development Period (300 bc–ad 800). For the survey area, regional population increased to a few hundred inhabitants. The small village of Machalilla continued to be the only notable community with an estimated population of a couple of hundred people. The rest of the population continued to live scattered
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throughout the territory in small isolated farmsteads. Horizontal excavations throughout southern Manabı´ also attest to this period’s lack of evidence for marked social stratification, including scant burial differentiation, modest investment in nondomestic structures, and minor – if any – evidence for elite conspicuous consumption (cf. Harris, Martı´ nez, Kennedy, Roberts, & Gammack-Clark, 2004; Reitz & Masucci, 2004). For this time lapse, Spondylus finds in Peru are modest and include a few specimens from the Initial Period sites of Los Gavilanes, Aspero, La Paloma, La Galgada, and Kotosh. The shell also makes its appearance at Middle Horizon sites such as Malpaso and Chavı´ n de Huantar, where it is also depicted at the Tello Obelisk and the Smiling God stela. More conspicuous use of Spondylus by northern Peruvian elites can also be seen at the Moche tombs of Sipa´n, dating to about ad 1–300. However, it is not until ca. ad 750, with the coming of states such as Sica´n that the traffic of this resource with coastal Ecuador becomes especially pronounced. Then, Spondylus shells are depicted iconographically more frequently (Cordy-Collins, 1990) and the mollusk appears in a wide array of locations throughout northern Peru, often reaching thousands of specimens per site (see Carter, in press; Martı´ n, 2007, for a more complete review of Spondylus evidence across coastal south America and its changes through time). In coastal Ecuador, there is also little evidence of shell manufacturing before ad 750 (Carter, 2008, pp. 137–140). The most notable exceptions are the Guangala sites of El Azu´car Valley, dating to ad 100–650 (Fig. 3; Masucci, 1995; Reitz & Masucci, 2004). The Bahı´ a-phase occupation of the Rı´ o Chico site has also been identified as a small shell bulking station for the early stages of craft production based on its high proportion of discarded Spondylus cores (Clark, 2001; Harris et al., 2004; Martı´ nez, 2001). Because of their heterogeneous faunal assemblages, both of these locations have been recognized as low-intensity work areas where families worked at craft activities on a part-time basis alongside other subsistence pursuits (Harris et al., 2004; Martı´ n, 2010; Masucci, 1995). These sites, however, are unlikely to represent manufacturing for long distance trade. Authors such as Carter (2008, p. 512) have noted that the in-process beads from El Azu´car are predominantly white, ‘‘whereas the beads from Sipa´n [Peru] y tend to be much smaller and include numerous ROP [Red Orange and Purple] beads.’’ Considering that Ecuadorian populations had utilized Spondylus objects for their local assemblages since Formative times, it is likely that the modest evidence of Ecuadorian shell working available for the Regional Development Period is primarily the result of production for local consumption.
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Dramatic changes are visible in the settlement landscape of southern Manabı´ during the Integration Period (ad 800–1532). Fig. 4 shows the dispersal of survey units containing Integration Period ceramics. Units cluster markedly at two locations, to the south of Machalilla Bay, corresponding to what is usually called the ‘‘Machalilla site,’’ and to the southern edge of the Buenavista Valley, which corresponds to what is traditionally referred to as the ‘‘Agua Blanca archaeological complex.’’ Survey units also cluster somewhat near the present-day town of San Isidro and to the north of the Buenavista Valley (NBv). Aside from these clusters, the rest of the survey area shows a dispersed scattering of
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small – less that half a hectare – collection lots, likely representing small isolated rural farmsteads. Following the approach proposed by Peterson and Drennan (2005), Fig. 5 shows sherd densities represented as a surface perspective rendering in which peaks represent areas of high-density ceramics and low, flat areas represent parts of the survey where no ceramics were recovered. The ceramic densities indicate that Machalilla is by far the largest locus of Integration Period occupation. Based on absolute demographic reconstructions, it contains enough ceramic evidence to account for between 1,700 and 3,500 people living in an area of approximately 100 ha. Because of its high population and the restricted dispersal of the collection units, it is easy to define
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Fig. 5. Sherd-Density Perspective Rendering of the Integration Period. (Peaks Represent Areas of High-density Ceramics and Flat Areas Represent Parts of the Survey where no Ceramics were Recovered.)
Machalilla as a ‘‘local community,’’ where its inhabitants lived close enough to each other to be in daily face-to-face interaction. By contrast, the Agua Blanca occupation shows a very different settlement structure. During the Integration Period, somewhere between 900 and 1,800 people resided in the low elevation foothills that flank the Buenavista Valley’s southern river plain. This occupation covered a wider territorial extent than Machalilla (approximately 280 ha), but was less densely populated at any given locale. In other words, it was considerably less nucleated. Since the Agua Blanca occupation is so extensive – covering about 2–3 km from east to west – it seems too large to be called a single local community. It is unlikely that, at such long distances, all Agua Blanca settlers would have been in daily face-to-face interaction with one another. Nevertheless, Fig. 5 does show that the southern foothills of the Buenavista Valley were a distinct and still important locus of occupation during Integration times.
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For the North Buenavista cluster, there is enough ceramic material to account for between 80 and 160 people living in an area of approximately 20 ha. San Isidro’s population is even slightly lower, with between 70 and 140 people in 15 ha. These settlements can be considered small, dispersed villages with about one family per hectare. In addition to these communities, between 300 and 600 people appear to have lived scattered throughout the study region in dispersed farmsteads. Regionally, demographic estimates place the total population of the survey area in the range of 3,000–6,000 people. Although many of these inhabitants settled inland, coastal Machalilla was by far the largest demographic center, capturing over one-half of the total population. Even though the number of people living in this community increased radically from the preceding period, they did not disperse themselves across a large area like the settlers of Agua Blanca did. Machalilla clearly exerted stronger centripetal forces drawing larger numbers of households closer together than other locales in the survey area. Aside from a considerable population boom, there is also increased evidence of social complexity at this time. Substantial amounts of architectural remains within the study area attest to the presence of some form of organized political institution. Most notable are the well-known Agua Blanca corrales, which date to the Integration Period and consist of long stone wall foundations (similar to cattle ‘‘corrals’’) over which walls of can˜a bamboo, wattle-and-daub, and plaster stood under thatched roofs. Several of these have been identified as nondomestic ceremonial and elite structures. The Agua Blanca ‘‘ceremonial center’’ contains over 28 separate corrales, one of which measures 50 15 m and contains in situ remains of 9 intricately carved stone ‘‘seats of power,’’ often cited as evidence of elite corporate groups (McEwan, 2003). These types of high labor investment structures, along with their methodically carved seats, have not been identified for earlier periods, which suggest at least some degree of change in the political institutions that the general population was willing – or forced – to support. The settlement arrangement at the regional level also shows evidence of organization beyond that of the local community. Fig. 6 shows a mathematically smoothed version of the sherd-density perspective rendering depicted in Fig. 5. Increasingly smoothing the distribution of ceramic sherd densities causes smaller occupations to merge with larger, more central settlements. Based on the principles of interaction, Peterson and Drennan (2005) have noted that this type of smoothed settlement aggregation makes it possible to discern the various districts of interaction present on the
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Sherd-Density Perspective Rendering of the Integration Period. (Smoothed by using the Inverse Distance to the Powers of 4, 2, 1, .5, and .25.)
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landscape. This can be used as supportive evidence that the distribution of settlements was not simply organized around the principles of local communities and daily face-to-face interaction, but rather on principles that are more ‘‘supralocal’’ in nature. Fig. 6 shows that as smoothing increases the Agua Blanca occupation remains separate from Machalilla as an independent interaction district. It also captures nearby settlements as the entire Buenavista Valley population merges with it. Even the most pronounced smoothing (Fig. 6(e)) produces two distinct districts of interaction, each with its own central focus. Such patterning of the settlement landscape into cohesive districts has not been uncovered for earlier periods (cf. Martı´ n, 2009, pp. 63–92), and it suggests that there might have been other forces affecting (or directly organizing) settlement location aside from the more localized concerns of individual communities. The artifact assemblages of the different communities also show evidence of status differentiation between settlements. Boundaries were drawn to separate the collection units belonging to each community by choosing a topographic contour line from the unsmoothed sherd-density perspective rendering that encapsulates the peak used to define each community (Fig. 7). Since the Agua Blanca occupation is too dispersed to be accurately described as a local community, the contour line that encapsulates this occupation is depicted as a dashed line. The units within the boundaries of each community were grouped together so that the cumulative proportions of different ceramic types for each community could be quantified. The remaining scattered collection units were also added as a separate total to come up with proportional averages for the isolated rural farmsteads. Statistical error ranges for these proportions were calculated using a cluster sampling formula (Drennan, 1996, pp. 247–251). Fig. 8 uses two different criteria to measure the proportion of fancy ceramics within the different settlements of the survey region. This type of evidence is commonly used to explore the presence of high-status individuals based on the assumption that, all things being equal, elaborate ceramics require more labor and are thus more socially ‘‘expensive’’ to produce than cruder ones (cf. Boada Rivas, 2007). Fig. 8(a) shows the proportion of fine temper grain sherds (fineware) and Fig. 8(b) shows the proportion of highly polished sherds to total sherd count for the different occupations. Although these two criteria do exhibit moderate differences, they show the same consistent pattern. As might be expected, the scattered rural occupation has the lowest proportions of high-status indicators. Between the two large settlements, both criteria show Machalilla with greater proportions of fancier ceramics than Agua Blanca. The small community of San Isidro has
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Delimitations of the Different Settlements of the Integration Period as well as the Collection Units that Fall within Their Boundaries.
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Fig. 8. (a) Proportion of Sherds with Fine Temper Grains (Fineware) within Total Sherd Count (Integration Period). (b) Proportion of Highly Polished Sherds within Total Sherd Count (Integration Period).
status indicators somewhere in the range of Machalilla and Agua Blanca. By contrast, the small North Buenavista community has by far the most indicators of fancier ceramics – particularly fineware sherds – which suggests that this small settlement might have been a special locus of elite activities. The attached error ranges show that we can be highly confident that the differences observed in these samples represent actual differences in population proportions. The archaeological evidence for the Integration Period, then, indicates some degree of increased social complexity from earlier periods, including the appearance of large, more demographically dense communities, supralocal settlement organization around distinct districts of interaction, the appearance of architecturally complex nondomestic structures and associated Manten˜o seats of power, and ceramic evidence of status differentiation between settlements. These developments are in agreement with the ethnohistoric characterization of the survey area as part of a larger political entity that – by European arrival – yielded supralocal control of several valleys (Currie, 1995a, 1995b; Pizarro, 1527, 1571). These changes occur suddenly with the arrival of the Integration Period and are difficult to explain by the same factors that prompted small villages to organize within the study area during Formative or Regional Development times. What does differ for the Integration Period, is the increased demand of Spondylus objects placed on coastal Ecuador populations by northern Peru
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(particularly from states such as Sica´n and Chimu´), as well as large amounts of archaeological evidence within the study area and throughout southern Manabı´ for the manufacture of such items at this time.
THE NATURE OF INTEGRATION PERIOD CRAFT PRODUCTION In contrast to the scant numbers of excavated sites that show evidence of shell manufacturing for the Formative and Regional Development periods, a whole array of localized excavations have yielded evidence of shell bead production after ad 750, both inside the survey area and throughout coastal Ecuador (Fig. 3; Carter, 2008, in press). In southern Manabı´ , the sites of Rı´ o Chico, Lo´pez Viejo, and Salango all show Integration Period evidence of shell craft production. Farther south, we can also add the sites of Mar Bravo and Loma de los Cangrejitos. Within the survey area, Mester (1990) has uncovered a shell-manufacturing work area at the site of Los Frailes dating to the early or transition Integration Period (Fig. 1). Carter (2008) not only points out that most of the shell working evidence that has been excavated from the Ecuadorian coast dates to between ad 700 and 1200, but that this period also saw a notable increase in regularization of shell bead production. Within the survey area, malacological evidence was widely dispersed. Most of the shell data examined here came from the same collection units used to recreate the sherd densities, demographic numbers, and artifact assemblages of the different communities. A second line of evidence came from special collections carried out in noticeable shell concentrations (see Fig. 2). Also called concheros, these shell concentrations appeared throughout the study area, were usually not larger than a few square meters in extent, and could be recognized on the surface by having extremely high densities of shell material. At the time of survey, it was difficult to assign a specific role to these shell concentrations, although it seemed likely that if craft specialists were working at shell manufacture within the study area, they might represent middens associated with craft production. This idea was reinforced by the frequent presence of cut Spondylus fragments and small lithic drills within the concentrations. Every time a conchero was recognized, an extra collection circle was placed directly on top of it and a systematic sample of artifacts was gathered. Altogether, the survey recorded 39 shell concentrations. In as much as these concentrations represented shell-working middens, it was expected that they would provide even more direct glimpses into the
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nature of the manufacturing industry due to the closer spatial association between manufacturing evidence and shell remains. The survey evidence corroborated that most shell manufacturing took place during Integration times. Fig. 9 depicts the quantities of sherds of different periods within the 39 shell concentrations recorded. Over 93% of the ceramic materials within the shell concentrations were Integration Period pottery. This overwhelming dominance of Integration Period material within the shell middens associated with shell manufacturing not only indicates that most shell craft activities took place in the last period before European arrival, but also serves as further indication that this industry was in some way related to the social and political changes that occurred in southern Manabı´ at that time. To reconstruct the organization of shell working at the regional level the intensity and scale of production were explored (Costin, 1991). Intensity applies to the individual production level and it refers to how devoted given producers are to their craft – basically, whether they are full-time or a parttime producers. High-intensity production occurs when people devote their entire time to craft production, sometimes also called highly specialized production (Smith, 2004, pp. 82–83). An example might be a blacksmith in a European medieval setting who engages only in this activity in exchange for
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resources from the subsistence sector of the economy. Alternately, lowintensity production occurs when individuals work at an activity only part of their time, such as domestic ceramic production where each family devotes a small proportion of their time for the manufacture of utilitarian wares. Scale refers to how many people within a population are involved in a given craft activity. Large-scale production occurs when just about everybody is involved in that activity. Arrow manufacture for the daily hunt in an egalitarian hunter-gatherer village is a good example because all hunters are in charge of making their own projectiles. By contrast, smallscale production occurs when only a few people in a given population are involved in an activity, such as obsidian knapping in a city like Teotihuaca´n. Together, intensity and scale capture a range of variation on how a society might structure craft production. The entire society might have smaller or larger scales of production, but at the same time, the individual producers can be more or less intensely specialized.
Intensity of Production and the Coast of Ecuador Clearly, in prehistory, craftsmen such as blacksmiths or ceramicists existed. If this was the only activity that those individuals carried out, they represent good examples of intense production. If, however. these were marginal activities in their daily routine, they can be said to be low-intensity producers. In other words, high-intensity work areas should show clear emphasis on the production of a given item and should not show a full range of activities such as domestic or other subsistence endeavors. Archaeologically, then, high-intensity work areas are expected to leave fairly clear markings that a single activity predominated in them. Researchers have often noted that middens from work areas where high-intensity production took place show debitage from a single activity in higher proportions than low-intensity work areas (e.g., Feinman & Nicholas, 2000). A useful modern analogy for this phenomenon is to think of the difference between the trash of someone who knits blankets for a couple of hours a day and the trash dumps of a factory where the only activity is to produce blankets. Although the person’s trash will show the full range of activities that take place in his/ her daily routine, with only a small part of the total assemblage being discards from blanket production, the trash dumps of a blanket factory will be overwhelmingly dominated by refuse from blanket manufacturing. The same pattern occurs archaeologically in prehistory. Garbage middens of high-intensity work areas within cities such as Teotihuaca´n repeatedly show
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the same byproduct, whereas domestic structures where somebody worked part-time at an activity are substantially more mixed (cf. Feinman & Nicholas, 2000; Martı´ n, 2010; Moholy-Nagy, 1990; Shafer & Hester, 1991; Widmer & Storey, 1994). Regarding shell manufacturing, the site of Ejutla, Mexico, contains a good example of a high-intensity work area characterized by a very homogeneous shell assemblage. At that site, the seven genera associated with exports accounted for 95% of all identifiable shell in the manufacturing middens (Feinman & Nicholas, 2000, p. 127). This overwhelming dominance of the shell types associated with trade represents a good indicator that shell manufacturing for trade dominated the work area. In coastal Ecuador, because of the ethnohistoric importance attributed to Spondylus, a substantial amount of research has been undertaken to understand the contexts under which Ecuadorian populations produced these items (Carter, 2008; Currie, 1995a, 1995b; Clark, 2001; Harris et al., 2004; Martı´ n, 2010; Martı´ nez, 2001; Masucci, 1995; Mester, 1990). Although horizontal excavations at the sites of Rı´ o Chico, El Azu´car, Lo´pez Viejo, and Los Frailes show clear evidence of shell craft production (through the presence of worked shell, unfinished beads, lithic drills, spent Spondylus cores, etc.), the contexts of all these work areas indicates that production took place among a much broader range of subsistence pursuits. In all of these cases, the four shell species used to manufacture export items (Spondylus princeps, Spondylus calcifer, Pteria sterna, and Pinctada mazatlanica) constituted very minor proportions of the total shell assemblages, which were overwhelmingly dominated by unworked small gastropods, presumably consumed for their meat. Fig. 10 graphically depicts the percentage MNI of shell species used for exports within the shell assemblages at these four sites2 (Martı´ n, 2009, pp. 120–128). The graphic comparison shows that even though all of these sites have contextual evidence of shell manufacturing, none of these work areas remotely approximates the highly homogeneous assemblages that are expected of high-intensity production (e.g., seen in Ejutla, Mexico). Even the Rı´ o Chico site, which currently stands as the most likely candidate for a specialized workshop area in coastal Ecuador because of its somewhat higher proportion of export species, is very unlikely to represent an intense manufacturing locale. A one sample t-test reveals that there is less than 1% chance of getting a random sample like the one from Rı´ o Chico (with a proportion of 20% export species) from a population that actually had a proportion of 90% or more export species in it (t ¼ 17.07; po.001). Instead, these stand out as heterogeneous shell assemblages highly dominated by small gastropods, which result from basic domestic food
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Fig. 10. Percentage MNI of Shell Species Used for Export within the Shell Assemblages of Four Previously Excavated Shell Workshops along the Central Coast of Ecuador.
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procurement strategies. The workshop floors and middens show only marginal evidence of production for export. In this regard, Harris et al. (2004, pp. 39–40) have noted that it is likely that the settlers of Rı´ o Chico followed a diversified subsistence strategy that took advantage of a varied range of microclimates and that included maritime exploitation, use of estuaries, and inland agriculture. For El Azu´car, Masucci (1995) has noted that such a heterogeneous assemblage is not likely representative of intense production, but rather that shell working was a secondary activity within the domestic mode of production. The very similar proportional shell makeup of the Los Frailes and Lopez Viejo assemblages suggests a similar context. In spite of all the importance attributed to Spondylus trade and all the detailed excavations that have been carried out at the shell workshops of coastal Ecuador, this region has yet to produce a single example of a high-intensity work area with a highly homogeneous shell assemblage that would suggest that a single activity predominated in it. Shell Evidence within the Survey Area The localized excavations described earlier provide information about four individual cases, two of which preceded the Integration Period. Unfortunately, in and of themselves, it is difficult to determine if they are good representatives of the shell working areas of coastal Ecuador, or if they have unusually high- or low-intensity levels of production. In this sense, survey data systematically gathered across large regions can help us understand how representative the level of intensity uncovered at these few horizontal excavations truly is. The shell assemblages recovered in the survey collection units provide valuable insights to the general proportions of shell material dispersed throughout the different communities. They make it possible to determine if at the community level shell assemblages are also largely heterogeneous, as well as the degree to which exotic shells – or gastropods associated with food procurement – dominated assemblages. Following the same methodology used above to compare ceramic proportions, Fig. 11(a) shows the percentage of fragments belonging to the four shell species used for export within total shell fragment count for each of the settlements in the survey area, as well as for the scattered farmstead occupation.3 All the settlements have shell assemblages with very low percentages of export species, which oscillate around 10% (not counting North Buenavista because of the dramatically large error ranges caused by its virtually nonexistent shell assemblage). It should be noted that, in contrast to the scattered rural
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Fig. 11. (a) Percentage Fragment Count of Shell Species Used for Export (Spondylus princeps, Spondylus calcifer, Pteria sterna, and Pinctada mazatlanica) within the Shell Assemblage of the Different Settlements. (b) Percentage Fragment Count of Worked Shell within the Shell Assemblage of the Different Settlements.
occupation, it is the more nucleated communities that have the highest proportion of export species (with at least moderate statistical confidence). Another important pattern is that both coastal and inland settlements have surprisingly similar proportions of export species in their shell assemblages. Even the rural occupation, with 8% export species, is similar to the 13% exhibited by coastal Machalilla. It seemed that whenever people exploited maritime resources – and whether they lived inland or by the coast – they did it in much the same way. Shell assemblages in all settlements essentially show the same pattern already uncovered from horizontal excavations, they are soundly dominated by small gastropods for dietary consumption and craft production appears as a minor or secondary activity within the assemblages. This is also corroborated by the very small proportion of any type of worked shell within the shell assemblages. Fig. 11(b) shows the percentage of worked shell fragments within total shell count for each of the settlements (excluding North Buenavista which did not have any worked shell, and only 10 shell fragments altogether). Only a very small proportion of the total shell assemblage of any settlement showed evidence of being worked (between 2.6% and 4.6%). We should again notice that it is the coastal community of Machalilla that has the highest percentage of worked shell, although only by a very weak difference.
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Fig. 12. (a) Percentage Fragment Count of Shell Species Used for Export (Spondylus princeps, Spondylus calcifer, Pteria sterna, and Pinctada mazatlanica) within the Total Shell Fragment Count of All Shell Concentrations in Each of the Different Settlements. (b) Percentage of Worked Shell within the Total Shell Fragment Count of All Shell Concentrations in Each of the Different Settlements.
The second malacological line of evidence comes from the shell concentrations. Because of the presence of exotic shells and lithic tools, their restricted dispersal, and overall high density, these concheros stood as the best potential candidates for the shell middens derived from more intense craft production work areas. If full-time artisans worked at shell craft production within the survey area, it is in restricted shell middens such as these that they would leave evidence of their more intense craft production strategies. Fig.12(a) shows the percentage of shell fragments of the four export species within total shell count for all the shell concentrations within each of the different settlements (excluding North Buenavista which did not have any shell concentrations). Again, the same pattern emerges; the shell concentrations of all the settlements contain only small percentages of the shell species used for export, likewise oscillating around 10%. The shell concentrations are not only fundamentally similar to the shell assemblages of the standard survey collection units, but they also do not show much difference between coastal and inland levels of intensity (although again, the large nucleated community of Machalilla had the
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highest proportion of exotic shell with approximately 12%). The shell concentrations, just like the shell assemblages from the standard survey units, are essentially middens dominated by small gastropods. In fact, if looked at individually, not a single one of the 39 shell concentrations recorded during survey diverged from this trend and all had very low quantities of export species. This suggests that, even though during fieldwork it was tempting to interpret these concheros as the results of intense craft production, they cannot be taken as archaeological indicators of full-time production of shell export items. They are essentially shell middens that resulted from normal domestic subsistence pursuits based on shellfishing, mostly for small gastropods. As is common in domestic middens of this type, other domestic activities are sure to be represented in the assemblage. In this case, the sporadic presence of some worked exotic shell suggests that a part-time shell manufacturing industry supplemented the domestic economy in a moderate way. Evidence that the shell concentrations are primarily shell middens associated with food procurement is further bolstered by the exceptionally small amounts of any type of worked shell in them. Fig. 12(b) shows that with the exception of Machalilla, the shell concentrations of each of the settlements had less than 1% worked artifacts (North Buenavista is again not included since no shell concentrations were recorded for it). The shell concentrations of Machalilla, once more, were only slightly higher than this amount with a little over 1%. As noted in the introduction of this chapter, it has often been proposed that a potential catalyst for sociopolitical development is the elite control and financing of full-time craft producers of sumptuary goods. Under this scenario, elites finance full-time attached specialist – or if the elites themselves are the craft producers the term imbedded specialization is used (Smith, 2004) – but retain control of the prestige or economic benefits associated with the trade of these items. This allows them to gain prestige or surplus and cement their differential access to resources. If full-time attached or imbedded specialists were present within the survey area, a good place to look for them would be in proximity to the large, architecturally complex corrales of the ceremonial center (often proposed to be elite structures of some kind). There are four shell concentrations within these ‘‘elite areas’’ in direct proximity to some of the largest and more complex corrales of the Agua Blanca Settlement. For this reason, the percentages of export shells in these four shell concentrations were also computed and presented separately in Fig. 12. As we can see, these also have very low proportions of export shell species or worked shell. Just like the other shell concentrations of the survey
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area, these are essentially shell middens primarily resulting from food procurement strategies with only minor emphasis on export shells. Because of the proximity of the survey area to the ocean, we may consider that such high proportions of shells collected for dietary purposes are to be expected, and could potentially obscure more homogenous middens dominated by the four export species that suggest the presence of intense craft production. After all, the example of Ejutla, Mexico, whose assemblage clearly demonstrates intense craft production, is more than 80 km away from the coast (versus only 10 km for the easternmost border in our survey area). Although it is certainly inappropriate to expect a shell pattern perfectly analogous to the Ejutla data, it is the whole picture reconstructed here that most strongly attests to the complete lack of any degree of intense production within the survey area. If intense shell craft production did take place, and the heterogeneity of shell middens was simply the result of proximity to the ocean, we would expect that as settlements move farther away from the coast, they would progressively contain less of the shells associated with food procurement and show progressive emphasis on export species. In fact, the opposite is true. Figs. 11 and 12 show that the inland occupations (such as Agua Blanca and the isolated farmsteads) are the ones that have less emphasis on export species. More importantly, however, these differences are minor. Just about anywhere in the study area where shell remains appear, whether they are dispersed throughout the settlements or in packed concheros, and whether they are in coastal communities or in hilltop farmsteads, they consistently show the same basic pattern: large quantities of gastropods with approximately 10% export shells mixed in. This makes it more likely that this pattern resulted from the same basic domestic organizational strategy rather than from differential midden formation processes that coincidently created the same result everywhere in the study area. Finally, the best indication for the lack of intense craft production comes in the form of strong negative evidence. If our purpose was to find – within an area of 100 km2 – even a single place where a relatively homogenous shell assemblage suggested that artisans worked at craft production most of the time, that expectation was never met. Even in the ‘‘elite areas’’ of the Agua Blanca ceremonial center, far removed from the ocean and surrounded by complex architectural remains, the very heterogeneous shell assemblages indicate that craft production of exports seemed to always take place within domestic units alongside other subsistence activities. This ultimately corroborates, as well as expands, the understanding already gained from the localized excavations of shell working areas
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described earlier. Not only does surface evidence depict the same basic low intensity production scenario already reconstructed from subsurface excavations; but these findings can now be projected as well to the regional level. In this respect, the similar low-intensity levels of production of the localized excavations described earlier, as well as the increased craft standardization noted by Carter (2008) for the period of ad 700–1200, appears to have resulted from a basically consistent form of domestic organization present throughout coastal Ecuador. Lithic Evidence from the Survey Area Lithic material provides yet another way to investigate the nature of craft production within the survey area. Masucci (1995, p. 77) has identified a number of small lithic tools associated with contexts where shell bead manufacturing took place. Like shell, the proportions of these manufacturing tools in different settlements provide useful indicators of which ones placed more emphasis on craft activities. If any given settlement focused more intensely on shell manufacturing, we would expect it to show a higher proportion of manufacturing tools in its lithic assemblage. Fig. 13(a) shows the percentage of small manufacturing tools (drills, puncturing tools, burin spalls, and rimmers) within total lithic count for each of the settlements of the survey area. All settlements have very low and similar proportions of manufacturing tools within their lithic assemblage – between 5% and 8% (and error ranges suggest that any differences could simply be the result of the vagaries of sampling). This further reinforces the interpretation that no settlement was intensely specialized on craft activities and that shell manufacturing followed a consistent and similar level of intensity. The lithic assemblage also gives us an opportunity to further explore the nature of the shell concentrations and their relationship to craft production. The emphasis on small gastropods suggested that these concentrations were primarily domestic middens resulting from food procurement strategies based on shellfishing. However, the modest presence of shell species used to manufacture export items and some worked shell indicated that a moderate manufacturing industry took place within the same domestic units. If this was truly the case, we would expect that the shell concentrations would show some correspondence between the presence of export species and the presence of tools used for manufacturing. Specifically, we would expect that concentrations with larger quantities of export species would also show larger numbers of lithic tools associated with shell manufacturing. A linear regression between the percentage of export species and the percentage of manufacturing tools in each of the shell concentrations does reveal a mild
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Fig. 13. (a) Percentage of Manufacturing Tools within Total Lithic Count for Each of the Settlements. (b) Percentage of Manufacturing Tools within Total Lithic Count for All Shell Concentrations of Machalilla and Agua Blanca.
positive correlation between these two variables4 [r ¼ .521, p ¼ .001, y ¼ (.410)x þ (.010)] (Martı´ n, 2009, pp. 136–141). A scatter-plot of this relationship is depicted in Fig. 14. Although a mild correlation was revealed, the value for r2 is only .271, which indicates that shell export species only explain about 27% of the variation in manufacturing tools. This is in agreement with the picture that has been reconstructed so far for the organization of craft production within the survey area. It suggests that while drills, puncturing tools, burin spalls, and rimmers were probably used in shell craft production within less intense, domestic modes of production, they probably served other purposes as well. Hence, not only do shell export species always appear in domestic middens dominated by food discards, but the manufacturing tools in these middens do not seem to be exclusively related to shell manufacturing. Interestingly, a comparison of the percentages of manufacturing tools in the shell concentrations of the different settlements does show more marked differences. Fig. 13(b) shows coastal Machalilla with somewhat higher proportions of manufacturing tools than Agua Blanca5 (with high statistical confidence). Although this could result from the Machalilla work areas having slightly more intense production than those of Agua Blanca, it may also result from a larger proportion of people within that settlement engaged
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138 50
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Fig. 14. Scatter-Plot of the Percentage of Shell Fragments Belonging to the Four Export Species (Spondylus princeps, Spondylus calcifer, Pteria sterna, and Pinctada mazatlanica) within Total Shell Count and the Proportion of Manufacturing Tools within Total Lithic Count for 37 Shell Concentrations of the Survey Area.4
in craft activities. To investigate the latter scenario the following section explores issues of scale. Scale of Production and the Coast of Ecuador Unlike intensity, considerably fewer efforts have been undertaken to understand the scale of production within coastal Ecuador. In order to determine the scale of production, it is necessary to measure the proportion of people within the population engaged in a given activity. Small-scale production occurs when only a few individuals are involved in manufacturing, contrary to large-scale production where just about everybody is engaged in craft activities. These different scenarios are expected to leave very different patterns in the archaeological record. Although small-scale shell production would only leave material remains of the activity in a small portion of a settlement (spatially representing just a few people), a larger scale of production would leave a wider dispersal of material evidence
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throughout the occupied area. Similarly, if just about everybody was engaged in manufacturing shell items, we would expect the remains of this activity to be ubiquitous throughout the settlement. During survey, the different settlements were broken up into several 1-ha units and a systematic collection of artifacts was picked up at the center of each one (see Fig. 2). Each collection, then, provides a single observation of whether or not that spot contained shell-manufacturing evidence. Consequently, the percentage of units within a given settlement showing shell production evidence would indicate – within attached error ranges – the proportion of territory, and by proxy the amount of people, who were involved in shell craft activities. The most direct artifactual evidence of the production of shell export items is the presence of at least one of the four species used for exports. If shell manufacturing was only carried out by a handful of people in a settlement, we would expect that only a small proportion of the survey units would have recovered one of these export species. By contrast, if just about everybody was in some way involved in shell manufacturing, we would expect the presence of these four species to be widespread, and that most collections would have recovered at least one of these specimens. For example, in the continuous surface scatter that represents the center of the Machalilla community, 35 of the 51 collections carried out at the center of each unit recovered shell remains used in the production of exports (Fig. 15). Although 51 observations is not a terribly high sample number, it still allows us to say (with 95% statistical confidence) that the percentage of total area with surface evidence of export species is 69%, with an error range of 712%. Although the error range is somewhat wide, this proportion does indicate that it is very likely that a very large proportion of the population was engaged in this activity. If instead of only using this continuous surface scatter, we include all the units that define the Machalilla community (Fig. 7), this number drops slightly to 56% since 39 of 70 Machalilla units recovered at least one of the four manufacturing species (712% at 95% confidence). This is still a fairly large proportion of the total Machalilla settlement, which suggests that export manufacturing was undertaken by a large number of individuals. If we consider that Machalilla is estimated to have between 1,700 and 3,500 inhabitants, this would mean that approximately 940–1,920 people might have been in some way engaged in craft production. This number is simply too large to be representative of monopolized, attached, or imbedded types of craft production where only a few specialists carried out production. It is much more likely that such large numbers of craft producers dispersed across a sizeable community like this one are the result of domestic modes of
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craft production where many families included this activity as a supplement to their general subsistence strategy. The small community of San Isidro shows a similar pattern. Altogether, 9 of the 22 collections recovered evidence of export manufacture, or 41% (722% at 95% confidence). This would mean that between 35 and 70 people in a community of between 80 and 160 could have been involved in shell craft production.
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By contrast, all other occupations have much lower scales of production, suggesting that outside of Machalilla and San Isidro, shell manufacturing was not as widespread. For Agua Blanca, only 19 of 126 survey units recovered fragments of 1 of the 4 shell species used for export, or 15% (76% at 95% confidence). A substantially lower percentage which indicates that for that occupation exotic shell manufacturing was considerably more marginal, even in the place that congregated the second largest amount of people within the study area. Since the Agua Blanca occupation is estimated to have had between 900 and 1,800 people, approximately 140–280 could have worked at this activity. Likewise, a very small percentage of the North Buenavista occupation shows any evidence of this activity. Only 2 of the 19 collections recovered evidence of shell craft production, or 11% (715% at 95% confidence), suggesting that as few as 10–20 people might have been involved in shell manufacturing. Finally, the isolated rural farmsteads show the least evidence of being engaged in producing shell exports with only 17 of 261 collections retrieving any of the four export species, or 7% (79% at 95% confidence). Since the rural occupation is somewhat larger, with between 300 and 600 people, it means that between 20 and 40 people might have been engaged in craft production. It is again important to remember that the analysis carried in the previous section indicates that the intensity of production was low in all settlements. The pattern of large-scale/low-intensity production found at Machalilla and San Isidro suggests that at those locations many families carried out craft production on a part-time basis. In this sense, rather than interpreting the small scale of production at Agua Blanca, North Buenavista, and the scattered farmsteads as a possible indicator of full-time attached specialists, it is much more likely that the pattern of small scale/low intensity of these settlements results from only a few families working at craft production – also on a part-time basis. Adding together the number of people engaged in shell manufacturing provides us with some idea of the scale of production at the regional level. First, this number falls between 1,150 and 2,300 – again, a number simply too large in absolute terms to represent elite monopoly of craft production. In prehistory, productive scales of this magnitude are more commonly associated with domestic level production where many family units carry out an activity, more often than not, because they see some internal benefit in doing so. Second, if we consider that population estimates indicate that between 3,000 and 6,000 people lived inside the survey zone at this time, it means that the percentage of regional population engaged in manufacturing was approximately 38%. In other words, at the regional level, shell
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manufacturing was not an activity carried out by the majority of domestic units. Rather, it was an activity mostly undertaken by the inhabitants of the most populous center – Machalilla – and to a similar degree by the inhabitants of the smaller San Isidro village. At these two locations, enough families engaged in shell manufacturing that the industry was probably an important component of those community’s economies. Outside of these settlements, however, the scale of production drops considerably so that in combination with the low intensity of production shell manufacturing is likely to have been of marginal importance at other locations. This should not be misunderstood to mean a lack of importance of this industry at the regional level. Rather, it helps highlight essential differences in terms of subsistence strategies and settlement structure between the more nucleated Machalilla and San Isidro communities, carrying out some degree of shell craft production, and the more dispersed Agua Blanca and rural occupations more focused on agricultural strategies and showing more dispersed settlement patterns. These emphases are also evidenced in the basic domestic ceramic assemblages of these settlements. Fig. 16(a) shows the percentages of griddle plate sherds (for cooking manioc or maize foodstuffs) to total sherd count for the different settlements. It is precisely the two more
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Fig. 16. (a) Comparison of the Percentages of Griddle Sherds within Total Sherd Count for the Different Settlements. (b). Comparison of the Percentages of Sherds Belonging to Large Utilitarian Olla Pots within Total Sherd Count for the Different Settlements.
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dispersed occupations (Agua Blanca and the isolated farmsteads) that show increased emphasis on ceramics associated with preparing agricultural resources. The same pattern is also visible when one compares the percentage of large utilitarian olla pot sherds (presumably used to carry or store grain and other agricultural resources) to total sherd count (Fig. 16(b)). By contrast, the more nucleated communities of Machalilla and San Isidro, with more emphasis on shell manufacturing, show lower proportions of both of these vessel types associated with agricultural production.6 Interestingly, the North Buenavista community shows the lowest proportions of either olla or griddle sherds than any other settlement. This not only suggests a generally low presence of domestic activities at this location, but also further reinforces the idea of North Buenavista as an especially distinct locus of elite activities.
RESULTS OF ANALYSIS If shell craft production was carried out by a small group of attached specialists financed or controlled by political elites, we would have expected to find evidence of high-intensity work areas restricted to a small part of the survey region, and this evidence should have been especially associated with elite areas. In fact, the data collected supports the complete inverse scenario, evidence of craft production is dispersed throughout many locales and especially widespread throughout the most populous community, Machalilla. Based on demographic reconstructions, a very high absolute number of people – or between 1,150 and 2,300 individuals – might have worked at this activity. At the same time, no evidence for a single high intensity work area has been recovered either by this survey or by past excavations along the coast of Ecuador. The Integration Period seems to be a period of blossoming trade connections when coastal Ecuadorian populations met northern Peruvian demand for Spondylus and other exotic shell items (Carter, 2008, in press; Martı´ n, 2007). It is also during this period when for the first time in the local trajectory of development demographic numbers soar. This regional population growth appears primarily driven by Machalilla, which expands demographically much more than any other settlement capturing over half of the regional population, and yet retains a denser, more nucleated character than other places in the survey zone. Most of the regional population that took advantage of shell craft production for export also appears to have resided at this locale. It seems reasonable to assume that
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this industry was in some way related to the factors that allowed Machalilla to support a larger population at this time. However, the people that took advantage of this industry apparently did not become full-time specialist producers of exotic goods. Although in certain settlements (such as Machalilla and San Isidro) the evidence of this activity is more widespread, low-intensity levels of production always remain constant, suggesting that whenever people engaged in shell manufacturing they did it in conjunction with other subsistence strategies. As is to be expected, alongside the demographic expansion of Machalilla, regional population also increases. Many more people take advantage of the seasonally watered flood plains of the Buenavista Valley, as well as settle the small communities of North Buenavista and San Isidro. However, those areas where emphasis was more on terrestrial resources (Agua Blanca and the isolated farmsteads) retain a more dispersed character than the settlements where the bulk of craft production took place (Machalilla and San Isidro), which are decisively more densely occupied. The nature of craft production, as an added benefit to the domestic unit, and without the need to use up large amounts of land, could indeed have provided the basis for increased levels of population nucleation. In spite of the long academic history in coastal Ecuador of referring to the Agua Blanca occupation as an elite regional center (primarily because of its architecturally complex corrales) we should note that more evidence for fancier ceramics occurs in Machalilla, and even more markedly in the very small community of North Buenavista. Although North Buenavista produced virtually no evidence of any type of shell production, it had overwhelmingly the most indicators of elite status (including high proportions of fancy ceramics and low proportions of domestic utilitarian olla pots and griddle plates). This discrepancy between the settlement with the highest elite indicators and the lowest evidence for shell craft production further supports the conclusion that there was not a strong association between elites and shell production. Instead, the influence of this activity in sociopolitical development appears to be more related to the economic principles that allowed individual family units to reside in proximity to one another than they previously had. With the introduction of this new form of income, the Machalilla settlement began supporting larger numbers of people living in denser settlements arrangements. The resulting population increase seen at this location is temporally and spatially coupled with more complex regional settlement patterns that include supralocal forms of organization, status differentiation between settlements, and more investment in nondomestic architecture.
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In this sense, the demographic growth and population nucleation evidenced in Machalilla at this time would have likely required a strengthening of the managerial political formations that facilitate orderly interaction and minimize internal social conflict, and would have concurrently pushed for the higher levels of social and political complexity also evidenced at this time.
CONCLUSIONS: THE ROLE OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIAL COMPLEXITY As detailed at the beginning, in recent decades researchers have tended to place a strong emphasis on the role of political elites when attempting to explain the mechanisms through which societies become more complex. Particularly, many models of social evolution propose that elite control or monopoly over craft production and/or long-distance trade of luxury goods offers a critical avenue through which elites can increase – and even institutionalize – their status. Although these types of approaches vary greatly in the specific mechanisms used to explain the development of social stratification, they all share a common emphasis on the central role of political elite institutions in the appropriation of craft production and a resulting increase in social complexity. Stated in other words, these types of models see the generation of a political economy as the central factor that allows social stratification to develop (Earle, 1997, 2002). In this regard, it is important to note a key distinction between the political economy and the domestic economy from which the former is derived (Earle, 2002; Johnson & Earle, 2000, pp. 22–27; Sahlins, 1972; Smith, 2004, p. 78). The domestic economy refers to the range of productive activities that the domestic unit carries out with the purpose of generating resources for its biological and cultural reproduction. This includes food procurement strategies as well as the production of items necessary to meet cultural needs, such as clothing, ceramic wares for food processing, ritual paraphernalia for ancestor veneration, personal adornments, etc. This sector of prehistoric economies contrasts with the political economy, which is based on the extraction of surpluses from domestic units by elites to finance their agendas or institutions (e.g., to fund monumental construction, acquire exotic goods, finance attached specialists, build public works, etc.). By definition, the political economy is intrinsically based on productive surpluses that go beyond what the domestic unit uses for its biological or cultural reproduction.
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In the past few decades, much less emphasis has been placed on the role of the domestic economy in the development of social complexity. This has been particularly true when addressing craft production, even though it has been commonly recognized that most prehistoric craft production took place within domestic contexts (Feinman & Nicholas, 2000; Smith, 2004, p. 83) and that full-time production – often invoked for attached specialists – is strongly correlated with complex states and not societies in their early stages of social differentiation (Clark & Parry, 1990). In general terms, elites of less stratified societies have at their disposal less coercive power or economic resources with which to either force or finance full-time attached specialists than do elites of larger, more complex societies. This suggests that craft producers in societies in their early stages of social stratification should be less able to withdraw completely from their basic subsistence pursuits to work full-time as attached craft specialists. Hence, for chiefly societies, it might be more appropriate to associate craft production with the domestic subsistence economy. The results of the analysis carried out here indicate that for this case the manufacture of export items was not associated with elites, but rather with the most populated and nucleated regional center, and occurring under the context of domestic units which took up this industry as a complement to other subsistence strategies. The cottage production of beads – which serve as nonperishable trade resources – could have provided a useful, more stable, secondary income to buffer environmental uncertainty and the resulting fluctuations in returns of more direct food procurement pursuits (Masucci, 1995). In this sense, costal Ecuadorian shell manufacturing should be understood as a part of the basic domestic economy and not part of a developing political economy. How, then, could domestic craft production play a role in the rise of social stratification? Domestic units are generally thought to be very resistant to production intensification because in the domestic mode of production laborers are kin-related, which provides disincentives to exploit them or intensify production beyond their biological and cultural needs (Netting, 1993, pp. 295–299; Stanish, 2003, 2004, p. 15; Vaughn, 2006, p. 315). In other words, domestic units are often seen as inherently resistant to generating surpluses. This view was perhaps best exemplified by the well-known Chayanov Model – named after the Russian agrarian economist Alexander Chayanov (Netting, 1993, p. 299), who was among the first to articulate this intrinsic productive ceiling under which domestic units operate. This inherent tendency of the household unit to stabilize production below the generation of surpluses has been to some degree responsible for pressuring researchers
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to look for the catalyst of social stratification outside of the domestic unit, and consequently to give aspiring elites more prominent roles in the models used to explain the development of political economies. Although it is certainly true that domestic modes of production have strong disincentives to generate surpluses, the appearance of new economic opportunities, and the economic pressures that they place on individual households, should also not be overlooked. Several decades ago, Renfrew (1969, p. 159) noted the critical role that the appearance of new sources of income (whether by technological invention, the discovery of new resources, the appearance of new consumers, etc.) could have on local economies. In his study of the Neolithic, he argued that it was the appearance of a new resource that was for the first time worth trading – for that case metallurgy – that prompted European changes in social complexity at that time. Certainly, and in spite of a tendency to stabilize production, it would be expected that domestic units would take advantage of better or more efficient forms of production, which allow them to spend less energy to get the same – or better – returns. For example, technological innovation can permit more efficient production; or new markets for luxury goods, which provide better returns, may develop elsewhere. In cases such as these, it would be natural to assume that family units would switch their productive strategy to spend less energy per laborer (or spend the same amount of energy with better returns). This would be particularly true in regions where environmental fluctuations make other subsistence pursuits uncertain. In this sense, while family units might retain their individual tendency to stabilize production (and not over-exploit their family members), it would be normal to expect that as many family units as the new resources can support would switch their productive strategy to take advantage of their better returns. Particularly when the extraction or production of these new resources is in a restricted locale, this may have the outcome of promoting population nucleation. In other words, the appearance of better economic opportunities might not prompt individual families to intensify production, but they very well might result in a larger number of households taking advantage of those resources. For the coast of Ecuador, not only are many more people visible in the local landscape once trade with northern Peru increases, but the Machalilla community appears to be the center of population growth, where many families took advantage of shell manufacturing. In modern examples, the internal economic drives of individual household units have often been understood as key catalysts of population nucleation and demographic growth for regional centers. In an example from
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present-day Panama, Rudolf (1999) tracks how the macroprocess of rural migration to Panama city results from microeconomic processes that originate at the individual household level, where each individual family attempts to take advantage of the perceived economic opportunities offered by the capital city. At the household level, rural families make conscious decisions based on perceived cost–benefits, which results in a system-wide pattern of migration and nucleation to the city, a process commonly cited as responsible for over-migration and associated city-slums in many modern cities around the world. For prehistoric examples, the appearance of new economic opportunities in a restricted locale could certainly pressure individual household units to use similar economic cost–benefit rationales as they attempt to take advantage of the new resources. For coastal Ecuador, increased trade connections with Peru at around ad 700 could have offered family units important benefits that attracted them to Machalilla, where they could exploit these resources. Even though only one part of a broader range of subsistence endeavors, many elements make Spondylus manufacturing a potentially critical complement that family units might have wanted to include it in their substance repertoire. Aside from the direct face value of the objects being produced, the nature of nonperishable trade resources would have been of great worth in areas that face periodic environmental fluctuations such as this one. It is also possible that the appearance of the Spondylus industry on the archaeological landscape of coastal Ecuador influenced regional population growth through other means. For example, if this resource was of sufficient economic importance, its trade might have brought important quantities of edible resources (maize or other foodstuffs) into the area, effectively raising the amount of people that the region could sustain (Muse, 1989). Furthermore, even a moderate population increase resulting from a few families taking advantage of this industry might have made it possible for the Machalilla community to provide a larger array of services than other nearby places, which would provide further incentives for more subsequent population growth and nucleation. Other political, economic, and social factors are sure to have played their roles in the development of these societies, which may also have had their part in the demographic increase visible during the Integration Period. In whichever way the Spondylus industry affected population growth, this demographic increase would have had profound implications on the way society structured itself. As early as the 1960s, authors such as Service (1962) noted the central role of managerial formations in the development of social complexity. In small populations, maintaining full-time political leaders has a
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high proportional cost to each individual. However, as the size of the community grows, the proportional cost of maintaining elites decreases in relation to the total size of the population. For this reason, as the population grows and more resources are generated, the proportion of resources that each domestic unit has to relinquish to support full-time elites is progressively less taxing. At the same time, as the population increases – and particularly in areas where people nucleate more closely – the amount of social friction that individuals encounter also increases. This growing number of people residing in proximity to one another would gradually experience more internal social conflict and tension, and would progressively require more and more the appearance of managerial formations that facilitate orderly interaction and minimize internal social conflict. At some point, the increasing need for managerial formations produced by population enlargement would offset the increasingly lowering cost of maintaining elites. Under this scenario, it is individual household units that take advantage of the appearance of new resources for their own (economic) benefit. This has the result of congregating a larger number of families in the restricted locales where the new resources are available. Yet, at the same time, this creates a propitious environment for the formation of hierarchical structures. It also creates precisely the type of environment that aspiring elites might take advantage to increase their political economy. For example, aspiring elites might very well jump on this opportunity and co-opt control of the ships needed to move the resources manufactured by individual domestic units; or acquire control of specific production nodes (see Arnold & Munns, 1994, p. 477). In other words, it is not to say that aspiring elites do not play a key role in the development of social stratification, but it is important not to overlook the economic forces that create the types of social environments where stratification is likely to occur. The long trajectory of social change in the Machalillla National Park seems to offer at least preliminary support for this scenario. In conjunction with increased trafficking with Peruvian states, we not only see evidence for the development of more complex social formations, but Machalilla becomes the fulcrum of population growth while retaining a decidedly more nucleated settlement arrangement than other parts of the study area. All of this happens as many domestic units move to take advantage of an industry that provided more stable – or better – returns than previously available. Studies that explore how economic opportunities that originate nonlocally affect the development of local societies are common in the academic literature (e.g., Blanton & Feinman, 1984; Gilman, 1991; Renfrew, 1969) and often run the risk of being labeled as offering Deus ex machina explanations
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of social change, where local development is explained as a simple epiphenomenal effect of change occurring elsewhere in the world. It is important to note that such external changes are not truly what makes cases like these interesting. Rather, it is the opportunity they give us to discern the internal mechanisms through which local populations transform themselves into more complex stratified societies that is most useful. This case has clarified with more precision how the elemental forces of supply and demand could have affected the internal social structure of prehistoric societies. This discussion is also not just relegated to the appearance of external markets and long distance trade. New types of production or better ways to exploit old resources can appear in a number of ways. For example, new ores for metallurgic production can be discovered (providing new sources of income), pilgrimage centers can congregate large numbers of people in small areas for the first time (creating new economic opportunities for local communities), the development of new technologies can allow more households to exploit the same amount of land, and the production of weaponry for warfare can provide new sources of income for families. Scenarios such as these will often generate the economic centripetal forces that create denser, more nucleated communities where managerial formations would be encouraged to appear. The present study has helped shed some light on this general problem, but much more work is still needed to properly explore the interplay of micro and macro economic pressures in prehistory, as well as their relation to the formation of political institutions.
NOTES 1. This approach to absolute demographic reconstructions traces its roots to the techniques originally developed by Sanders, Parsons, and Santley (1979), which were later refined by Blanton, Kowalewski, Feinman, and Appel (1982) and Kowalewski, Feinman, Finsten, Blanton, and Nicholas (1989), and recently by Drennan et al. (2003b). For a methodological description of the approach followed here, see Drennan (2006), Drennan et al. (2003a, 2003b), and Martı´ n (2009, pp. 58–62). The complete breakdown of ceramic, lithic, and shell artifacts recovered, as well as their locational information, can be obtained digitally at the University of Pittsburgh’s Comparative Archaeology Database, URL ohttp://www.cadb.pitt.eduW. 2. More detail on the data counts used to create Fig. 10 can be found in the original reports and articles provided by Clark (1995, pp. 42–47), Clark (2001, appendix, pp. 1–2, 14–15 [Bahı´ a occupation]), Currie (1995b, pp. 19–24), Mester (1990, pp. 296–297, 308–310, 324–325), and Masucci (1995, pp. 75–77 [zone B]). 3. Unlike the data from the El Azu´car, Rı´ o Chico, Lo´pez Viejo, and Los Frailes sites, the shell analysis of our survey area is based on fragment counts (rather than MNI) since it was decided during laboratory quantification that fragment count
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would be a more faithful representative of real shell proportions (see Drennan, 2001, p. 666; Martı´ n, 2009, pp. 55–58, for a fuller description). 4. Two shell concentrations were discarded from this analysis because their malacological assemblage suggested nonmidden or improperly collected deposits (see Martı´ n, 2009, p. 139). 5. The shell concentrations of the other settlements had such minute quantities of manufacturing tools that they produced unusable error ranges, and hence are not depicted. 6. Since griddle plates and olla pots only comprised a small part of total domestic assemblages, and the sherds that could be recognized as such were even less, it had the effect of making differences in proportion seem weak. Nevertheless, the error ranges do suggest that we can be at least moderately confident that these differences in sample proportions represent actual differences in population proportions.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Dick Drennan provided many helpful comments toward the formulation of these ideas. I would also like to thank Donald C. Wood for all his patience and assistance during the review phase of this chapter. Several REA reviewers offered truly valuable comments that significantly improved the clarity of this manuscript. This research was possible thanks to a grant from the National Science Foundation (award number: 0638456), the University of Pittsburgh’s Center for Latin American Studies, and to the Howard Heinz Endowment Graduate Fellowship.
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Gilman, A. (1991). Trajectories towards social complexity in the later prehistory of the Mediterranean. In: T. Earle (Ed.), Chiefdoms: Power, economy, and ideology (pp. 146–168). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harris, M., Martı´ nez, V., Kennedy, W. M. H., Roberts, C., & Gammack-Clark, J. (2004). The complex interplay of culture and nature in coastal South-Central Ecuador: An interdisciplinary work. Expedition, 46(1), 38–43. Johnson, A. W., & Earle, T. (2000). The evolution of human societies: From foraging group to agrarian state. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Keen, M. (1971). Sea shells of tropical west America. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Kipp, R. S., & Schortman, E. M. (1989). The political impact of trade in chiefdoms. American Anthropologist, 91(2), 370–385. Kowalewski, S. A., Feinman, G. M., Finsten, L., Blanton, R. E., & Nicholas, L. M. (1989). Monte Alba´n’s hinterland, Part II: Prehispanic settlement patterns in Tlacolula, Etla, and Ocotla´n, the Valley of Oaxaca, Mexico (Vol. 23). Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan. Kristiansen, K. (1987). Center and periphery in Bronze Age Scandinavia. In: M. Rowlands, M. Larsen & K. Kristiansen (Eds), Centre and periphery in the ancient world (pp. 74–86). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lunniss, R. (2007). Una casa ceremonial del formativo tardı´ o en Salango, Manabı´ . In: F. Garcı´ a (Ed.), II Congreso ecuatoriano de antropologı´a y arqueologı´a (Vol. 1, pp. 409–432). Quito: Abya Yala. Marcos, J. G. (1988). Real Alto: La historia de un centro ceremonial Valdivia (Primera Parte). Quito: Corporacio´n Editora Nacional. Marcos, J. G. (1995). El mullo y el pututo: La articulacio´n de la ideologı´ a y el tra´fico a larga distancia en la formacio´n del Estado Huancavilca. In: S. G. Alvarez, A. Alvarez, C. Fauria & J. G. Marcos (Eds), Primer encuentro de investigadores de la costa ecuatoriana en Europa (pp. 97–142). Quito: Abya-Yala. Martı´ n, A. J. (2007). El intercambio de spondylus a lo largo de la costa Sudamericana de acuerdo al registro arqueolo´gico. In: F. Garcı´ a (Ed.), II Congreso ecuatoriano de antropologı´a y arqueologı´a: Balance de la u´ltima de´cada: Aportes, retos y nuevos temas (Vol. 1, pp. 433–462). Quito: Abya-Yala. Martı´ n, A. J. (2009). The domestic mode of production and the development of sociopolitical complexity: Evidence from the spondylus industry of costal Ecuador. Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, ProQuest/UMI. Martı´ n, A. J. (2010). Comparing the role of the export sector in prehistoric economies: The importance of shell manufacture to the livelihood of coastal Ecuadorian populations. In: R. E. Cutright, E. Lopez-Hurtado, & A. Martı´ n (Eds), Comparative perspectives on the archaeology of coastal South America (pp. 78–100). Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Center for Comparative Archaeology. Martı´ nez, V. (2001). Rı´o Chico site report (OMJPLP-170B), Manabı´, Ecuador. Guayaquil: Report Submitted to the offices of the Instituto Nacional de Patrimonio Cultural, Litoral Branch. Masucci, M. A. (1995). Marine shell bead production and the role of domestic craft activities in the economy of the Guangala phase southwest Ecuador. Latin American Antiquity, 6(1), 70–84. McEwan, C. (2003). ‘And the sun sits in his seat’: Creating order in Andean culture. Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, Urbana-Champaign, ProQuest/UMI.
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Mester, A. M. (1990). The pearl divers of Los Frailes: Archaeological and ethnohistorical explorations of sumptuary good trade and cosmology in the north and central Andes. Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, Urbana-Champaign, ProQuest/UMI. Moholy-Nagy, H. (1990). The misidentification of lithic workshops. Latin American Antiquity, 1(3), 268–279. Muse, M. (1989). Corrologı´ a regional y relaciones de territorialidad en la regio´n oeste del area septentrional Andina, Siglo XVI. In: J.-F. Bouchard & M. Guinea (Eds), Relaciones interculturales en el a´rea ecuatorial del pacı´fico durante la e´poca Precolombina (BAR International Series, Vol. 503, pp. 187–197). Oxford: Tempus Reparatvm. Muse, M. (1991). Products and politics of a Milagro entrepot: Pen˜on del Rı´ o, Guayas Basin, Ecuador. Research in Economic Anthropology, 13, 269–323. Netting, R. M. (1993). Smallholders, householders: Farm families and the ecology of intensive sustainable agriculture. Stanford: Stanford University. Norton, P. (1986). El sen˜orı´ o de calangome y la liga de mercaderes. Miscela´nea Antropolo´gica Ecuatoriana, 6, 131–144. Norton, P., Lunniss, R., & Nayling, N. (1983). Excavaciones en Salango, Provincia de Manabı´ . Miscela´nea Antropolo´gica Ecuatoriana, 3, 9–72. Olsson, A. A. (1961). Mollusks of the eastern Pacific: Particularly from the southern half of the Panamic-Pacific faunal province (Panama to Peru´). Ithaca, NY: Paleontological Research Institution. Paulsen, A. C. (1974). The thorny oyster and the voice of God: Spondylus and strombus in Andean prehistory. American Antiquity, 39(4), 597–607. Peregrine, P. (1992). Mississippian evolution: A world systems perspective. Madison: Prehistory Press. Peregrine, P. (2000). Archaeology and world systems theory. In: T. Hall (Ed.), A world-systems reader (pp. 59–68). Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Peterson, C. E., & Drennan, R. (2005). Communities, settlements, sites, and surveys: Regional scale-analysis of prehistoric human interaction. American Antiquity, 70(1), 5–30. Pillsbury, J. (1996). The thorny oyster and the origins of empire. Latin American Antiquity, 7(4), 313–340. Pizarro, F. (1527[1844]). Relacio´n de los primeros descubrimientos de Francisco Pizarro y Diego de Almagro. In: M. Ferna´ndez Navarrete, M. Salva & P. Sainz de Baranda (Eds), Coleccio´n de documentos ine´ditos para la historia de Espan˜a (Vol. 5, pp. 193–201). Madrid: Imprenta de la Viuda de Calera. Pizarro, F. (1571[1844]). Relacio´n del descibrimiento y conquista de los reinos del Peru´, y del govierno y orden que los naturales tenı´ an. In: M. Fernandez Navarrete, M. Salva & P. Sainz de Baranda (Eds), Coleccio´n de documentos ine´ditos para la historia de Espan˜a (Vol. 5, pp. 201–388). Madrid: Imprenta de la Viuda de Calera. Reitz, E. J., & Masucci, M. A. (2004). Guangala fishers and farmers: A case study of animal use at El Azu´car, southwestern Ecuador (Memoirs in Latin American archaeology, Vol. 14). Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Latin American Archaeology Publications. Renfrew, C. (1969). Trade and culture process in European prehistory. Current Anthropology, 10(2/3), 151–169. Rudolf, G. (1999). Panama’s poor: Victims, agents, and history makers. Gainesville: University Press of Florida.
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Sahlins, M. (1972). Stone age economics. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Sanders, W. T., Parsons, J. R., & Santley, R. S. (1979). The basin of Mexico: Ecological processes in the evolution of a civilization. New York: Academic Press. Service, E. R. (1962). Primitive social organization: An evolutionary perspective. New York: Random House. Shafer, H. J., & Hester, T. R. (1991). Lithic craft specialization and product distribution at the Maya site of Colha, Belize. World Archaeology, 23(1), 79–97. Silva, M. I. (1984). Pescadores y agricultores de la costa central del Ecuador: Un modelo socioecono´mico de asentamientos Precolombinos. Unpublished M.A. thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, IL, USA. Smith, M. E. (2004). The archaeology of ancient state economies. Annual Review of Anthropology, 33, 73–102. Stanish, C. (2003). Ancient Titicaca: The evolution of complex society in southern Peru and northern Bolivia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Stanish, C. (2004). The evolution of chiefdoms: An economic anthropological model. In: G. Feinman & L. M. Nicholas (Eds), Archaeological perspectives on political economies (pp. 7–24). Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Vaughn, K. J. (2006). Craft production, exchange, and political power in the pre-Incaic Andes. Journal of Archaeological Research, 14, 313–344. Widmer, R., & Storey, R. (1994). Social organization and household structure of a Teotihuaca´n apartment compound: S3W1:33 in the Tlajinga Barrio. In: K. Santley & K. Hirth (Eds), Prehispanic domestic units in western Mesoamerica (pp. 87–104). Boca Raton: CRC. Zeidler, J. A. (1991). Maritime exchange in the early formative period of coastal Ecuador: Geopolitical origins of uneven development. Research in Economic Anthropology, 13, 247–268.
PART II MARKETS AND MARKETING, CONTINUED
DONKEY BAZAAR, A BAZAAR OF HELL: AN INVESTIGATION INTO DONKEYS AND DONKEY TRADING IN KASHGAR, XINJIANG, CHINA Ayxem Eli ABSTRACT This chapter focuses on donkey traders and trading in Kashgar in Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, an area which has experienced unrest and also seen sporadic incidents of violence that reflect the social and political instability in China since the 1990s. The Uyghurs are a Turkic speaking Islamic people who are classified as one of the country’s 56 ethnic groups. Since the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, mass migration of Han Chinese to this remote Central Asian region has intensified relations between the indigenous Uyghurs and the migrant Han Chinese, with many socioeconomic and political consequences. Through an exploration of the Uyghurs’ cultural and religious understanding of donkeys and the multidimensional transactions of donkeys in livestock markets between Han Chinese and Uyghurs, the chapter argues that the practices and meanings of culture are both
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 159–185 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030010
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accommodated and contested when economic and political realities are simultaneously in play. Examining the changing characteristics of the intermediaries at donkey markets also sheds light on the ways in which these actors are becoming agents who bridge peasant communities in remote parts of southern Xinjiang and national markets amidst otherwise unfavourable social and economic conditions.
On a warm autumn afternoon in 2006, I was helping my host family mother and sisters bake bread in the tonur1 at the family backyard in a rural village in Kashgar, Xinjiang Autonomous Region. Three local women joined us to help out, and they also joined in the conversation. Since I still had not gotten to know everyone in the neighbourhood, my host sister Nurgul introduced a woman I had not yet met: ‘See, this is Rabihan, her family is a business family y Her husband is a donkey trader in our village. All her three sons are now in U¨ru¨mchi’.2 Meanwhile, Rabihan was waving her hand in protest, ‘what are you talking about? He only did that business (i.e. donkey trading) a couple of times! He hasn’t done it since’. Other women started to tease her, assuring her that there was nothing wrong with being a donkey trader. Rabihan eventually relaxed and said only half-seriously, ‘my three sons are all grown-up. I need to find good girls for them. Their father was never a donkey trader. All he did was to help out some widows in the village when they wanted to sell their donkeys’. The rest of the women glanced at one another while Rabihan struggled to defend her family’s reputation. In the village, whenever donkeys were mentioned, there would be a hint of derision or discomfort in the conversation. Once I unwisely asked a female neighbour whether the donkey they had recently bought was a jack or a jenny, prompting loud laughs from the women who were present. I was told in a mischievous tone that there was not a single she-donkey in the entire village: ‘it would not work’, was the simple explanation. Several days after talking to Rabihan by the tonur, her husband Ma¨hma¨t visited me so I could translate some documents from Uyghur to Chinese for him. When I finished, he voluntarily opened up about the difficulties his family was facing since he had stopped working as a donkey trader, a side-profession which he first took up in the early 1990s. He explained that while the money earned from trading donkeys was never a large amount, it was enough to buy daily supplements of food. He decided to stop going to the donkey markets not because it was shameful, as many regarded it, but because a lot of donkeys were now being bought by Han Chinese traders from China proper, only to be slaughtered for consumption. For Ma¨hma¨t, as a devout Muslim, killing a
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donkey was a sin, and he would rather be poor than make his profit by selling healthy donkeys to Han Chinese.3
INTRODUCTION Once one of the most important commercial and cultural sites linking Central Asia to the rest of the world, Kashgar lies in the south-western corner of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China’s largest provincial-level administrative division (see Fig. 1). Located at a strategically critical location, Kashgar shares borders with, Tajikistan, Afghanistan and Pakistan. It is home to a population of roughly 3.2 million people and is administratively divided into 11 counties (nahiya¨) and the city of Kashgar itself.4
Fig. 1.
The Location of Kashgar, Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China.
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Having converted to Islam in the 10th century, and with well-preserved Islamic architecture and a majority Uyghur population (as opposed to the larger Han presence in Northern and Eastern Xinjiang), Kashgar is often described as the focus of the Uyghurs’ Islamic traditions. Up until the late 1990s, its location and difficulties of access delayed the impact of Han migration. With the establishment of the railway linking the capital U¨ru¨mchi to Kashgar in 1999 and the convenience of air transport, there has been a dramatic increase in the number of Han Chinese in recent years. Most of them have come as urban settlers from China proper seeking economic opportunity. Han migration, strict government policies on the Islamic practices of the Uyghurs, as well as the forced demolition and re-planning of the iconic old quarter of Kashgar city5 have been among the key factors contributing to ethnic tension in the first decade of the 21st century. Many Uyghurs feel they are being left out of China’s economic progress in the market era; the Chinese state is seen to have created policies and incentives favourable to the majority Han Chinese, whereas the Uyghurs have faced various forms of discrimination preventing them from bettering their circumstances. This has further heightened mistrust between the Han and the Uyghurs. Much new research has been done in the past two decades on the Muslim Uyghurs in Xinjiang, highlighting the complexities of political relationships between the Uyghurs and the Han Chinese (Becquelin, 2000; Bovingdon, 2002; Starr, 2004; Millward, 2009). Little is known, however, about the conflicts and accommodations which arise in the process of direct economic interactions between these two groups, particularly during the era of economic reform in China. This chapter is an anthropological enquiry into donkeys and donkey trading in the Kashgar region, with particular reference to the increasingly powerful intervention of Han Chinese traders into local donkey markets, which were until recently dominated by Uyghur traders and buyers. It looks at the way in which post-reform livestock markets been shaped by, and in turn shape, culture as local practice, and how religious values, state policies, concepts of ethnicity as well as individual economic choices, inform those transactions. This research is based on ethnographic fieldwork carried out in Kashgar from October 2006 to May 2007. From the beginning it proved to be no easy task to conduct such research as a woman, due to the sexual connotations that are attached to donkeys. Being the only woman wandering among hundreds of donkeys and men, I was subject to direct abuse at times. This awkward situation gradually improved after I sought the help of a tax officer at the market entrance, who kindly introduced me to several elderly traders. It
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became even easier when my older brother joined me in my fieldwork. We collected data on donkeys and donkey trading in this region by carrying out extensive interviews with donkey traders and peasants of different age groups, as well as through participant observation at various livestock markets. Although endeavouring to locate any written material on the subject, my reliance on qualitative data has been essential to gain an understanding of how these practices relate to people’s perceptions of this animal, and the shifting notions of business transactions at the donkey markets. The regional Kashgar Livestock Market and the township level Awat livestock market were the two major sites where participant observation was conducted. In total, 45 informants were interviewed. These interviews were conducted at various places, including the markets themselves, tea houses, food stands and restaurants. Sometimes we were invited to a donkey trader’s home for a meal. This proved to be extremely insightful for my research because it provided me with a rare opportunity to talk to extended family members and even neighbours. It was also a possibility for direct observation of donkey traders’ lifestyle and living standards. All informants were Uyghur. Regrettably, despite several attempts to approach Han traders, they turned down my requests. This inevitably contributed to the one-sided narratives while the research question addressed both Uyghur and Han. It is my hope that there will be future opportunities for research that will incorporate Han interlocutors.
HISTORICAL CONTEXTS OF DONKEY USE IN KASHGAR Although camels and horses are usually the first images that appear in one’s mind when long-distance ‘caravans’ are mentioned, donkeys have long served as an indispensable part of such teams. Donkeys are not only able to endure long distances in harsh conditions, but are also able to survive on scarce food supplies in rough mountainous regions, deserts and steppe lands. They are also surefooted on rocky and steep mountains. Moreover, donkeys are believed to have an extraordinary sense of direction. In a typical desert-crossing caravan,6 there was always a donkey tied to the leading camel’s nose by a rope to lead the way. The donkeys’ role in these longdistance movements came to an end in the 1950s with the establishment of a socialist regime, in which private trading was suppressed and the borders closed with neighbouring countries.
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Although socialist transformations and urban infrastructural developments have gradually lessened donkeys’ role in urban contexts,7 their role in rural areas and among peasants, who make up approximately 80% of the population in this region, is still significant. Starting from the 1950s until the 1980s, Chinese government policies directed to rural areas and peasants were subject to constant change. The rural areas went through socialist land reforms and property reallocation in the 1950s, and this was followed by a commune period, lasting until the late 1970s and the early 1980s, when land was redistributed and leased to each household. All these political and economic changes have had a great impact on the position of donkeys in the Kashgar region. The donkeys’ fate in Kashgar was greatly disturbed during the three year political movement of the Great Leap Forward from 1958 to 1960. This radical policy was aimed at the construction of a modern Chinese Socialist State in a short space of time. One of the campaigns towards this goal was to set up small-scale steel plants in an attempt to increase steel and iron production, in order to boost the economy quickly. Most such plants were set up in rural or hilly areas. Peasants, factory workers, teachers and students mainly comprised the labour force (Dillon, 1998). Owing to the extreme shortage of efficient means of transport, donkeys were used to carry not only loads of raw materials such as household pots, scrap iron and iron ore, but also fuels such as coal and tree trunks to the plants. This period also saw tragic shortages of food, which led to a three year famine in China lasting from 1958 to 1960. In Kashgar, donkeys were not only poorly fed, but also put to excessive use. This led to the death of tens of thousands of donkeys from starvation and overwork. Many informants commented on the number of the dead donkeys during that period. Abduqeyum, a doctor from Kashgar city and Barat, a donkey trader from Awat used the same expression in describing the tragedy, i.e., so many donkeys died in Yengisar and they were disposed of in the dry river. The number was so high ‘that a bridge could be built with those dead donkeys’. This in turn affected female peasants, who took up the task of carrying sand and manure bags to the fields, a task previously performed by the donkeys. This remains the bitterest memory of the majority of female peasants who unanimously talk about their torn dresses and physical exhaustion during the commune period.8 The number of donkeys slowly rose again from the late 1970s when collectivisation was officially dismantled. By the mid-1980s, it had nearly reached a million. One revolutionary change to donkey use in the Kashgar region was the introduction of rubber wheels in the late 1970s, which pushed forward the large-scale adoption of the harwa,9 a two-wheel cart which uses
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a donkey for traction. Up until then, donkeys had always been used as pack animals. Although rural development in Kashgar could hardly compete with the speedy economic development in some parts of China in the reform era, some individuals, or some villages, did benefit from the new policies and took up motor powered machines and tractors for agricultural use and transport. This phenomenon follows international trends in donkey use: the poorer the regions, where access to motor power was more limited, the higher the number of donkeys.10 In 2006, donkeys still remained the most important property of an ordinary peasant family. One peasant at Kashgar livestock market claimed, ‘even if a peasant owned an airplane, it would be no match for a donkey’. According to 1996 statistics, the donkey population in China was 11 million, which accounted for a quarter of the world’s total (Starkey & Starkey, 1997). In 2004, Xinjiang had a donkey population of 1.2 million with the highest concentration in Kashgar, a region famed as ‘donkey land’ (lu¨xiang) among the Chinese.
THE KASHGAR LIVESTOCK MARKET Historically, Uyghurs have been active traders across Central Asia and into China proper. Owing to Kashgar’s unique geographical advantage, people of Kashgar are renowned for their skill as intermediaries and traders. As in most socialist states (Kaneff, 2002; Mandel & Humphrey, 2002), trading and making profits were ideologically immoral and even illegal activities in China until full-scale economic reforms commenced in the early 1980s. Gladney (1998, p. 118) argues that historically Chinese state policies discouraged entrepreneurialism among Han Chinese; instead, they promoted agriculturalism, communism and confucianism as ‘three essentialised discursive interpretations of Han identity’. Since the market reforms of the early 1980s, while Han Chinese took cautious steps in engaging in market activities, the Uyghurs in Kashgar took immediate advantage of the new prospects. At the macro-level, this was reflected in the growth of crossborder trade with Central Asian states and flourishing of Xinjiang restaurants and eateries in China proper (Baranovitch, 2003; Haider, 2005; Roberts, 1998). At the local level, markets sprang up on each and every corner. The ‘deeply ingrained moralities’ described by Mandel and Humphrey (2002, p. 1) in post-socialist markets were arguably non-existent in Kashgar markets. Rather than feeling ashamed, most people take pride in participating in this revitalised social institution. If donkey markets in Kashgar evince any ‘ingrained moralities’, they derive not from the act of
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trading itself, but from the nature of the commodity. As I discuss below, this has been further intensified by the encroaching ‘globalisation’ of trade and markets in this remote region of China. In the Kashgar region, livestock markets have traditionally been an inseparable part of most local bazaars, which operate on different days of the week (except for Fridays). Raising livestock, especially sheep, is one of the important sources of cash income for local peasants. Although most farmers still survive on a subsistence economy by growing wheat and corn, a small amount of sheep breeding, with a number usually ranging from 2 to 10, is also an important resource of social security in desperate situations to generate cash. A few families own oxen and cows, usually no more than two animals. Oxen are raised for meat consumption and the cows for dairy products. Markets are typically thronging with sheep, goats, oxen/cows, horses and donkeys, even camels. Government management is usually well-established at livestock markets. It includes graduated management fees per capita for different types of animals and vaccines, as well as quarantine fees. These state interactions outside the confining walls are probably the only immediate observable features of the ‘modernisation’ of the livestock bazaar. In order to avoid these payments, some deals are simply done outside, approximately 150 m away from the entrance. However, the deals which are concluded there are by and large for sheep and a small number of calves. Inside the market, an enclosure which occupies approximately 2 km2, is divided into sections for oxen, sheep, camels, goats, horses and donkeys (Fig. 2). Two sides of the market are taken up by butchers, small businessmen who sell bread with soup, and occasionally vendors selling fresh melons, especially during summer. The ethnic composition of the traders and customers alike was predominantly Uyghur, with a small number of Kyrgyz herders and traders, who came from the Atush region11 and mostly brought in goats and sheep. The donkey section of this market was the liveliest one. Unlike other sections, the number of people selling and buying, or simply observing the trade nearly equals that of donkeys. The mixture of noises, with donkey owners disciplining their animals, donkeys braying and people constantly trying out donkeys with or without a cart make this a corner attractive to tourists. One further peculiarity of the donkey trading section was that it was only there that one occasionally spots some Chinese customers, rarely seen in other corners of the market. Donkeys were the only animals in this bazaar that were not primarily bought and sold for consumption of their meat. Traditionally, donkeys in Kashgar have been mostly employed locally. In the pre-socialist period,
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A Typical Donkey Market, Where Women are Rarely Seen.
caravan traders were probably the main customers, concerning the number of donkeys on demand.12 During the commune period, although private donkey trading was not banned altogether, it was still under strict government control, and donkey trading was limited among peasants. During the reform era, donkey trading has been dynamic and has experienced constant change. Almost all sellers, buyers and traders are peasants. A good donkey usually stays with its owner until its death. As Obul, a 56-year-old donkey trader puts it, ‘in a peasant family, a donkey is like a wife; you don’t divorce her if she is really good’. Most peasants prefer to keep a well-trained or well-adjusted donkey for as long as possible. As one of the most valuable family assets, in a desperate situation such as the sudden illness of a family member, a donkey also functions as social insurance for generating fast cash. A donkey might also end up at market if the family it belongs to has ‘upgraded’ their production and transport capacities by purchasing a tractor. Another common reason for a peasant to sell his donkey is if he feels that the donkey has shown bad habits such as biting and kicking. Since the mid-1990s, a new trend has developed in donkey trading due to the increasing cost of donkey feed, which has made it impossible for some peasants to keep their donkeys throughout the
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year.13 A common strategy for families is to sell their donkey after the harvest in November, and then buy another one in the following spring, so that the money spent on feeding the animal over winter can be saved. This leads to seasonal variations in the number of donkeys available at the livestock markets. The small villages surrounding Kashgar are the sites for distributing donkeys, where people who are in need of donkeys can access them. Here, the role of donkey traders cannot be underestimated. Not only are they the leading actors in the market, but they also play a decisive role in bridging the gap between markets and peasants. To some extent, they also determine the market price of donkeys. Understanding bediks and their social and economic distinctions is crucial to understand the donkey marketing system and the discourses which surround it.
Bediks: The Traders and Brokers Bedik means ‘trader’ in Uyghur, although the term is often associated with middle-man or negotiator at livestock markets (Fig. 3). Several types of
Fig. 3.
A ‘Traditional’ Donkey Trader Evaluates a Fine Donkey.
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bedik can be distinguished at donkey markets according to the scale of trade one is engaged in, the amount of time a bedik spends at the markets, and the way in which they are involved in trading. Bediks at donkey markets unanimously self-identify themselves as dihqan (peasant), acknowledging their affiliation with the peasantry, even if they do not engage in agriculture at all. At the Kashgar Sunday livestock market, where 300–500 donkeys are traded each Sunday, there are at least 60 bediks. Although the professional bediks treat donkey trading as a kesip (profession/occupation), which is quite often hereditary for generations, the semi-professional bediks only engage in the market as a sideline business for generating small sums of cash. There are also differences between elipsatar bediks and da¨llal bediks. The former literally means the bediks ‘who buy and sell’, and the latter means ‘negotiator/broker’. This difference largely depends on the capital one possesses to invest in the market, which resembles the general patterns at cattle markets in East Africa (Little, 1992). An elip-satar bedik needs substantial capital to set up a business (usually at least 1000 Yuan, i.e. 100 Euros). Such business often involves risks in the purchase, transport and sale of animals over a specific period of time; all a da¨llal bedik needs is to be skilful in recognising a good donkey, to be smooth-talking, and have the ability to assess the psychological state of the buyers and the sellers. After a deal is made, a da¨llal bedik’s brokerage service is paid off usually by five Yuan (50 Euro cents) chay-puli (tea money, or the consignment for transaction) contributed each by the seller and the buyer of the animal. A da¨llal bedik’s business can be characterised as low cost, low risk and low profit. These boundaries, however, are permeable in specific circumstances. A bedik who buys and sells donkeys also interferes in some deals occasionally when appropriate or when asked; and vice versa for a da¨llal bedik, especially when he has accumulated enough capital to be able to buy one or two donkeys. Alijan, for example, used to be an elip-satar bedik. Beginning around 1985, after 15 years of hard work, he managed to build up some wealth, which he later used to build a new house and to finance the marriages of his two sons. This exhausted all his savings and since 2001, he has only worked as an intermediary due to a lack of capital to engage in buying and selling donkeys himself. A donkey bedik’s social status has always been low, which is partly due to the questionable moral commitment of bediks in deal-making. The saying, Isha¨k baziri go¨r baziri, ‘a donkey bazaar is a bazaar of hell’, is frequently invoked to refer to the risk and the manipulation involved at such a market. In a traditional donkey market, one of the reasons for the involvement of a
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da¨llal-bedik in a transaction is to evaluate the worthiness of a donkey. The saying ada¨mning nohli ichide, isha¨kning sirtida, ‘a man’s faults are all hidden inside but a donkey’s outside’,14 is cited by bediks and peasants alike. Despite the fact that a donkey’s faults might be easier to observe than those of a human, this very ‘observation’ demands expert eyes and knowledge. A donkey’s age, temperament, physical appearance, strength, vigilance, possible sickness and any other flaws can only be recognised by an experienced bedik. Unlike the pre-socialist time, when a donkey could be taken home for trial use for several days before the actual exchange of money, the current market operations make any wrong choice a nightmare for a peasant. This further enhances the role of a middleman. The involvement of a bedik, however, is always fraught with dishonesty. Malning bahasi yoq, ‘there is no price for goods’ (here referring to donkeys), is a phrase often used by bediks to emphasise their role in manipulating the price for a donkey at their whim. The buyer is not fully equipped to ascertain the quality of their prospective purchase. Therefore, his choices are largely in the hands of the middleman. This also prompts accusations towards an intermediary of dishonesty if anything goes wrong. In addition, the very act of earning money from negotiations means that their income is tainted with dishonesty. As a matter of fact, the bediks themselves acknowledge that the money they earn was without virtue (ba¨rkiti yoq) and that the deals they help to reach were contaminated with lies (yalghan gep arilashqan). A bedik’s social prestige is also connected to his economic situation. During my interviews, when asked about their incomes from working as a bedik, several of them answered ‘have you ever heard of a donkey bedik making the Hajj?’ In the reform era in Kashgar, going on the Hajj has become an important way for some neuvoriche to enhance their prestige in a community, as in many other Muslim societies (Peletz, 1998). If the above claim describes the meagre income generated by this profession, it also refers to the difficulties in altering a bedik’s status by meeting such religious obligations through wealth accumulation.
HARAM AND HALAM DONKEYS These judgements towards bediks are not only informed by perceptions of the moral hazard implicit in their profession; equally important are popular and Islamic attitudes towards the donkeys which pass through their hands. In many socio-cultural contexts, donkeys have not occupied as positive a position in people’s collective imagination as they might deserve (Gregory,
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2007; Inel, 2007). Donkeys are notorious for their stubbornness and ignorance, qualities which they epitomise in English, Arabic, Turkish, Greek and Chinese expressions. Among Uyghurs, the word ‘donkey’ has particular negative and derogatory connotations, especially relating to the stigma attached to a donkey’s sexual behaviour, which is considered recalcitrant. Isha¨kdek, ‘like a donkey’, can be referring to: a man who has voracious sexual desire; a man and a woman who were seen displaying affection for each other in public; a stubborn person; a woman who wears too little to be considered as decent; or even a man who appears with the upper part of his body naked. A metaphor such as isha¨kda¨k qelin (one’s face is as thick as a donkey’s) is used to refer to people who do not have a sense of shame. Donkeys are considered inedible in Islam, hence haram.15 A¨lahun, an 87-year-old peasant, told me the following story, which, according to him, happened in his village: ‘once a man saw that a donkey and some sheep were together and a lamb started to suck the donkey’s udder. Later the Mullah in the village said that this sheep should only be eaten by tu¨gmenchi (mill-owner) and kirachi (taxi driver) because ularda kishining heqi qalidu (they owe others) and hence, their profession is haram’. Such a story illustrates that tu¨gmenchi and kirachi, as people who live with haram income, are subject to consuming haram food, in this case, an originally halal sheep that has become haram by drinking a donkey’s milk. It is said that if a donkey passes in front of a person in prayer, the prayer will be nullified or voided. Interestingly enough, while contemporary Uyghurs do not consume donkey meat because of its perceived haramness, donkey milk is discreetly used by some as a healing remedy, especially for curing tuberculosis, a widely spread disease in southern Xinjiang. It seems reasonable to assume that donkey meat was also consumed by the preIslamic Turkic population of the region, including the Uyghurs. The taboo of consuming donkey meat only gradually became standard practice since the spread of Islam. Owing to its medical usage, the consumption of donkey milk is quietly tolerated, under the euphemistic name of ‘blue-cow’s milk’ (ko¨k-ina¨kning su¨ti). In the absence of an alternative explanation for the use of ko¨k (blue) here, it may derive from the powerful totemic value of the word ko¨k among the Turkic peoples. Ko¨k not only refers to the colour blue, but also means ‘sky’ and ‘heaven’. Ko¨k bo¨ra¨, a blue wolf, is linked to a totemic symbol of the Turkic people’s ancestry (Sinor, 1997). Using this word mystifies the power the donkey milk holds and legitimises the action of consuming it, which is otherwise prohibited. This phenomenon suggests the possible survival of a higher pre-Islamic status of donkeys. Furthermore, donkey milk is only consumed when nothing else has helped in curing a
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particular illness. Both the milk provider and the milk consumer would keep the whole process discreet. Donkey milk is usually not sold as a commodity, but is given as an altruistic gift.16 Despite donkeys’ physical and utilitarian proximity to Uyghur peasantry, they are attributed primarily negative values due to concerns about their uncleanliness and sexuality. This moral evaluation has had observable consequences on the distribution of donkeys throughout Kashgar. The numerous townships, which are under the control of either various counties or the city itself, have distinct regional preferences in keeping donkeys according to their sexes. The general pattern is that the closer a township is to Kashgar city, the lower the chances of finding a female donkey in a household. Qoghan, Ba¨shkera¨m, Awat, Yengi-o¨steng and Do¨wletbagh are townships which are within a 50-km distance from the city, and where female donkeys are nearly absent. In contrast, in counties such as Yopurgha, Yarkant and Peyziwat, which are over 60 km from Kashgar, people feel comfortable with female donkeys in their stable or yard. A significant reason for this pattern claimed by the locals is that in places where female donkeys are raised there is a comparatively open landscape, often waste land and semi-Gobi, where it is easier to herd donkeys and their foals. The county of Yopurgha, for example, is famous for keeping mostly female donkeys for stud purposes. Alongside these ecosystemic grounds, the rejection of female donkeys in some areas is strongly connected to the cultural meanings of donkeys. Rahman bedik is from Yengi-o¨steng where a female donkey can hardly be seen. He shared two stories from his neighbourhood: There is a neighbour in our mahala (neighbourhood), who bought a mada-isha¨k (shedonkey) several years ago. One day he went to a wedding driving his donkey-cart and tied the donkey up to a tree before going into the wedding. This donkey made such a mess because all the other hangga-isha¨ks (he-donkeys) started to get restless and the noises they made were truly embarrassing. This man was later humiliated with jokes and he had to sell his donkey on the very next bazaar day. This happened just last year. A man here bought a mada-isha¨k with her little tehey (foal). He might have been thinking about selling the tehey for some extra income after feeding it for several months. However, the neighbours started to make fun of him and his son, saying, ‘Hey, why don’t you get your son a wife rather than keeping a mada-isha¨k’ (mada-isha¨k baqquche oghlungni o¨ylep qoysang bolmamdu).
Naturally, the second man also ended up selling his donkey with the help of Rahman bedik. Rahman claims that he sold this female donkey to a man from Han-eriq, where keeping a female donkey is no different from keeping a sheep. A year later, when he came across the peasant who bought the donkey, the peasant thanked Rahman because ‘that donkey was such a
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wonderful creature that he was going to give her a decent burial when she died’. The simple appearance of a female donkey in public in a village means that it arouses the sexual desire of all her male counterparts, which would rather remain docile and calm in the absence of females. A male donkey is thought to lose control at the sight, or even the smell, of a female donkey.17 When mentioning a donkey, qiliqsiz (with no manners) and qopal mehluq (rude creature) are often used to refer to its sexuality. The open sexual desire shown by donkeys and their braying (isha¨kning hangrighini) are also a cause of embarrassment, hence a disruption to ‘order’ in the community. The public blame is directed to the owner. This is also a reflection on how a woman is supposed to hide herself away from a male-dominated space, such as a donkey market. In the second story, the implied potential for bestiality between a young single man and his donkey brings powerful mockery or insult to the person, or even the family involved. The feeling of ‘shame’ the community generates is enough to shut female donkeys out of the entire neighbourhood. Regional livestock markets follow a similar pattern as well, in that the donkeys are segregated according to sex. At the Kashgar livestock market and the markets located in the areas aforementioned, where male donkeys are preferred, hardly any female donkeys are visible. The price for a donkey also varies accordingly: female donkeys are much cheaper in the regions where male donkeys predominate, and vice versa. At the same time, donkeys are renowned for their hardworking and resilient nature. If not a ‘moral equilibrium’, this recognition of donkeys’ ‘merit’ at least partially balances out their generally negative image. Isha¨kning gu¨shi haram, ku¨chi halal, ‘the meat of a donkey is haram; but the strength it possesses is halal’, is another common reference to a donkey among Uyghurs. As a haram animal, a donkey is shown affection by recognising the ‘halalness’ of its strength, which contributes to humanity’s wellbeing. In a religious sense, donkeys also enjoyed prominent positions as they served as the preferred mounts of Prophets, including Adam, Jesus, Abraham and Muhammad (Sindawi, 2006). This choice was not only due to the ‘sagacity’ and ‘prudence’ of the donkey, but also to show the prophets’ humility (Sindawi, 2006, p. 88). Although without exception, the bediks and peasants I interviewed mentioned the donkeys’ haramness vs. halalness, no one except for Ibrahim, a 96-year-old professional donkey trader, talked about its position in Islam by referring to the following story: A bewildered man asked Pa¨rwa¨rdigar (God, the Creator), ‘‘Oh God, donkeys have ears and hoofs just like horses, so why have you made only his strength halal, but not his
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meat?’ God answers, ‘‘because of the poor people. They cannot afford horses or camels. I made the donkey haram, so people cannot eat it. I want him to be brother and kin to my poor people. If I had made his meat halal, the rich would have bought them by the hundreds, and there would not be many left to be used by the poor.’’
This story nicely positions the donkey in the current Uyghur peasantry context. They are cheap,18 and therefore affordable for an ordinary peasant compared to tractors, which have now begun to alter the production and transport capabilities of a few affluent peasants. A donkey is in one sense ‘a brother’ to peasants as it might be the most helpful ‘hand’ in daily life, especially during farming and harvest seasons. Therefore, despite the negative reputation a donkey bears at the first stance of mentioning it, Uyghur peasants are compassionate towards the animals. Bediks therefore occupy a position between two ambiguities: they are relied on by peasants for their brokering skills, but these skills also render them suspect in the peasants’ eyes. The donkeys they trade are laden with negative values, but their essential role in village life is acknowledged. Hitherto bediks have negotiated a relatively stable position in the midst of these contraditions. However, their position is now facing new challenges, with new trends in donkey trading, new market relations and the appearance of a new type of bedik. What Ibrahim’s story describes as God’s ‘benevolence’ in making donkeys haram, so that the rich would be unwilling to slaughter or eat them, is precisely what is now being called into question.
CHINESE INTERVENTION IN THE MARKET As aforementioned, one peculiarity of the Kashgar donkey markets since the 1990s has been the Chinese presence. Although most donkeys are still sold locally to peasants, at least 40% are now bought by Chinese traders. Asking about recent donkey prices at any market results in grumbling answers from both bediks and peasants, and lamentations that the Chinese customers have pushed the prices up enormously. In Kashgar, there has been very limited direct interaction between Uyghur peasants and Han Chinese. In donkey markets, the utilitarian interests of the Uyghur peasants and the Han Chinese consumers of donkeys have brought fresh discourses and dimensions not only to the forms of communication between these two groups, but also to donkey trading. On the one hand, the period since the 1980s has seen a growing demand among the local peasantry for donkeys for family use, driven by the idea of property privatisation and land re-allocation in particular. On the other
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hand, there has been a tremendous and increasing national demand for donkeys in China since the late 1990s. This is driven by the Chinese customers’ mounting consumption demand for ‘elite’ food, as well as healthcare and pharmaceutical products. For the Han Chinese, donkey meat carries the reputation of being the ‘cream of the crop’ of various meats and the ingredient for some of the finest delicacies. This can be observed in proverbs such as ‘the most delicious meat in heaven is dragon; so is donkey meat on earth’ (tianshang longrou; dixia lu¨rou). Furthermore, ejiao, an important traditional Chinese medicine, is processed from donkey skin.19 The Kashgar donkey market can arguably be considered as the one which has been most severely affected by the nation-wide consumption interest in donkeys. According to government statistics, the donkey price has risen by 400% in the past 20 years in Xinjiang. The number of donkeys has also decreased sharply, largely due to the fact that great numbers of donkeys were exported to Henan, Anhui and other provinces. According to a survey of the National Agricultural Ministry, there is a 70% deficit in meeting the demand of the Chinese national donkey market.20 The potential profits in developing donkey breeding for the national market have long been recognised by the Kashgar regional government. One prominent case is Yopurgha, a county approximately 60 km west of Kashgar city. Traditionally, Yopurgha has been a region where female donkeys are kept for stud purposes, and is also known for the successful breeding of the famous Jiangyuelu¨, Jiangyue donkeys. This type of donkey is a hybrid of local donkeys and donkeys from Shaanxi and other provinces. Although their physical appearance can resemble that of a mule or even a horse, peasants prefer the local donkeys, which are grey in colour and much smaller in size. The local donkeys are said to have greater endurance in the heat, harsh conditions and under heavy loads. Jiangyue donkeys are much more expensive than the local ones, and are favoured by Chinese traders. Since the late 1990s, the Kashgar regional government has officially designated donkey breeding an ‘industry’ (lu¨chanye), and encourages locals to ‘get rich’ (zhifu) by engaging in donkey farming. Several farms for donkey meat and milk production have been set up. Yopurgha is said to have economically benefited from the donkey industry enormously. By contrast, the incomegenerating potential of this industry is yet to reach those areas where female donkeys are not favoured due to aforementioned reasons. Bediks have often referred to Han Chinese as akilar (big brothers) and commented on how the akilar had the final say not only in deciding the fate of the donkeys, but in all other matters. In his studies of Hui Muslims in
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China, Gladney (1996, 1998) proposes that it is the market where an interaction between Hui and Han Chinese, hence Muslim and Confucian cultures, is realised, either physically or discursively. This is also the same arena ‘where a competitive exchange and exploitive nature are maintained’ between these two groups (Gladney, 1998, p. 106). In their infrequent engagements with Han Chinese in a micro-space such as a donkey market, the Uyghur peasants express their marginalised position in the political sphere, as well as the perceived hierarchical order they experience as an ethnic minority. The involvement of the few Chinese-speaking Uyghur bediks in the trade, however, tells the other side of the story. Their role is mainly to facilitate the speed and convenience of the transactions because none of the Han speak Uyghur, and the Uyghur peasants and bediks likewise hardly speak any Chinese. The demands of Han Chinese traders for the quality of a donkey are far less complicated than the criteria normally set locally. A Han Chinese trader is simply concerned with the weight and the size of the animal. The price is usually evaluated according to the actual or estimated weight. Apart from gathering donkeys from various markets, the Han Chinese traders distributed business cards, written in Uyghur, to bediks at the markets. A typical business card reads: An excellent and easy chance to get rich! If you know of or own any old, sick, physicallyhandicapped, or dead horses, oxen, or donkeys, let us know by calling the number below! You will be rewarded with at least 50 Yuan for the information provided and with at least 400 Yuan if you own the animal!
It was very unlikely for a peasant to sell a horse or an ox that was in the condition described here, unless it had died suddenly. Since these two animals were both edible, a peasant would be inclined to slaughter a dying animal and make a greater profit than by selling to a Chinese trader. Therefore, donkeys were more likely to be involved in such deals. The actual use to which donkeys were put after their purchase by Han Chinese was the subject of speculation by the peasants and the bediks. Most of them were certain that the meat was consumed, and a few mentioned that the Chinese used the donkey skin for medicine. Before Chinese interest, old and sick (incurable) donkeys were mostly driven into the wilderness, or simply kept at home until they died. A dead donkey was buried. Tursun bedik reported on an unfortunate event that happened to his neighbour two years earlier. He helped this neighbour buy a donkey for 1,150 Yuan (115 Euro) from the local market. However, as soon as the donkey was taken back to the village, it dropped dead. Later they found the seller and negotiated a deal: the seller
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returned 600 Yuan to the buyer. To make up the difference, Tursun called a Chinese trader who arrived within the hour and took away the dead donkey for 400 Yuan. In a situation like this, without the Chinese trader both the buyer of the donkey and Tursun bedik would have suffered a huge loss, as 1,000 Yuan could represent as much as half of a whole year’s cash income for an ordinary peasant family. The consumption of donkey meat not only has changed the fate of donkeys, but also the market structure. On the one hand, it solves the problem of sick, old, worn out and dead donkeys for the peasants and creates new economic options for peasants facing unexpected situations such as in the earlier story. On the other hand, it raises new moral questions. The Uyghurs follow a strict Islamic prohibition against consuming an animal which has died a natural death. However, it seemed that nearly everyone I talked to believed that the dead donkeys’ meat (even if the donkey died of an illness) would be sold for consumption, and none of them felt that this raised a moral issue in relation to the consumers. This was due, as I gathered in my conversations, to the Uyghur conviction that the Han Chinese would eat anything, including animals that had died of diseases. However, a sense of guilt was commonly felt towards the dead donkey, especially if it had been with the family for a long time, and it was felt deserving of a burial. The discomfort towards both the slaughtering and consuming of donkeys, however, was balanced by the desirability for the profit from selling a donkey, be it a young one or a dead one. As aforementioned, the price increase in donkey feed has had a great impact on the number of donkeys available in different seasons at the livestock market. The clash between Uyghur peasants and Chinese traders arises over their seasonal demands. One usually finds the largest numbers of donkeys at Kashgar livestock market throughout the winter. This is also the peak season for donkey meat export to other regions in China due to the dramatic increase of consumption during the Chinese Spring Festival in January/February. Many good and strong donkeys will have already been shipped to other provinces when the Uyghur peasants visit the market in early March. The limited number of donkeys remaining then affects the donkey price. The discourses on the material consumption of donkeys were not just practical and ethical but also religious. Killing a donkey is considered by many as a sin (gunah). Older bediks in particular express anxiety regarding the afterlife (ahiret) and Judgement Day, considering the sins generated through their dealings with the Chinese. This notion is further justified by the fact that the non-believers’ consumption was hampering the interests of
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Muslim peasants, who could have benefited from keeping the donkeys alive. To some extent, the donkeys’ traditional roles have been mitigated by the peasants’ failures in competing for the market prices. Ma¨hma¨t, mentioned at the very beginning of this chapter, who used to be a bedik for many years, quit his profession immediately after accidentally visiting the donkey slaughter house. ‘I saw one janliq (creature with life) that was taken into a tube and in seconds it came out as parcels of meat. I was thinking at that time, it could have been used by my neighbour’. Ma¨hma¨t was the only bedik I knew who had given up donkey trading because of the new market needs for donkeys. Here, Islamic notions on creation and humanity clash with the advent of modern technology. As far as religion, ethical concerns and the market growth (in terms of donkey material use by the ‘others’) are concerned, it is difficult to categorise donkey traders’ options in terms of polar opposites of full resistance or wholesale embrace. So exactly who is operating the bridge between the local donkey markets and the national consumer markets?
AHMA¨TJAN: ANOTHER STYLE OF BEDIK Ahma¨tjan is a 30-year-old professional donkey trader. He speaks limited Chinese, but enough for negotiating transactions. According to him, as a teenager, he rejected the profession of donkey trading when his father, also a bedik, tried to persuade him to follow in his footsteps as a donkey trader. The very small amount of money earned from a market day as well as the mockery of his peers made him choose the profession of nawaychiliq (naanbaking). He frequently ran away to U¨ru¨mchi, where he learnt to speak some basic Chinese. Achieving only limited success in the capital, he returned to Kashgar in 2000 and worked at a fish farm owned by a Han Chinese farmer, who was engaged in donkey trading on the side. Gradually, Ahma¨tjan also established himself at the livestock markets as a professional bedik. Unlike other ‘ordinary’ or ‘conventional’ donkey traders, however, he bought from peasants or other Uyghur bediks and sells exclusively to Chinese for consumption purposes. For people like Ahma¨tjan, trading with Han Chinese was a rare opportunity for upward mobility, both in terms of financial income and increased prestige (Fig. 4). At the time of the interviews (February 2007), together with three other Uyghur bediks, Ahma¨tjan shared capital of 500,000 Yuan (ca. 50,000 Euros) to use in market transactions. His clearly urban friends, who accompanied him to the restaurant where we conducted our interview, called him laoban
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Fig. 4.
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A Chinese-Speaking Uyghur ‘Modern’ Donkey Trader.
(boss), a typical reform-era Chinese term, which was also adopted in Uyghur for thriving entrepreneurs. Rather than retaining his peasant identity as other typical bediks do, Ahma¨tjan has transformed himself into a successful tijara¨tchi (businessman), not only by wearing fashionable clothes and eating at expensive restaurants, but also by avoiding the stigma of donkey trading. He rationalised the tragic fate which the donkeys he sold might face by saying that ‘even if I don’t do it, someone else will do it anyway. It is a market trend (bazarning yo¨linishi)’. Furthermore, he claimed that the notion that ‘killing a donkey is a sin’ was a form of backwardness (qalaqliq), which could hamper the economic opportunities and development of the Uyghurs. Ahma¨tjan and several other Chinese speaking Uyghur middlemen had clearly become the ‘elite’ among the donkey traders. The material standing and prestige attained through donkey trading with Han Chinese had minimised for them the ethical considerations and norms of culturally acceptable and religiously appropriate behaviour. His idea of people’s ‘ignorance’ in relation to Islam, resembles that of some Uyghur intellectuals, who condemn what they consider an ignorant way of clinging to Islam, such as women’s veiling (Rudelson, 1997). Such denunciation is often rhetorically justified by an argument on ‘modernisation’ and ‘development’ of the Uyghurs.
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The limited trust established between Chinese speaking Uyghur bediks and their Han Chinese counterparts merits emphasis. A typical transfer of donkeys from the livestock market to the hands of the Chinese traders often does not directly involve the latter’s presence at the markets. It is Uyghur bediks such as Ahma¨tjan who generally collect the donkeys (ranging from 10 to 40 animals at one time) at various livestock markets. Using mobiles, they then inform their Han trading partners of the number and price of the donkeys they had purchased. Once confirmed, the Uyghur bediks hire a truck to load the animals and send them directly to the Chinese traders, usually based in the county of Yopurgha. Sometimes, direct and immediate cash payment to the Uyghur bediks is not realised on concluding the transaction, although the Uyghur bediks themselves buy the donkeys from peasants and other bediks by paying cash. When the Chinese traders fail to pay on time, even large sums of credit owed by them were usually settled by a simple note stating a later day on which the two parties would meet. Notes of this sort indicated the sum owed and the future date of payment. This future date was often set after the Chinese traders would have sold the donkeys live, or in parts, often shipping them to other regions. These notes were written in Chinese and the Uyghur bediks acknowledged that they cannot read a word except the numbers, which means that they can only guess the content of the statement. At the time of the interview, Ahma¨tjan confirmed that his Chinese partner Tang owed him and his other three Uyghur partners a total of 200,000 Yuan (20,000 Euro) from previous deals. Tang had gone back to Wuhan to celebrate the Chinese Spring Festival with his family. Because he had transferred all the donkeys also to the Wuhan region, he was supposed to bring back the money owed to Ahma¨tjan and the others from this trip. When asked what would happen if Tang simply decided not to come back to Xinjiang, Ahma¨tjan’s first reaction was to deny such a possibility by stating that this was not be the first instance of such a situation, and that Tang had always come back and paid all the money; moreover, by running away with this ‘little’ bit, Tang would simply sacrifice the chance of earning more money in Xinjiang. However, when pressed, Ahma¨tjan also acknowledged that if Tang were to run away, he and his Uyghur partners would have no choice but to accept the loss. According to him, although the note written by Tang did have legal effect, such a case involved two provinces, and there was only a slim chance of finding Tang because he did not have any immediate relatives in Kashgar and he was there simply for business. The trust Ahma¨tjan and his Uyghur partners had in their Chinese partners was a limited one, involving risk and ambiguity.
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The risks typically faced by bediks whose trading networks were locally oriented do not seem to be a problem for Ahma¨tjan. As agents who provided large numbers of donkeys to their Chinese counterparts/trading partners, they were well-equipped with information on market demand. Knowledge about increasing or decreasing national demand reached them from local Chinese agents via mobiles. This determines their purchasing decisions and guarantees the availability of buyers. For Ahma¨tjan and his Uyghur partners, language certainly functions as an important tool to get access to information and had helped them to become part of a national market network. Furthermore, language was also important here for rhetorical reasons, as one needs it to be more convincing. Members of this new type of bediks, exemplified by Ahma¨tjan, felt that they were a cut above the other bediks, whose poor Chinese was a handicap.
CONCLUSION Uyghur’s valuation of Donkeys falls into Mary Douglas’ (2002) famous argument on symbolic boundary-maintenance. In line with this, Smith (2002, pp. 153, 167) has pointed out when discussing Uyghurs’ interaction with Han Chinese that the Uyghurs activate and exaggerate certain religiocultural differences ‘‘as a means of ensuring symbolic, spatial, and social segregation from the Han.’’ This is particularly reflected in the avoidance of pork. She further claims that it is, however, not religio-cultural differences that ‘‘lie at the root of increased tensions between Uyghurs and Han Chinese,’’ but rather ‘‘changing social, political and economic contexts.’’ Market liberalisation and the growth of the nation-wide demand for donkey products collide with Uyghur peasants’ concerns with the donkeys’ utilitarian value, as well as their moral injunction on killing a donkey. This has been increasingly brought to the fore by the economic inducements created through the growing economic ties of Uyghurs in this remote region with Han Chinese in other parts of China. Nevertheless, despite these existing ideological and ethnic tensions, most Uyghurs, be they ordinary peasants or donkey traders, have adapted to such challenges and changes in their life-choices, in either active or passive ways. Donkey trading in Kashgar, a profession which was highly stigmatised and demarcated along urban/rural lines, is now also facing a new era of change with Han Chinese intrusion. Donkey traders have started to participate in wider commercial environment facing many challenges. The decision made by Ma¨hma¨t, for example, can be considered as irrational and inefficient market behaviour
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from a purely economic point of view. On the one hand, some Uyghurs might take up breeding donkeys for economic advantage in the future. Complementary engagement with the Han traders will be necessary if they wish to participate in the national market. However, the geographical remoteness of Kashgar and the inability to speak the national language will make it difficult for the Uyghur traders to surpass the Chinese in successfully circulating their commodities. On the other hand, the stigma attached to the donkey trade, let alone meat or skin trade, is unlikely to fade away in a short period of time, if at all. In accord with widely analysed anthropological research on markets, this research serves to strengthen the arguments that markets are shaped and reshaped by culture/religion-bound concepts and that economic imperatives facilitate the creation of new meanings and practices. On a further note, the practices and discourses of the donkey market have both cultural and economic implications in the politics of Uyghur identity as a social organisation, and for the issues of resistance and accommodation to political and economic domination by the Han Chinese.
NOTES 1. A variation of tandoor, a clave oven used in baking. 2. The capital city of Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, approximately 1,500 km north to Kashgar. 3. For a very recent discussion of ethnic relations and issues in Xinjiang, see the special issue in Central Asian Survey, Vol. 28, No. 4, December 2009: ‘The Uyghurs in China – Questioning the Past and Understanding the Present’. 4. For more on this, see A General Introduction to Kashgar City and City Administration, the Kashgar government official webpage (http://www.kashi.gov.cn/ County/Kashi/Index.htm). 5. The gradual demotion of the old quarter of Kashgar city began in 2001. It has been an ongoing project for nearly a decade. Owing to its historical significance and the unique cultural heritage, the Chinese government’s action has been largely taken by the international community as a direct act to disperse the densely populated Uyghur population. It is also seen as a measure to pave the way for further accommodating incoming Han migrants (for more, see http://www.nytimes.com/ 2009/05/28/world/asia/28kashgar.html). 6. The importance of the donkeys’ role in caravan routes can be understood from the fact that people who are in charge of or work for a caravan are called isha¨kchi in Uyghur (a person whose profession is to work with donkeys). 7. It is worth mentioning that the ‘rural status’, which is attached to the donkeys in Kashgar, has been rather a phenomenon in the past half century only. Until then, the donkeys were also kept in urban areas, especially as a means of transport.
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Donkeys, being cheaper and easier to manage and ride than horses, were ridden by commoners, but were also favoured by higher class women. Although riding a donkey would not bring any social stigma to a high status woman, a man of the same category would be hesitant to ride a donkey in public as it was horses and the extravagance of their decorations that would count. Since the 1980s, with the expansion of urban areas and building of new roads, donkeys and donkey carts have not been allowed in Kashgar city. They can, however, be observed around the vicinity of the Central Asian Bazaar, the largest bazaar in Kashgar, driven by peasants who come to sell their agricultural products or use donkey carts as taxis. 8. According to government statistics (Kashgar Gazetteer, 2004), uterine prolapses and urinary fistula were two of the common diseases among rural women in Kashgar in the 1960s and 1970s. Some doctors from the Kashgar Provincial Hospital have claimed that this was due to the fact that women were forced to engage in heavy labour during the commune period, which contributed to the widespread of the aforementioned gynecological diseases (Eli, 2006). 9. Before the rubber-wheeled harwa, yariyar – carts with high wooden wheels and often pulled by horses – were used. The number of yariyar in rural Kashgar, however, was small. 10. This is the case in Italy and Ireland (Starkey & Starkey, 1997). In the case of Mexico’s central highlands, von Keyserlingk (1999) mentions that 72% of the rich families do not have donkeys and 80% of poor families own donkeys. 11. Atush is located in the northwest of Kashgar. It connects China with Kyrgyzstan through the Tianshan Mountain ranges. 12. According to the statistics recorded in the Kashgar Gazetteer (2004), limited numbers of donkeys were exported to India and especially to Afghanistan from Kashgar in 1927. 13. Costs for a donkey’s one-day-feed in 2007: corn (0.5 Yuan), a bunch of Lucerne (1 Yuan) and oats (0.5 Yuan). It makes a total of 2 Yuan a day and approximately 700 Yuan (70 Euros) a year. The price of the same feed about 5 years ago: corn (0.1 Yuan), a bunch of Lucerne (0.1 Yuan) and oats (0.05 Yuan). In total it amounted to 0.25 Yuan a day and approximately 100 Yuan (10 Euros) a year. 14. Nohla in Uyghur means nose polyp of a horse or a donkey. It also refers to haughtiness, arrogance and bluster. A donkey’s polyps are usually cut off while the donkey is still young and this surgical procedure is carried out by an experienced donkey bedik. It is believed that donkeys with polyps are difficult to tame. 15. Haram is a Qur’anic term meaning forbidden, unlawful; opposite this term is halal meaning permitted and legal. One Hadith in Sahih Bukhari (Volume 4, Book 52, Number 234), which is narrated by Anas, mentions that after the Prophet and his army defeated Khaibar, they killed and cooked some donkeys. Afterwards, the announcer of the Prophet proclaimed, ‘Allah and His Apostle forbid you to eat donkey meat’. So, all the pots including their contents were turned upside down. Translation of Sahih Bukhari, Book 67 (See http://www.usc.edu/schools/college/crcc/engagement/ resources/texts/muslim/hadith/bukhari/067.sbt.html). Despite the clear pledge of the inedibility of donkey meat, this Hadith has no indication about the ‘unclean’ nature of donkey meat, as can be evidenced in Islam when referring to dogs and pigs. However, for most Uyghur peasants, haramness is equal to uncleanness, regardless of the causal factors.
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16. A mule, too, is regarded as haram by the Uyghurs. The hybrid nature is seen as an act against God’s power, i.e., an invention of another species by human kind. The prejudice against mules as being creatures contrary to nature was also shared by the ancient Israelites (Leighton, 1967, p. 46). 17. Male donkeys are generally not castrated in Kashgar. Although a castrated donkey is believed to be a milder and more docile creature, it is at the same time believed to be weaker, of less physical strength, and lazier. This understanding is quite common in many cultures such as in the Mexican central highlands (von Keyserlingk, 1999). In Kashgar, people also believe that an impotent man not only carries similar characteristics as a castrated animal, but is also prone to diseases. 18. Since antiquity, the donkey was recorded as the cheapest animal of burden compared to camels, horses and oxen (see Bengall, 1985). 19. One of the valuable usages of ejiao is its function for increasing blood cells. Other important products, which can be processed from a donkey, are believed to be medicines for male virility. As a result, it is used extensively by manufacturers of modern health-care products. Ejiaogai, Ejiao-Calcium, is one of the most successful of such products in the past 15 years, which is advertised in the media nationwide. It has also become one of the ‘elite gifts’ during Spring Festival given to family members and friends. The Chinese are not the only people who appreciate donkey meat and milk. Asses’ milk was used for bathing and face lotion by Romans, and Maecenas favoured eating the meat of young donkeys as rare and delicate dishes (Leighton, 1967, p. 49). 20. For more on this see http://www.mjagri.gov.cn/ShowArticle.asp?ArticleID ¼ 24.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I acknowledge the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Germany who provided research funding for this project. I also thank two reviewers for their constructive and valuable criticism to the earlier version of this chapter.
REFERENCES Baranovitch, N. (2003). From the margins to the centre: The Uyghur challenge in Beijing. China Quarterly, 175, 726–750. Becquelin, N. (2000). Xinjiang in the nineties. China Journal, 44, 65–90. Bengall, S. R. (1985). The Camel, the Wagon, and the Donkey in Later Roman Egypt. Bulletin of the American Society of Paapyrologists, 22, 1–6. Bovingdon, G. (2002). The not-so-silent majority: Uyghur resistance to Han rule in Xinjiang. Modern China, 28(1), 39–78. Dillon, M. (Ed.) (1998). China: A cultural and historical dictionary. London: Routledge. Douglas, M. (2002). Purity and danger: An analysis of concept of pollution and taboo. New York: Routledge.
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Eli, A. (2006). Gender, social hierarchy and ethnicity: A case study of urban Kashgar, XUAR, China. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Melbourne, Melbourne. Gazetteer, K. (2004). Urumqi. Xinjiang People’s Publishing House. Gladney, D. (1996). Muslim Chinese: Ethnic nationalism in the People’s Republic. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Gladney, D. (1998). Getting rich is not so glorious: Contrasting perspectives on prosperity among Muslims and Han in China. In: W. R. Hefner (Ed.), Market cultures: Society and morality in the new Asian capitalism (pp. 79–104). Boulder: Westview Press. Gregory, J. (2007). Donkeys and the equine hierarchy in archaic Greek literature. Classical Journal, 102(3), 193–212. Haider, Z. (2005). Sino-Pakistan relations and Xinjiang’s Uighurs: Politics, trade, and Islam along the Karakoram Highway. Asian Survey, 45(4), 522–545. Inel, B. (2007). Turgut Zaim’s donkeys: Modern art as a tool of reconciliation between rural and urban cultures in mid-20th century Turkey. Unpublished paper presented at conference, The role of the donkey and mule in the culture of the Mediterranean. Hydra. Kaneff, D. (2002). The shame and pride of market activity: Morality, identity and trading in post-socialist rural Bulgaria. In: R. H. Mandel & C. Humphrey (Eds), Markets and moralities: Ethnographies of postsocialism (pp. 1–18). New York: Berg. Leighton, C. A. (1967). The mule as a cultural invention. Technology and Culture, 8(1), 45–52. Little, D. P. (1992). Traders, brokers and market ‘crisis’ in southern Somalia. Journal of the International African Institute, 62(1), 94–124. Mandel, R. H., & Humphrey, C. (2002). In: Markets and moralities: Ethnographies of postsocialism (pp. 1–18). New York: Berg. Millward, J. (Ed.). (2009). Special issue: The Uyghurs in China – questioning the past and understanding the present. Central Asian Survey, 28(4). Peletz, G. M. (1998). The ‘‘great transformation’’ among Negeri Sembilan Malays, with particular reference to Chinese and Minangkabau. In: W. R. Hefner (Ed.), Market culture: Society and morality in the new Asian capitalism (pp. 173–202). Boulder: Westview Press. Roberts, S. R. (1998). The Uighurs of the Kazakhstan borderlands: Migration and the nation. Nationalities Papers, 26(3), 511–530. Rudelson, J. J. (1997). Oasis identities: Uyghur nationalism along China’s Silk Road. New York: Columbia University Press. Sindawi, K. (2006). The donkey of the Prophet in Shi’ite tradition. Al-Masaq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean, 18(1), 87–98. Sinor, D. (1997). Studies in medieval Inner Asia. Aldershot, Hamshire: Ashgate. Smith, N. J. (2002). ‘‘Making culture matter’’: Symbolic, special and social boundaries between Uyghurs and Chinese. Asian Ethnicity, 3(2), 153–174. Starkey, P., & Starkey, M. (1997). Regional and world trends in donkey populations. Available at http://www.atnesa.org/donkeyspeopledevelopment.htm. Retrieved on February 22, 2007. Starr, S. F. (Ed.) (2004). Xinjiang: China’s Muslim borderland. New York, London: M. E. Sharpe. von Keyserlingk, A. (1999). The use of donkeys in the Mexican central highlands: A gender perspective. Development in Practice, 9(4), 437–448.
URBAN FOOD PROVISIONING IN CAMEROON: REGIONAL BANANA PLANTAIN NETWORKS LINKING YAOUNDE AND THE VILLAGES OF KOUMOU AND OBAN Tite Ngoumou ABSTRACT This chapter addresses urban food provisioning through a case study of banana plantain production, distribution, and consumption centering around two Cameroonian villages – Koumou and Oban. Recent and rapid urban population growth in Cameroon has brought attention to the issue of urban food supply, which has always been assured by a traditional organization of numerous small operators and which has proven to be more effective overall than initiatives adopted by public authorities. This chapter identifies the actors involved in urban food provisioning systems in Cameroon and highlights the often underlooked role played by cultural and social factors within the economy of food.
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 187–207 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030011
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INTRODUCTION The cities of central Africa have a very recent history, going back only to the end of the 19th century colonial period. The development and expansion of these cities are connected to a substantial exodus of the rural population in search of salaried work (Balandier, 1955). As a consequence of this demographic shift, the city of Yaounde had, by the mid-20th century, expanded to become an urban metropolis with approximately 300,000 inhabitants, to take one example. Today it is home to about 2.2 million. Such strong population growth – and indeed the current level – is not sustainable without a large and at least relatively efficient urban food provisioning system. Guyer (1987) called for an assessment of the various approaches to providing people in the cities of Africa with food in the latter half of the 1980s. Importantly, she noted the regular recurrence of real or feared ‘‘food crises’’ – a concern even of the antecedent colonial regimes as well as by the first generation of postcolonial African governments. Guyer further noted the variety of public initiatives that were created in response to these issues concerning food provisioning, pointing out that various initiatives were very often unsuccessful and that they stood in contradiction to the traditional, more efficient form of the organizational apparatus. She made a particular note of the fact that regardless of the specific policy that may have been adopted, the provisioning of African cities with foodstuffs was assured throughout the 20th century without the knowledge of either the scholars or the concerned ministerial departments. Therefore, an important and unanswered question that should be posed is what mechanisms and processes did the extremely fast-growing, large metropolises like Yaounde use to feed themselves? This question bears asking since food crises are now emerging in many African countries, which means that new mechanisms and processes might be needed. But the data on which Guyer relied in her analysis were collected before 1987, and from 1986 to 1994 Cameroon experienced a severe economic recession that could have – and perhaps should have – worsened the systems of provisioning a city such as Yaounde with food. During this difficult period, however, these systems were not weakened but rather remained very effective. Therefore, the above question must be amended to include an inquiry into the reasons why Yaounde’s provisioning systems did remain so effective. The purpose of this chapter is to answer this question by looking at two different small communities in Cameroon that provide food for Yaounde. I show that the city of Yaounde obtains its provision of foodstuffs from
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at least two distinct models of agricultural farming production. The first of these models is common to Koumou, a village located in the country’s rural hinterland. Here, the method and model of production proceed on a basis of a trade outflow of household surpluses. The other production model is common to the village of Oban, which is located at a greater distance from Yaounde. This farming model proceeds on the basis of the development and exploitation of relatively small rural farms, producing exclusively for consumption within an urban context. This model is strongly rooted in rural relationships of neighborhood or kinship. Such models of farm production were often created by migrants from the cities or surrounding regions, who bought lands to establish their farms. Consequently, the existence of this sort of production model is dependent on a land market. I do not seek here to generalize excessively about, or to quantitatively measure, the entire national food production, processing, and distribution industry in Cameroon. Rather, by means of a qualitative and detailed study of a sector, I wish to clarify the actors and the key processes that contribute to the creation of an informal economy on which the systems of production and distribution of a number of local agricultural crops such as cassava, cocoyam, sweet potato, yam, or banana plantain rely. Imported products such as rice or wheat are affected more by formalized trade networks and are generally more expensive than local products, which depend more on traditional organizations, as noted by Guyer (1987). The initial section of this chapter is devoted to the details of the developments that have contributed to the history of the provisioning process regarding agricultural food products of the city of Yaounde. The second part centers on a theoretical contextualization of the concept of provisioning, as well as the results of my own field research in Cameroon. Finally, I discuss and attempt to synthesize the empirical data in order to make a more comprehensive assessment of the processes of provisioning the city of Yaounde with a single product – banana plantain. The field data used for this analysis was collected during the course of my doctorate thesis survey at the University of Sorbonne, from February to September of 2004. The objective at that time was to identify the links between the production, distribution, and consumption from two villages – Koumou and Oban – provisioning Yaounde. First-hand participatory observation and interviews were the primary methods used to collect data. I carefully followed the route taken by the banana plantain from the rural farms to the urban consumers in order to document in detail the processes involved and the roles of the different actors, and their complex and varied social relationships.
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THE HISTORY OF PROVISIONING YAOUNDE WITH FOOD From an historical point of view, Guyer (1987, pp. 113–153) considers that provisioning policies in Cameroon developed through five successive periods. In Yaounde, a German military outpost was established in 1888, and from that year until 1917, the outpost secured provisions for itself by requisitioning food and supplies from the surrounding indigenous population by more-or-less forced trade and by establishing its own farms as well. After Germany’s defeat in the war, Cameroon became divided between Great Britain and France. Shortly after that, in 1922, Yaounde became the capital. At that time, it had a population of approximately 5,000 inhabitants. During the second phase of this history, the French colonial administration established ex nihilo village chiefs who took turns governing their respective communities. In fact, one of their responsibilities was to ensure that food flowed from their territories to the capital. Actually, in Yaounde region, people lived by subsistence farming and did not engage in market-oriented production at all. Such a system was eventually established coercively through the use of the indige´nat. Every able-bodied young man, indige`ne, had to cultivate and provision cities with foodstuffs, delivered directly to specific colonial institutions, such as the prison or the hospital, or to a shop exclusively accessible to Europeans. People who refused to provide the urban population with food were imprisoned or fined. Some chiefs were able to satisfy the colonial administration by developing their own farms. The indige´nat system was abolished in 1946, paving the way for the third phase, that of the Provident Societies, a colonial institution that resembled a cooperative to which all able-bodied indigenous males had to belong (Develtere, 1998, p. 76). The functions of the cooperative were numerous. One of these functions was to provide Yaounde with foodstuffs by creating links between the independent small producers from the rural settings and the urban market, which they served. By 1946, there were about 18,000 people living in Yaounde. The issue of transportation was at the center of the cooperative’s members’ concerns and activities – road networks linking the capital and the hinterlands were too few and of poor quality. In 1960, Cameroon gained its independence and the period of colonialism came to an end. After independence, the system of Provident Societies was also abolished. This marked the opening of the fourth phase, with the surfacing of private operators, the establishment of a national food market which quickly expanded to some neighboring countries, and the start of a new public interventionist policy focused on financing, processing,
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marketing, and taxation of agricultural activities on the one hand, and focused on educational and technical training of farmers on the other (Kengne, 2003, p. 171). From 1968 to 1972, prices of foodstuffs doubled in Cameroon. As Guyer indicated, this inflation has never been very well explained (1987, p. 135). It resulted in the establishment of price framing under police control that ended in a strike of the intermediaries (farmers and traders),1 the drying up of the provisioning system, and the abandonment of the policy led by the government agency in charge of creating green belts around cities and of assuring that people there were adequately supplied with food – MIDEVIV (Mission pour le De´veloppement des Cultures Vivrie`res) (Kengne, ibid., p. 174). This parastatal institution sought to outperform private traders by buying foodstuffs at high prices from producers and selling them below the prices offered by the private traders in order to force urban food prices down. Yet, MIDEVIV has consistently been unable to dominate, or even to compete with, the indigenous sector (Guyer, 1987, p. 139). Guyer (1987) demonstrates that several more-or-less interventionist initiatives such as GAM (Groupe d’Agriculteurs Modernes) and FONADER (Fonds National de De´veloppement Rural) have met with very modest success. On the other hand, the exponential development of urban markets, the improvement of transportation infrastructure, extensive market penetration of rural production and economic sectors (cash crops, health care, housing, etc.), and the emergence of private operators (traders, transporters), which began during the fourth phase, have contributed to the rise of a fifth phase that serves well to provision Yaounde City with food. This stage can be described as being traditional overall but with an efficient organization based on extremely scattered production in the hinterland of Yaounde, and as an informal transportation and trading circuit. It is important to note that the traditional nature of this system has resulted in a sharp division between the provisioning of households in the city of Yaounde on the one hand and a wholesale market supporting a variety of institutions (boarding schools, armed forces, etc.) on the other, at prices three times higher than those of the traditional circuits (see Guyer, 1987, p. 142). In fact, the wholesale market depends on extremely concentrated (diverse activities) agricultural companies and not on individual small producers. It is this fifth phase and mode of provisioning that is the primary focus of this chapter. As Guyer (1987) noted, the fifth phase and mode of provisioning proved successful and supported urban growth well. Meanwhile, as it did so, the state and the city abandoned any attempt to supervise this mode of provisioning and concerned themselves more with road construction and market infrastructures. Importantly, Guyer
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(1987, p. 18) noted that information on this system is sparse and often too incidental for the purpose of advanced research, and that an analysis of this system needs to be built from the local level.
THEORETICAL AND METHADOLOGICAL APPROACH After being instituted in some sub-Saharan countries such as Cameroon, formal markets expanded very rapidly during the colonial period. This can be seen as a consequence of the urban revolution, which posed a big challenge for Africa’s new leaders who tried, according to Hart (2008), to generate and promote a modern economy managed through the central bureaucracy of the nation-state. The purpose of this modern economy was to outperform agrarian civilization and establish ‘‘national capitalism’’ based on capital and markets. Today the latter play crucial roles for the urban population, where people purchase food products (rather than grow them) in order to feed themselves. Researchers belonging to a broad range of academic disciplines have carried out a number of studies in order to better comprehend the functioning of African markets. While it is beyond the scope of this chapter to thoroughly review all of these, I do take up a few of them here in order to provide an adequate understanding of the functioning of the market and the provisioning systems of food products in Cameroon for the purposes of the present analysis. In sub-Saharan Africa, economists were the first to focus on marketplace exchanges. Their perspectives were grounded in the philosophy of Adam Smith, or more precisely, in the popular interpretation of Smith’s work that predicates that people involved in an exchange occurring in a marketplace always attempt to maximize their profit. According to this perspective, price occupies a central position since it determines the exchange value of every single commodity. Among other scholars, Bohannan (1955) claimed that this approach was inappropriate for the African context. As a result, he proposed the concept of spheres of exchange. During his field research among the Tiv of Nigeria, he noticed that commodities moved through different spheres of exchange according to their nature. By way of some exceptional circumstances, a commodity could be transferred from one sphere of exchange to another. Commodities with the same economic value were exchanged inside a specific sphere of exchange, whereas gifts and reciprocal exchanges were involved in a determined sphere of exchange supported by diverse social relationships or kinship. Depending on social
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dimensions, then, it is clearly possible for both economic and reciprocal exchanges to take place in African markets. In the early 1970s, Keith Hart, after several years of field research in Ghana, coined the phrase ‘‘informal economy’’ in reference to activities occurring outside the formal framework of a liberal economy (1973). He stressed the fact that informal economy involves self-employed actors who used the market in order to gain a supplementary income from a formal activity. In a subsequent study, Hart (1982) addressed West African agriculture. He asserted that many African countries had had to transform their traditional productivity in order to achieve a commodity economy fuelled by market expansion. Despite these efforts, though, labor efficiency and land productivity were lower than would be thought by agents of the markets or the state (ibid., 1982, p. 10). He also stated that the fast-growing cities constituted a real opportunity for exchange between the countryside and towns. In a related vein, Guyer (1987) noted that the burgeoning African cities were fed by numerous craft operators engaged alongside the official system of provisioning cities with foods from the rural hinterland, and that public authorities were not able to control this economy. Therefore, the ‘‘informal economy’’ contains potential for Africa’s urban revolution and proves that national capitalism led by the nation-state has been rather unsuccessful seeing as that in most African states, agriculture is hardly more advanced or efficient as it was before (Hart, 2008). Hart notably states that the informal economy is thought now to account for 70–90% of the economy in most African countries. Within the field of anthropology, the economy is often defined as a set of production, distribution, and consumption operations of goods and services. Nevertheless, studies dedicated to the economy tend to confine themselves to only one of these economic operations. As Warnier (1999, pp. 113–115) once remarked, the one that is selected as the most important is considered to be the single organizing and explanatory principle of the entire set of operations. This method of analysis was criticized by Fine and Leopold (1993) who asserted that the three economic operations constitute a unity that should be studied together and not separately (p. 253). Consequently, they suggested reasoning in terms of a system of provisioning because the articulations between the production, distribution, and consumption operations vary from one product to another or from one branch of activity to another. According to Narotzky (2005, pp. 78–81), provisioning is a complex process that can be understood only if one takes into account relations between the economic operations on which the contents and the meaning of
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goods depend. Similarly, these particular relations between production, distribution, and consumption show social relationships within which people engaged in the process of provisioning function. This approach is consistent with one already proposed by Appaduraı¨ (1986, p. 5) who suggested following the trajectories of certain goods. Furthermore, it is within these trajectories that the social and cultural dimensions are drawn. Therefore, my objective here is to analyze the provisioning system of the city of Yaounde with regards to a single product – the banana plantain, which is one of the most heavily consumed starchy foods of this city and many others in Cameroon. According to Efanden, Kwa, Temple, and et David (2005), the demand for this staple keeps more than 600,000 producers and 40,000 traders busy and amounts to an annual production of 1.4 million tons. They also note that the economic contribution of this product to the state economy of Cameroon may be assessed at about 120 billion CFA francs (US$284,645,746),2 which amounts to 2% of the gross domestic product. With the importance of this product to the national diet economy clear, I would now like to identify the stages of the banana plantain route, from the small rural plantation to the urban market and household. This requires identifying and following the actors involved, illuminating the social relationships at play, and defining the cultural dimensions of the provisioning system of the banana plantain, which is quite complex, as it involves numerous traditional operators.
BANANA PLANTAIN NETWORKS BETWEEN YAOUNDE AND KOUMOU/OBAN Upon arrival in Yaounde for the first time, one is struck by the number of small-scale vendors on the city’s sidewalks selling cooked banana plantain served with grilled pork or beef. These informal businesses are generally owned and operated by women who provide cheap and affordable meals to the large majority of poor people who need to eat while outside their homes. In general, Banana plantain is a common item on restaurant menus and it is an integral part of many home-cooked meals. Hence, the demand for consumption of banana plantain in a city such as Yaounde is very high. Indeed, data from 1996 shows that in that year approximately 4.2 billion CFA francs (or about US$10 million) were spent on banana plantain in the city. In comparison, the amount of money spent on fresh cassava was about 2.4 billion CFA francs (US$5.6 million), and that spent on macabo cocoyam
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amounted to nearly 2.4 billion CFA francs (US$1.25 million) (ECAM, 2000, p. 97). Given this demand, there is a massive market for banana plantain in Yaounde and in other urban centers that provides producers in the countryside ample opportunities to sell their surplus products there as long as safe and affordable trade routes are available. Only a few decades ago, the African population was primarily rural, but this situation is rapidly changing as increasing numbers of rural dwellers migrate to the cities. In 1976, only about 28% of the Cameroonian population lived in cities, but this figure exceeds 50% today (Tchawe, 2006). Along with this development, though, farmland in the areas immediately adjacent to Yaounde has become far less available, so producers there cannot fully cover the needs of the urban population. Therefore, one of the alternatives available is that part of the food requirements may be provided by the peasants in the hinterland and another part by the producers who have access to relatively low-cost farmlands in regions distant from the cities. This phenomenon has been observed in both Koumou and Oban villages (Fig. 1).
Fig. 1.
The Region of Yaounde and Surrounding Centers of Food Production, Including the Villages of Koumou and Oban.
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Actually, both villages – Koumou and Oban – are inhabited by Beti people who depend primarily on subsistence farming, growing a variety of different starchy crops, including yam, cassava, and banana plantain – all of which are important symbols of local identity. As for banana plantain, the importance of this food to the Beti people is crucial. The plant as a whole is considered to be a totem that is central to life itself. Consequently, the Beti people, as is evident in a number of phrases, proverbs, and rituals, often try to behave as they believe a banana plantain tree does. Different parts of the plant each have very different social and cultural contexts, running from the birth to the death of each member of the Beti ethnic group. In some contexts, a banana tree can fully replace a human being. For instance, if somebody dies and the body cannot be found or retrieved, the trunk of a banana tree might be buried in place of the person’s corpse. This occurred on a large scale recently in Cameroon after a plane crash in May 2007 in which more than 100 people were killed. In addition, Beti people believe that the banana tree embodies a spirit that can be transmitted to human beings during specific rituals. One of the best examples is the birth ritual that traditionally took place under the banana tree. In general, the use of banana plantain among the Beti ethnic group relies specifically on its symbolic meaning, and the function fulfilled by each part of this plant (leaves, trunk, roots, flowers, fruits, etc.). I limit myself here to a consideration of the fruits, which are the main focus of this chapter. As far as consumption is concerned, banana plantain is considered the most valuable foodstuff among Beti people. It is consumed during ordinary and ritual occasions since Beti believe that the banana plantain has special properties. For them, a meal worthy of the name must comprise, even to a modest degree, an element of banana plantain. Even the form of individual fruits of the banana plantain – such as the color (ripe or green) and the shape (welded bananas or split, etc.) – is loaded with great symbolic significance. Notably, banana plantain fruits that are tightly welded shut are consumed to consolidate relationships like marriage or reconciliation. The split banana plantain that has the shape of smiling lips is consumed for happy events: births, weddings, burials, etc. (Ngoumou, 2007). The Beti people practice a form of nomadic slash-and-burn cultivation on fields that have been allowed to lie fallow for varying periods of time. If the production is carried out by the members of a residential unit linked by filial ties, the agricultural division of labor is predicted on bases of both gender and social position. Typical of this type of shifting cultivation agriculture, the initial task of land clearance is conducted by the men, who are also responsible for tree felling. They are also involved in the production of
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commercial crops such as cocoa and coffee, which provide the main income to the households. The maintenance of the fields and the process of harvesting are managed by women. This sort of agriculture is virtually timeless in Africa. Techniques and tools are traditional and the latter are usually made by hand. All Beti characteristics mentioned here typify the people of both Koumou and Oban, the inhabitants of which are linked by kinship. The only major difference between the two places that concerns us here is the fact that many farm operators have settled in Oban where farmlands are both available and affordable – see below. Koumou is a small village located approximately 30 km south of Yaounde beside an asphalted roadway that connects the capital with the southern part of the country. In this village, banana plantain fields support mixed farming and yet are extremely modest, often comprising less than 1 ha in size. Close to Yaounde, its high population density limits access to farmland. Consequently, people in the area mainly grow food to satisfy their own needs. Only food surpluses are conveyed to urban markets. Oban, on the other hand, is a small village located around 80 km to the east-southeast of Yaounde. The road network to and from Oban is a series of badly maintained unpaved tracks, difficult to negotiate during both the dry and rainy seasons and often impassable in places. The population is sparse and there are, in the territories around the village, large tracts of virgin land awaiting cultivation. The sorts of tools and implements in evidence at Koumou were also observed at Oban. However, at Oban, the farmers used chainsaws for felling trees and also some pesticides to improve crop yields and to reduce weeds and pests. This is particularly the case with regard to the larger holdings, which, in some instances, may exceed 30 ha in size. Production activities at Oban are very important to the inhabitants of the village. Farmers recruit workers from an exclusive local male workforce and negotiate a set amount of pay with each according to the tasks to be undertaken, such as field clearance, planting and general farm maintenance, bunch harvesting, and the portage and loading of cargo into the vehicles. Women in this context have at best an ancillary role. Family responsibilities and restrictive cultural norms largely interdict their participation. The gender division of labor largely restricts women’s activities to the households, but they also grow some food to feed their families. Once the banana plantain crop attains maturity in Koumou, it is harvested and prepared for immediate household consumption. Any surplus is gathered and then forwarded to the cities, where it is sold for cash, in accordance with the typical peasant form of C–M–C (Marx, 1993, pp. 107–164), in which a commodity is converted it into money in an urban
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market that is in turn used to purchase a different commodity. Since the actually growing of banana plantain is an exclusively female activity, the women handle the matter of selling the surpluses of production. The sorts of arrangements observed at Koumou were not evidenced at Oban. As soon as banana plantain bunches reach maturity, the farmers call their workers to cut them off. Here, banana plantain production is commercialized, geared toward marketing the fruits in the urban markets and the realization of a return on investment in an M–C–M arrangement (Marx, 1993, pp. 165–198), in which monetary gain is the primary objective. In Oban, the relations sustained between farm workers and their employers (farm operators) extend beyond the formal employee – employer range. Here, it was apparent that the farm operators were regarded as the true natives of that land. Consequently, in Oban, the farming framework is set up as a small-scale rural capitalistic venture, where workers are paid for the amount of work they do. Despite some capitalistic traits, the traditional matrix (cultural aspects, tools, etc.) is integrated into these companies and the society of workers is not regarded as a proletariat cut off from its lands because the individuals are not entirely dependent on wages for their livelihood. In fact, Oban village is crossed by the Nyong River and is surrounded by virgin lands belonging to native people who work with farm operators. Therefore, workers use their own lands to grow food they need. They are also involved in trapping wild animals and fishing. Working with farm operators just provides them an ancillary income used to purchase manufactured goods from cities. In both Koumou and Oban, transporting farm produce to urban markets depends on an adequate transportation system. There are in fact various ways of transporting people and goods in Cameroon, but the transportation network and the ways in which people utilize this system are varied and somewhat complex. Many transporters are dependent on the capriciousness of law enforcement. In general, transporters that connect the big metropolises of Cameroon are relatively law abiding. The vehicles are well maintained and the roads used are usually paved. Therefore, traffic to and from the capital is heavy and congested, and competition is fierce. People freely choose carriers that they can afford, based on their financial means and strategic needs. This is not exactly the case in Koumou, where peasants always have trouble conveying their produce to Yaounde markets. Drivers of vehicles providing access to the asphalted road in this village are more inclined to carry people alone and not food loads. There are, however, many transporters with old vans who often carry peasants traveling to the markets, but during certain periods, the number of vans becomes quite inadequate and
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as a result, everybody cannot convey their load to the markets on time. Transportation issues also affect producers of Oban, who cannot easily convey foodstuffs from their village to the capital. Partly in consequence to this infrastructural situation, the village is crisscrossed by individual transporters that tend to bend or break the rules. They have a reputation for cramming both people and cargo into the same vehicle. Once, during my stay at Oban in 2004, two peasants and I waited for 2 days to travel to Yaounde. Finally, an old truck arrived, and we were packed in it with our belongings. The driver drove very slowly and he stopped several times along the way in order to pick up other passengers to Yaounde city. There were about 10 people in the truck, which also contained huge loads of food products that peasants were bringing to the urban markets. The driver also stopped a number of times in order to drink local alcohol sold at the road sides. The driver neither asked for our permission nor apologized for stopping. After traveling for many hours that day, at about 5 p.m., the driver stopped once more. He disappeared into a house near the road where, according to the testimonies of the regular passengers, one of his numerous girlfriends lived. We waited in the truck, suffering from the cold and the insects, until he finally reappeared early the next morning, but nobody dared complain. None of my fellow passengers dared take a risk on damaging their relationship with him – one of the few drivers willing to go to remote places such as Oban. Although this kind of practice might easily be viewed as inefficient, and indeed extremely wasteful, it actually tends to strengthen the social networking of the food provisioning system in Cameroon, as is shown below. In general, the vehicles used on the roads near the village of Oban are European or Asian in origin, and they are usually purchased secondhand by owners who usually are drivers. These vehicles are certainly not suitable for the sort of use to which they are put, and as a result, breakdowns are frequent, making it all the more difficult for producers to move their crops to urban markets for sale. It is therefore understandable why these vehicles are often chased by the police. In Cameroon, police officers are known by various names, but one that has entered common usage is ‘‘Mange mille,’’ which means ‘‘eating a thousand’’ in English, in reference to their common practice of demanding one 1,000 CFA franc bank note from drivers whom they catch violating traffic regulations. But not only do drivers who get caught breaking a rule have to worry about becoming victims of corrupt police officers – many of them will extort money from drivers at the slightest pretence. In fact, most drivers and vehicle owners feel that they are generally preyed upon and victimized by the police force. Farm operators often claim
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that the police usually seek some pretence to shake down the drivers they pull over. Indeed, policemen appear to be the only ones who know what to search for during road checks, which, according to drivers, are basically opportunities for them to line their pockets with cash, and peasants of Koumou and farm operators of Oban are regularly victimized by these roadside predators while transporting their goods to urban markets. However, the transporters have devised a series of responses to this systemic corruption. For instance, transporters sometimes carry police officers for free from one place to another – and especially when they are not on duty. These secondary adjustments emphasize the creation of a sustained relationship between the transporters and the police. When a vehicle from the countryside arrives at a market in Yaounde, the bidding on the truck’s cargo immediately begins. A cohort of female vendors will approach the vehicle to select items they wish to buy before it enters the gates of the market. My observations are mainly based on the market of Mfoundi, which is the most popular one in Yaounde, with an excellent location. It is situated in the downtown area, and all highways running from different regions of Cameroon run right to it. It is well reputed for its excellent fresh vegetables and fruits. Traders from numerous other markets in Yaounde and even those from subregional cities such as Libreville, Gabon, and Malabo, Equatorial Guinea, usually visit Mfoundi to buy. Once the vehicle has stopped, it is immediately swarmed by bands of porters who quickly unload the truck and group the products together according to the marks of their owners.3 These porters are paid by the drivers according to the portion of the gross amount of goods that they unload. Once this work is done, negotiations between buyers and sellers begin in earnest. When a price has been agreed upon, the farmers ‘‘advance’’ their produce to the vendors against a promise to be paid at the end of the day, establishing (and strengthening) relationships between both parties. Products purchased must be delivered to the vendor’s stalls, which are usually located within a maximum distance of about 100 m from the area where the trucks are parked and discharged (Figs. 2 and 3). At this point, the ‘‘pousseurs’’4 come into play. These are men – mostly either on the young side or fairly old – who push different types of wheelbarrows or carts to transfer the rural produce from the unloading zone to the nearby vendor’s stalls. They work throughout the market, offering their services and negotiating prices for their labor with the female vendors on the spot. They are also paid by customers to transport their purchased goods out of the market. Once out of the market, however, buyers dispense
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Fig. 3.
Banana Plantain at Mfoundi Market, Yaounde.
A Seller Awaits Customers in Mfoundi Market, Yaounde.
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with the services of the pousseurs and hire taxis. There are usually a great many pousseurs in the markets. The vendors who are responsible for selling foodstuffs purchased from peasant or farm operators are referred to as bayam sellam.5 These women are, in general, rather poorly educated, which is why they work in the food markets. Their occupation of buying from producers and selling in the marketplaces is relatively easy to undertake. The rate of taxation is quite low and capital investment in this occupation is very modest – important reasons why they engage in the work. The fixed annual tax in Cameroon is officially set at approximately 16,500 CFA francs (US$39) and payment may be made in four quarterly instalments. Furthermore, the monthly minimum wage in Cameroon is around 28,216 CFA francs (US$56). Someone who wants to open a stall in a municipal marketplace must pay a one-time fee of 10,000 CFA francs (US$24) to the city of Yaounde, which owns them. Therefore, a woman can easily become a bayam sellam with her own food service business relatively easily. Most will sell a variety of goods to buyers of different social and cultural origins, and not at fixed prices, but rather at prices that vary depending on the social relationships between bayam sellam and their customers. Prices tend to be low when the purchaser belongs to the same ethnic group as the seller, but higher when the purchaser is a Cameroonian of any other ethnic group. The prices are highest when the buyer is an outsider. In addition to the variation in prices in the marketplaces, I noticed during my survey that parallel currencies were often in use during the transactions. For instance, I witnessed cases in which a bunch of banana plantains was exchanged for a piece of cloth or some other item. Even in this market context, the banana plantain cannot always be defined as a commodity exchanged for cash, a situation which brings to mind the assertion by Kopytoff (1986, p. 69) that a commodity is not a thing simply produced but a thing that is socially and culturally considered as such. It is also worth noting here that Kopytoff expanded upon Bohannan’s theory of sphere of exchange elaborated in his study of the Tiv of Nigeria. Among Beti people in Cameroon, banana plantain transits through two different spheres of exchange that are socially and culturally delimited. In the first one, this food product is not exchangeable for money but for goods and services that flow among kinship networks of filiation and alliance. In the second, the banana plantain is exchanged for money between actors generally not tied by kinship in the marketplaces where different people come to buy or sell food products and where the banana plantain is socially and culturally defined as a commodity.
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The banana plantain is a rather unique foodstuff. As a commodity, it is very perishable. In fact, it must be consumed within a week of being harvested. At the present time, there is no known technology available to Cameroonian agriculturalists to prolong the shelf life of the banana plantain. Therefore, vendors must dispose of their stocks of plantains as quickly as possible, or they will begin to deteriorate and become inedible and therefore essentially worthless, generating a loss of earnings. Banana plantains are brought to market green (unripe) but of course most consumers prefer them ripe. As a way of coping with this situation, vendors have devised a method known as ‘‘four’’ (French for ‘‘oven’’) to time the ripening process. Banana plantain bunches are stacked up in a pile about 2 m high and about 3 m wide. The pile is then draped with nylon sheets, and tied down with elastic ropes. This generates a rather intense heat that causes the covered banana plantain to ripen in only 1 or 2 days. In Yaounde markets, four is conducted daily, carried out by teams of young people who engage in it on a full-time basis, and who are hired and paid by the bayam sellam in accordance with the thickness of the banana bunches. Often, however, the stocks of banana plantains are not entirely sold over the course of a business day. As the unsold banana plantains pass their peak, the bayam sellam begin to process their produce so as to minimize their losses. They cut the banana plantain into thin strips and cook them in oil. The fried pieces of fruit are then laid on trays which children (often the bayam sellam’s children who are not in school) carry on their heads across the marketplace and sell. Each slice of fried banana plantain costs about 10 CFA francs. These fried slices of banana plantain are considered a delicacy, and are consumed plain or added to other dishes. Using this method, a portion at least of the bayam sellam’s capital investment may be recovered. Broadly speaking, banana plantain is consumed by almost everyone in Cameroon. The indigenous people, strangers to the region, and even expatriates all appreciate this food. According to a strictly quantitative approach of the food provisioning in urban Cameroon, it is the cassava and not the banana plantain that perhaps should have drawn my attention. In 1997, the production of cassava for consumption in urban area was estimated at about 1,991,000 tons, whereas production of banana plantain was only 1,364,000 tons (Ministe`re de L’e´conomie et des Finances, 2000). However, cassava is, in its own way, a rather problematic food. It is criticized for being digested too quickly in the stomach and some of its cultivars contain a poison that requires that they should be soaked in water for several days before using them to make dishes like couscous, gari (cassava flour blended with palm oil), or ebobolo
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(cassava-shaped sausages). In addition, these end foodstuffs that have been processed are poor in nutrient value. By contrast, the banana plantain is a very nutritious food. According to Laburthe-Tolra (1977, p. 643), banana plantain contains, ‘‘minerals and vitamins, all elements entirely absent in modern tubers (cassava and cocoyam).’’ However, one must not assume that the popularity of banana plantain in modern Cameroon – and especially among the urban population – is predicated exclusively upon the assumption that the product is ‘‘healthy.’’ In fact, as was mentioned above, nonnutrient cultural factors are very important with regard to the popularity of this food. Banana plantain is preferred over other starchy foodstuffs cultivated in Cameroon because it has multipurpose uses. It is preferred to other starchy products that come from the local agriculture such as yam, sweet potato, cassava, and cocoyam. It may be used as a primary or ancillary ingredient in many dishes, soups, cakes, and chips, or consumed plain after being boiled. It can also be used as a condiment in other dishes to enhance the taste and texture of the preparation, especially after it has attained a degree of ripeness that sweetens the flesh of the fruit.
DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION The case study of banana plantain production, distribution, and consumption in two villages – Koumou and Oban – presented here shows that the urban food provisioning system in Cameroon is variegated and complex. It involves many actors operating in diversified social contexts: village producers working within a domestic economy, commercial and informal transporters, buyers trying to build privileged relationships with given transporters and patrons, policemen operating along the roads, sellers and various other people in the marketplaces, and different restaurants and households. Even though the market occupies a central place in this system, it does not completely conform to a liberal economic theory that assumes maximization of profit. In fact, the banana plantain does not always bear the attributes of a commodity in a marketplace since this product transits through different socially and culturally delimited spheres of exchange – reciprocal exchange occurs alongside cash commodity exchange, and at various prices, as is common at food marketplaces in Cameroon. The people of Koumou basically have a subsistence economy since they mainly produce banana plantain and other staple foods in order to satisfy their own needs. Consequently, the scale of production is small, and it relies
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on a gender division of labor. Women are mainly involved in production and in the transportation of surplus staple foods to the urban markets. Income earned merely permits the purchase of the commodities needed by the households. In Oban, the scale of production is much greater, but the tools used are traditional. As a result, production levels are not optimal. Agriculture in Oban constitutes a commodity economy since the banana plantain is produced for the urban markets. The farm operators recruit a local workforce composed of men who carry out different tasks. Even though the farm operators of Oban have extra land that could be used for more intensive production of banana plantains, they are financially limited since bank loans are difficult to get in Cameroon. As a result, the money that is invested in the farms is generally borrowed from friends and relatives. Transporting food products from the countryside to urban marketplaces for Koumou and Oban – representing two different types of land use – depends on both traditional and multipurpose transporters. In fact, the transportation system from these villages is very problematic. Despite being close to Yaounde or even located beside a paved road, people of Koumou have long had a hard time getting their cargos to Yaounde since the number of cars dedicated to this kind of activity is always too small and also since the costs are often too high. Consequently, peasants cannot always reach the urban markets with their perishable foodstuffs on time. The situation is worse in Oban, where the volume of cargo is high, and where the road is unpaved. It is also far away from Yaounde. If farm operators do succeed to transport their loads to Yaounde, they have to face a long journey and deal with corrupt police officers who shake down the drivers. But on a basic level, actually, Koumou and Oban villages are almost identical since they are inhabited by the same ethnic group and share the same culture. Aside from the close proximity to Yaounde, Oban has farm operators who settled there largely because land was available. Farm operators of Oban enjoy higher profits than peasants of Koumou, according to size of their activities. Nevertheless, some of them are still caught in a sort of status quo because they usually deal with technical and management issues. Despite the nearly insurmountable obstacles that confront all the actors in the supply system of banana plantains, as discussed above, one fact remains unassailable: the system of provisioning of the city of Yaounde works. This system represents a ‘‘success story,’’ says Jane Guyer (1987). Indeed, Cameroon’s urban provisioning system is appropriate, efficient, flexible, responsive, and cheap. It provides low-cost food to millions of people within the cities of Cameroon, and important employment to the people who work
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in this flexible, informal system that operates on a different level than the socalled ‘‘formal economy.’’ Ultimately, the success of this often chaotic system of urban provisioning relies largely on strong relationships developed by the different actors involved along the banana network.
NOTES 1. Actually, the farmers and traders were complaining about the poorness of the road system and the very high cost of transportation. However, the government did not answer to their request but tried to set up a parallel and competitive structure, MIDEVIV. 2. The exchange rate was US$0.00237185 to one CFA franc. 3. Before departure, when different farmers ride in the same vehicle, everyone must make special marks on the stem of each banana bunch so that no confusion will arise at the destination. 4. ‘‘Pousseurs’’ means ‘‘pushers’’ in English. 5. This is a term derived from two English verbs: to buy and to sell. The job of buyam and sellam consists of the purchase and resale of foodstuffs.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am very grateful to Professor Jean-Pierre Warnier who supervised my doctoral thesis. I am also grateful to Dr Manon Boulianne who advised me on this chapter. I owe a tremendous debt to my informants, and especially to Albertine Bekono, Ernestine Etere, Marcel Amougou, Laurent Mbarga Ngoumou, and Sylvestre Ondoa. Thanks to Donald Wood and to an anonymous reviewer for their constructive comments and suggestions. Finally, I thank Helene Veziant, Rosine Mballa Mgombi, Lisa Alton, and Anneta Chicogo for the help they provided.
REFERENCES Appaduraı¨ , A. (Ed.) (1986). The social life of things: Commodities in cultural perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Balandier, G. (1955). Sociologie des Brazzaville noires. Paris: Armand Colin. Bohannan, P. (1955). Some principles of exchange and investment among the Tiv. American Anthropologist, 57, 60–70. Develtere, P. (1998). E´conomie sociale et de´veloppement: les coope´ratives, mutuelles et associations dans les pays en de´veloppement. Paris/Bruxelles: De Boeck et Larcier.
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ECAM. (2000). La consommation alimentaire au Cameroun en 1996. Donne´es de l’Enqueˆte Camerounaise aupre`s des Me´nages (ECAM), Yaounde´: DSN/CIRAD, IITA. Efanden, C., Kwa, M., Temple, L., & et David, O. (2005). Rapport final de l’Atelier international ‘‘Agriculture et de´veloppement urbain en Afrique de l’ouest et du centre’’, du 31 octobre au 3 novembre 2005. Yaounde´: CIRAD. Fine, B., & Leopold, E. (1993). The world of consumption. London: Routledge. Guyer, J. (1987). Feeding Yaounde, capital of Cameroun. In: J. Guyer (Ed.), Feeding African cities: Studies in regional history (pp. 112–153). Manchester: University Press. Hart, K. (1973). Informal income opportunities and urban employment in Ghana. Journal of Modern African Studies, 11, 61–89. Hart, K. (1982). The political economy of African agriculture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hart, K. (2008). Africa’s urban revolution. The Memory Bank. Available at http://thememorybank.co.uk/2008/09/28/africas-urban-revolution/ Kengne, F. (2003). Citadins et de´veloppement des campagnes au Cameroun. Paris: L’Harmattan. Kopytoff, I. (1986). The cultural biography of things: Commoditisation as process. In: A. Appadurai (Ed.), The social life of things. Commodities in cultural perspective (pp. 64–94). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laburthe-Tolra, P. (1977). Minlaaba. Lille 3: Diffusion Honore´ Champion. Marx, K. (1993). Le Capital. Paris: Presse Universitaire de France. Ministe`re de L’e´conomie et des Finances. (2000). Annuaire statistique du Cameroun 1999. Yaounde´. Narotzky, S. (2005). Provisioning. In: J. G. Carrier (Ed.), A Handbook of Economic Anthropology (pp. 78–93). Cheltenham: Elgar. Ngoumou, T. (2007). Le ventre de Yaounde´: banane plantain et approvisionnement urbain. Doctoral thesis, Universite´ Paris V. Tchawe, H. E. (2006). Les commerc- ants et les transporteurs dans l’approvisionnement vivrier et la distribution alimentaire a` Douala (Cameroun), Le bulletin de l’APAD, nume´ro 19. Warnier, J. P. (1999). Construire la culture mate´rielle. Paris: PUF.
HOSTILE WORLDS AND QUESTIONABLE SPECULATION: RECOGNIZING THE PLURALITY OF VIEWS ABOUT ART AND THE MARKET Erica Coslor ABSTRACT The ‘‘hostile worlds’’ view argues that money corrupts the meaning of art, but some suggest this is a dated concept in describing the art market. Instead of dismissing this view, this chapter argues that we need a typology of beliefs about art, money, and commensuration; what could be understood as a pluralist understanding. Based on ethnographic research on the high-end contemporary art market in New York and London, I find that collectors, investors, and art world experts often have different views about the relationship between art and money. This recognition is significant because art is a symbolic good with assigned, rather than intrinsic value, meaning that the value of art can be damaged for people holding hostile worlds views when the mechanisms that maintain the appropriate balance between art and money break down or are disregarded. In this sense, hostile worlds views create a performativity effect.
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 209–224 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030012
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INTRODUCTION In his BBC documentary, The Mona Lisa Curse (Chang, 2008), noted art critic Robert Hughes argued that ‘‘when art is so closely tied to the market, something is lost.’’ In this chapter, I examine several perspectives about the appropriate connections between art and the market. Hughes’ viewpoint illustrates one extreme: ‘‘hostile worlds,’’ where the mixing of art and money is considered damaging. This view, as well as my own approach, draw from the ‘‘contested commodity’’ framework (Radin, 1996) for goods that interact problematically with the market, such as the market for body parts (Healy, 2006) and babies (Zelizer, 1985).1 At the other extreme we could put an ‘‘economic’’ view, where art becomes a commodity like any other, to be examined through the impersonal influences of supply and demand. These two extremes become part of a theory that the economy and culture inhabit two separate spheres, that may be independent or may come together and contaminate one another, as an ‘‘independent spheres’’ or a ‘‘contamination model,’’ respectively (Velthuis, 2003; Zelizer, 2006, p. 305). If economy and culture were ‘‘two unrelated spheres,’’ the separation would prevent the market from influencing the aesthetic or cultural valuation of art, and this can be seen in unproblematic economic models for artwork. However, the hostile worlds theory suggests a contamination model, where the two spheres collide, and prices can contaminate the cultural value of artwork in various ways, turning it into a homogeneous commodity (Velthuis, 2003, p. 183).2 Based on these two extremes, and findings from my ethnographic research on the high-end art market in New York and London, I argue that we must have a pluralist understanding of beliefs about the relationship between art and money, as opposed to imagining that one or another of these views is correct. I believe that a pluralist understanding is particularly helpful in the case of artwork, because art is a symbolic good with assigned, socially constructed value, rather than intrinsic value. This means that the value of art can be damaged for people holding contested commodity or hostile worlds views if the mechanisms that maintain the appropriate balance between art and money break down or are disregarded. As I will show, these views are often present in artists, critics and even collectors. At the same time, art sales are a place where the worlds of money and cultural meaning come together with regularity, requiring work to maintain the boundaries of acceptable practice to appease those who hold hostile worlds views. This process of selling art in ways that do not diminish its value can be understood as similar to the regular work we do in when inserting money into intimate relationships. When buying gifts for children, buying engagement rings, and
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so forth, we take care to mix money and relationships in a way that will not signify the wrong type of relationship, in what Viviana Zelizer calls ‘‘good matches’’ (Zelizer, 2000, 2006). These concerns with the appropriate relationship between art and money are being stirred up anew by recent interest in speculative investment in artwork. This speculative interest has always been present in some form, such as the Peau de l’ours (skin of the bear) investment scheme in Paris in 1904 (Green, 2003, p. 54), but art investment has become a topic in the past few years in the financial investment community.3 A steady stream of articles in financial publications like The Wall Street Journal and Financial Times indicates the growing interest in art investment. One driving factor for this activity is the trend of ‘‘superprices’’ for art (Koenigsberg, 1989), illustrated in the sale of Richard Prince’s ‘‘Surfing Nurse’’ for over d2.1 million ($4.2 million) in 2003 (Haden-Guest, 2008), and despite recent price drops due to the 2008 financial crisis, interest is expected to continue. Along with high prices, justification for investing in artwork comes from an interest in financial portfolio diversification, and the finding by some cultural economists that artwork is less correlated to other types of financial investments (Campbell, 2008). Drawing again on the idea of ‘‘good matches’’ we can see some tensions and resolutions in this area as well.
RESEARCHING THE HIGH-END INTERNATIONAL ART MARKET This chapter is based on a three-year ethnographic project on the use of art as an investment and financialization of the art market. I focused primarily on contemporary art, because it is an area where the arguments about art and money are sharper because the careers of living artists are intertwined with market practices, but in the course of the research, I talked to people associated with various artistic periods. The research included 13 months of primary fieldwork in New York and London, from January 2008 to February 2009, with additional event-based ethnography before and after this time. These cities were chosen because they are top cities for art sales and institutions (Carrier, 2003; Watson, 1992) as well as financial centers (Sassen, 2001; Taylor, 2000). I used a multisited ethnography approach (Marcus, 1995) in an attempt to ‘‘follow the object’’ of art investment through different channels. I began the early field research with event-based observation at auctions in Chicago in 2006, which gave me familiarity with the auction process, and
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then moved to look at auctions in New York and London, particularly at Sotheby’s, Christie’s and Phillips de Pury. International art fairs and public lectures put together by the Art Dealer’s Association of America in New York were additional opportunities for participant observation, as well as solicitation of some of my interviewees; in total, I attended 29 events including the 9 initial Chicago auctions. My 32 interviews included members of the art world and art investment community, including an art-fund representative, a museum director, an art consultant, artists, gallerists, and others.4 Excellent secondary data came from a review of 22 master’s dissertations on art investment at the Sotheby’s Institute of Art in London, where outside researchers are allowed to review student work on-site.5 The background research includes academic reading, as well as research from The Art Newspaper, ArtþAuction, and The New York Times arts section. This event-based strategy was partly opportunistic and partly due to the mobile nature of the art market, where auctions and fairs are key meeting points. Although it is difficult to estimate the size of the fine art market, due to the tendency by dealers to keep prices private, the U.S. and European art markets were estimated at some $20 billion in 1999 (Robertson, 2005, p. 30). The global art market is also Western-dominated, with the U.S. and U.K. markets comprising approximately 70% of the world market in terms of weighted value (Goodwin, 2008, p. 1). Although Paris used to be a major sales center for artwork, today New York and London compete for the top position in art sales (Watson, 1992), and Sotheby’s and Christie’s auction houses are headquartered in New York and London, respectively. My research on the high-end art market goes along with current trend in anthropology to study elite cultures (Shore & Nugent, 2002), high technology, and Western sites of study, such as financial options traders (Zaloom, 2006) and Wall Street (Ho, 2009). My decision to focus on the people, institutions and processes that occur at the highest levels of this market was partly functional, because high-end, ‘‘blue chip,’’ art is typically the area of focus for art investors. But this high-end art market is also significant because what happens there has a cascade effect, and often shapes practices at other levels. This area of study has also presented some challenges, because as with many studies of high prestige subjects (see Odendahl & Shaw, 2002), access was at the discretion of the interviewee and I faced many instances where people declined to speak with me. However, as a young, white, American woman – and particularly after I learned to dress the part – I appeared to belong in the same category as art history students and other young practitioners in the art world. This seemed to put my
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interviewees at ease, for the most part, and they seemed to readily answer my questions. However, I quickly found that in describing my project, the mention of art and money or art as an investment could elicit hostility or other negative responses. In order to really talk with people in this world about art, money, and investment, I had to reframe my questions in a more careful fashion. This chapter is based on some of these interactions. Before going into the topic of art and money, it would be useful to describe one of my common research settings, the high-end art fair. A typical example was the London Art Fair, held in the Business Design Centre, in London’s Islington neighborhood in January 2009. The building was a small convention center design, with permanent office spaces along the outer walls and many temporary gallery spaces set up inside. These gallery spaces were made of white-painted plywood, and varied in size. Gallery assistants hung paintings according to directions, and while some booths were quite cluttered with artwork, others had a minimalist design. Paintings were also the predominant form of media, although there were a few dealers with sculptures, fiber art, dioramas, and other forms. Bright little spotlights illuminated the work and made the building quite warm after a few hours. Most art fairs have a limited preview session, usually held on the day or evening before the event opens to the public. Tickets to this event command a premium, but free passes are distributed to the galleries to provide to their main collectors, in addition to press passes given to journalists and critics of various persuasions. According to some, the preview sale of a fair is when the real sales are conducted, while the rest is essentially a public exhibition, but I did witness gallerists selling work to people on other days. After the fair opened, people began to fill the hallways created by the exhibition booths, and they were a mixture of potential buyers, artists and art lovers, students, and the general public.6 Such a diverse crowd was an excellent way to witness various views about the appropriate connections between art and money.
HOSTILE WORLDS BETWEEN MONEY AND ART In the hostile worlds view there is a split between a sacred area of cultural value and the profane world of money and prices, a split between culture and economy (see Velthuis, 2003, 2005; Zelizer, 2000). Because the market and money are seen to exert a corrupting influence on the value of aesthetic goods, it is attractive for those who hold this view to suggest that creative production should be kept separate from the market, because the cultural value of artwork can be ‘‘trivialized by pricing it’’ (Velthuis, 2003, p. 183).
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This is based on a certain legacy of Romantic sentiments (Wolff, 1981), or ideas about the transcendental nature of artwork.7 These were sincere and relevant concerns for many of the art collectors and others in the art world, but I was surprised to find that this was less of a concern than I had imagined for those in professional roles – artists, gallery directors, and curators – people who deal with art market and the relationship between art and money in their everyday work. This is in part because commodification and commensuration concerns have been discussed and problematized in the professional art world in earnest since the 1970s, which is not to say that these concerns have evaporated, but as one art historian told me, an ‘‘art vs. money’’ or hostile worlds critique is considered simplistic and outdated.8 When actually speaking with people involved in the art market, I ran into certain variations of hostile worlds concerns quite often. Although not everyone who holds this view would label themselves as such, it became an easy shorthand to characterize some commonly held views about art and money, and the comments by critic Robert Hughes at the beginning of this piece are only one example.9 Another common response was to disparage the motives of those who bought artwork for investment purposes, as seen in this comment by art professor and critic Elaine King. ‘‘There are two kinds of collectors. One type buys work because they love the work,’’ and the other wants the money or other benefits of collecting.10 In King’s view, an emotional connection to the artwork was more pure or valorous than the instrumental goals of monetary gain or social status. As opposed to the purist ideas about artwork, a more elitist critique was that speculation in art and the interest in prices was vulgar;11 although money went along with the artwork, a focus on money showed lack of refinement. Although people who hold hostile worlds views imagine a problematic relationship between art and the market, there were also individuals who saw no problem with the mixing of art and money, espousing what could be called the independent spheres view (Velthuis, 2003). For example, the cultural economics view of art paints it as a commodity that provides satisfaction in the form of utility, and aesthetic value is transformed into economic value (Chong, 2005, p. 89). I often noticed this unproblematic mixing of art and money when speaking with economists about my work, and usually had to explain that there were some people who saw problems with the excessive commodification of artwork, even if the economists did not. Returning to the hostile worlds viewpoint, we can also tease out some related commensuration concerns, due to questions of what it means to turn art into money and vice versa (n.b. Shell, 1995). Velthuis (2003) argued that art historians and cultural experts in particular subscribe to the hostile
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worlds view by ‘‘insisting on the incommensurability of art’’ (p. 187). Commensuration, or the process of making art equal with a sum of money, was seen as problematic mainly because of the association with an impure market or some variation on this theme, but it has a number of other dimensions, such as making things comparable that should not be considered comparable (n.b. Espeland, 2002; Espeland & Stevens, 1998). Although the idea of exchanging money for art is the standard way to think about this market, it is possible to commensurate art with things other than money, and for some who hold hostile worlds views, this may even be preferable. For example, in reaction to high auction prices in the 1980s art bubble, art historian Mary Edwards (1991) wrote that she discouraged students from thinking about the monetary value, suggesting instead that they think of the ‘‘infinite emotional value’’ or alternatively, the cost of time and materials (pp. 12–13). These suggestions speak to the question of what art is traded for, with nonmonetary or trivial money trades as more morally acceptable (to Edwards) than high monetary value. Although not explicitly developed by Edwards, I read this as a concern that the perceived worth of artwork stems from its high price, rather than the worth being in the cultural dimensions of the work, which then may justify a high price, due to its significance. This would lead us to a different solution than a market price being set by the interaction of supply and demand; it represents an ideal of how prices should be constructed, as seen from a hostile worlds or commensuration concern perspective. A final commensuration concern is that of homogenization, which occurs as goods are made comparable through a system of fungible prices, as well as through the process of categorization. Whether it is conducted through a system of prices or otherwise, this homogenization and ‘‘making same’’ of different artist and artworks may be morally opposed. An overly general abstraction can also seem nonsensical due to the variations among different types of art, as I found when doing a presentation at the Chicago Workshop on Contemporary Art. The artists and art historians who attended were bemused by the category ‘‘All Art,’’ an art price index that I displayed. The idea of ‘‘All Art’’ was laughable to these experts because it mixed together too many disparate types of work. Aside from these commodification concerns, in my interviews, I found that even among people who did not subscribe strongly to the hostile worlds view there was a concern that in today’s art market that the monetary values have overwhelmed the nonmonetary values. One reason, as some critics argued, was that both the media and new collectors confuse money and value; the media tends to equate fame with artistic innovation and many
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new collectors end up ‘‘buying the price,’’ when they confuse monetary value with aesthetic and cultural value (Thornton, 2008). Robert Hughes (2008) himself wrote a critical piece on artist Damien Hirst, suggesting that Hirst’s auction prices were disproportionate to his talent, which reiterates the idea that in a hostile worlds view there should be an orderly relationship between prices and artistic merit.
COMMENSURATION 2: TRADING ART, STOCKS AND PORK BELLIES Similar to concerns about how art is not only exchanged for money, art investment elicits another type of contested commodity concern, in part because the price and high monetary value is seen to overwhelm the cultural value, but also for the association with gambling. For example, in 1973, Lord Clark complained about art investment: ‘‘I hate the whole idea of art being turned into a kind of stock exchange or gambling parlor y I hate the whole idea of art becoming a form of stock exchange investment. It’s a ruinous, wicked, degrading thing’’ (quoted in Steiner, 2001, p. 213). This concern again put the cultural and aesthetic value of art at the forefront, taking issue with the idea that art was an expensive wallpaper that may later be traded for a profit just like stocks and bonds. At play was another commensuration concern – ‘‘is art just like stocks and bonds?’’ – as well as the potentially trivializing effect of this commensuration, and even the connection with (immoral) gambling and speculation.12 This type of opposition to art investment, which tended to be held by the more romantic and idealistic, roughly corresponds to the hostile worlds framework. This ‘‘traditionalist view,’’ as I call it, valorized art collectors and patrons; art investment was seen as ‘‘parasitic’’ (Velthuis, 2005) and damaging to a certain ideal of the art world. Although some gallerists were quite pragmatic about the investment characteristics of art, I did find some who were utterly against this, show in the comments of a London gallerist. We’ve never sold art for investment. If you want to turn your money into an investment, keep it in the bank! y I think it’s important that you must like something, if you’re going to live with it on your wall, day and night. People tend to underestimate what an individual gets from art. People think it’s like buying the car, the washing machine that’s going to make them happy, that’s rubbish. It’s better to have art. I’d rather have art on the wall.13
In this sense, the gallerist has a long-term orientation with the art, but it is a different type of ‘‘investment,’’ one of time and emotion. At the end
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of the interview, when I gave him my business card, he quipped, ‘‘ ‘Investment logics?’ That is to say that there is a logic. You need to redefine what investment actually means, and take it out of purely commercial terms.’’ At the other end of the spectrum were art investment promoters, who were quite similar to those with the independent spheres view about art and money, and did not see any problem with art as an investment. For example, according to one investing magazine, art was ‘‘just like a normal investment,’’ except that ‘‘the only dividend that is earned is through the enjoyment and appreciation of having a piece of art on your wall or in your home’’ (Bolger, 2006), an idea which could inflame even those with moderate views about art as an investment. Most people fell somewhere in the middle. Gallerists were often pragmatic, and said that they might point their clients toward works they thought were more commercial if they asked about investment value. Although the opinions about art as an investment were less hostile, it could still be seen as problematic. To art professor Elaine King, art investment was ‘‘like speculation in hedge funds, in pork bellies y I’m not against markets, but to me, what’s the purpose of art if you crunch it down to pork bellies?’’ The problem was that ‘‘the art becomes flat.’’14 Her comment illustrates the problems of homogenization and sameness in artwork, suggesting that quality suffers through attending to market values. Another concern about investment in art came up when I attended the panel session ‘‘Is the Killer Art Market Killing Art?’’ put together by the Art Dealer’s Association of America in New York. In the session, held in spring 2008, before the financial crisis hit, panel members worried whether financial value was becoming the primary determinant of artistic value, and some welcomed a popping of the art market bubble because it would give space to the ‘‘true’’ collectors.15 Artists were also pragmatic about the investment properties of artwork. A painter in New York, who also worked in a gallery, said ‘‘[b]ut it is an investment. You have to think of it in both ways in this business y Sometimes people will buy something even if they don’t like it, because they see that the value would go up.’’ She thought this last point was strange, because presumably she could not imagine having something around that one did not like,16 and this sentiment was echoed many times by collectors, gallerists and artists. Despite recognizing that art could be seen as an investment, when I asked the painter if she thought art investment was problematic, she replied that it was ‘‘disheartening as an artist. People collecting are consistent and they do like the art.’’17
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This type of mixed view was seen in other artists, who expressed mild disappointment in people who put the investment value of art foremost, but who also understood that there are people who fall into this category, as seen in the answers of Henrik, a young London artist. I think y the first time you see them, you immediately dislike them, because the first time you see them is usually at your degree show, and they get taken around by various people, and you notice that when they get taken around, they’re the people who will scan a room – not for work – but for red dots. And they do – you know; it sounds like a flippant kind of comment, but it’s y it’s an observed occurrence – they will look at another ‘stamp’ [of value], you know, it’s been- when it’s been [approved by others]- it’s annoying y I guess they don’t- I mean, you have the ideal investors, of course, [someone who] is also the art lover.18
Small red dots, usually eraser-sized stickers, are often used in gallery shows to indicate that a piece has been sold. Thus we can interpret a young painter with many red dots as someone who is desirable, who has sold out most of their show. Later in the interview, Henrik pointed out that although artists may dislike the art investors, this was part of the nature of the system, and part of the problem was that art investors may not know how to evaluate good vs. ‘‘pretty’’ artwork. I don’t think we can dislike them y oh, I don’t really dislike them, they’re just too different; it’s like disliking [thinking] y it’s like disliking politicians. [Laughs] I mean, I guess everyone wants to dislike them, and kind of does, but I mean, they’re necessary. And why not? y it doesn’t hurt us. [Modifying this] It does – it warps the market, it warps things a bit. Things tend towards the – sort of the easy joke at the moment. There’s this tendency to make it [the easily recognizable artwork], especially painting y Because then, you know, you look at it and you just can’t force it y because it’s just kind of very pretty, it’s very nice to look at, and you just go, ‘Well, this is well painted. Well done.’ And then another person in a bar will see it and go, ‘Well, I can see a person in it, so I like it.’ y It warps things, but in the end, you know, you don’t have to [agree]. The investors that you like, [they’re] just destined to be around and hopefully you’ll find them. But what can you do? [laughing] y
Henrik’s comments match those of Professor King and others, who felt that undue attention to monetary value created art that was less interesting. Gallerist Gavin Brown suggested a causal mechanism for how this might happen. ‘‘There’s a lot of money being spent on stuff that shouldn’t be spent,’’ he noted when speaking at the ‘‘Killer Art’’ panel. Brown thought that having too much money and speculation in the art market allowed lower quality work to be sold, work that would not normally sell, and this put lower quality items into the market.19
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PRAGMATIC VIEWS AND ‘‘GOOD MATCHES’’ When I initially approached my research on art as an investment, I thought that the primary opposition to this practice would be around the hostile worlds, commensuration, and commodification concerns discussed earlier. Because this understanding lacks the rich cultural meanings attributed to artwork from the art world, I thought it would be highly problematic to think about financial investment in artwork. It turned out that a bigger area of concern for these actors was in dealing ‘‘properly’’ with the relationship between art and money, particularly in how art was allocated among potential buyers, because this impacts the monetary value of the work. Instead of opposition to the market, this view comprised a set of ethical and moral guidelines for how to behave in the art market, with the knowledge that improper behavior, such as a customer who tries to quickly resell a piece at auction, could damage reputations and long-term price levels. This is because in the art market there is a powerful notion that prices can never fall (see Velthuis, 2003, 2005), and customers may interpret price drops very negatively (Velthuis, 2004). Consequently, there is a strong concern about price maintenance. Expanding on Zelizer’s ‘‘good matches’’ (Zelizer, 2000, 2006) as a framework for mixing together art and money, I would like to suggest a few matching processes that I observed in the contemporary art market. There was a professional obligation by gallerists to match artwork to the correct buyers, ones who would help to promote the artist and deal honorably with the artwork. Another matching process was to sell artwork in ways that did not harm its monetary value, matching the sales format to the buyer’s expectations. Gallerists and other professionals in the market portions of the art world took care with the presentation of art and money even if they did not personally see a conflict. Because they recognized that there were many people who held strong cultural views about the ‘‘priceless’’ value of artwork, to keep these people as customers, they needed to uphold certain normative views on how art was to be bought and sold. A move away from conventional sales practices helps to prove the continuing importance for typical sales techniques to safely bridge the gap between art and money. In September 2008, Sotheby’s held an entire sale dedicated to auctioning off 223 new works by Damien Hirst. This was unusual because first-time sales of artwork are almost never conducted by auction houses, except for benefits and other nonprofit purposes (Velthuis, 2005). This was one of the first auctions of its kind in the international
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contemporary art market, and although it was a success in terms of both sales and publicity, it also illustrated the continued role of galleries as a firsttime sales venue. This unconventional sale took an enormous amount of preparation and was apparently not to be repeated any time soon. When questioned about whether they might undertake another auction of this sort, Hirst’s manager Frank Dunphy, said they were delighted with the sale, but ‘‘No, nothing is planned. You get one hit of this and you couldn’t do it again’’ (quoted in Tully, 2008). Moreover, despite the success of this sale, art collectors did not necessarily like the implications. Noted Warhol collector Jose Mugrabi pointed out that ‘‘[c]ollectors want to buy for beauty, but this feels like a vulgar way to buy it’’ (quoted in Crow, 2008). This example helps to illustrate the way that conventional sales practices provide an acceptable bridge between art and money. Particular sales mechanisms thus provide an ‘‘acceptable’’ way of selling culturally laden objects (Levin, 2007, p. 10), serve to stabilize their value, and may even contribute to the production of belief in the value of art (Velthuis, 2003, p. 184). Although it was possible to auction off new artwork, rather than following the convention of first selling artwork in galleries and then later in auction houses, this development was opposed. Selling new artwork in auctions was not a ‘‘good match’’ for many collectors, particularly those with hostile worlds views, suggesting that while innovation is readily seen in the content of contemporary artwork, rapid changes in the sales practices are less likely, because the current methods represent established, legitimate ways to bring together art and money. This helps to explain why the traditional practices and structures persist, even when many professionals in the art world do not subscribe to this hostile worlds view themselves. If the hostile worlds view is widespread enough in the wider culture – and particularly, in arts patrons – to make it a social reality, then the practitioners cannot ignore these beliefs, if only because it can harm their profits. It is through this mechanism and others, I believe, that the hostile worlds view shapes the way art is bought and sold. By ensuring that the cultural and aesthetic value of art remains distant from the price, art sellers are able to satisfy the many buyers who hold this view.
CONCLUSIONS Unlike researchers who dismiss the hostile worlds view, or the related commensuration and commodification concerns outright, I would like to
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suggest that it is important to understand the diversity of opinion about what art means and how it is supposed to relate to the market. As I have stressed previously, there are clearly people both within and outside the art world who believe that artistic value can be corrupted by market forces. There are also groups of people who feel this is never the case, including many art investors, as well as a moderate group who see that speculative activity can be damaging at times. Understanding the continuing prevalence of the hostile worlds view also highlights the importance of existing sales practices and norms in the art market, which de-emphasize the relationship between art and money, or bring the two together through long-established, ‘‘acceptable’’ mechanisms. The idea of ‘‘good matches’’ (Zelizer, 2000, 2006) is also useful in thinking about how to coordinate the art market behavior of people who may hold radically different views on the appropriate relationships between art and the market. Artists, gallerists, and critics worry about money overpowering meaning, but instead of simple resistance to the market, they recognize that artwork will still need to be bought and sold, and that artwork can be a lucrative investment. Instead of opposing the market, they employed particular strategies to deal with hostile worlds concerns, such as valorizing collectors, and diminishing investors. These strategies also relate to the continued economic existence of artists and galleries, helping to establish and maintain desired meanings around something which has subjective and socially constructed prices. This finding directly contradicts the idea that suggests we do not need aesthetic or cultural theories to understand the art market. Although some economic anthropologists suggest that ‘‘economic behavior in the art market can be understood without reference to aesthetic theory or the transcendent value of art’’ (Plattner, 2000, p. 130), my ethnographic research indicates that while we may not need aesthetic theory to understand the art market, we do need a cultural theory to think about market practices. Understanding market culture is necessary to explain how the existence of fundamental beliefs and ideologies, like the hostile worlds view, impact art market processes and mechanisms.
NOTES 1. This is usually through moral reasons and beliefs about what is being sold. Although children and organs are extreme examples, art also has these types of moral contests.
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2. Velthuis (2003) roots his version of the independent spheres model in the formalist tradition in art history, in which the intrinsic value of the arts and instrumental values of the economy are radically separated, meaning that they do not corrupt one another (p. 189). It is my own view that this also corresponds to a neoclassical economics perspective. 3. Phone interview with Randall Willette, CEO of Fine Art Wealth Management (London), an art advisory firm, January 2009. 4. The interviews were semistructured and questions changed with the role of the interviewee and as the project progressed. About half of these interviews were preplanned, recorded sessions lasting approximately an hour or more. The other interviews were opportunistic, with interviewees approached at prominent international art fairs and other events; only some of these were recorded. The artist and gallerist interviews primarily came from this category. 5. My warm thanks to the librarians of the Sotheby’s Institute of Art in London. 6. Written from fieldnotes from the London Art Fair, January 16, 2009. 7. This point about the transcendental nature of art is based on an audience member question at the Art Dealer’s Association of America (ADAA) lecture ‘‘Is the Killer Art Market Killing Art?’’ This was held at the Museum of Modern Art, New York March 26, 2008. 8. This is because of the professionalization and corporatization of MFA programs, museums, and galleries, according to art historian Ian Bourland (personal communication, October 23, 2007). 9. Velthuis (2003) labels Robert Hughes as one of the main representatives of the hostile worlds contamination model, where art that is overly linked to the market loses value (p. 188), although Hughes did not use this term himself. 10. Phone interview with art professor Elaine A. King, June 2008. 11. This example is based on a comment by Roland Augustine, director of the Luhring Augustine Gallery, at the ADAA lecture ‘‘Intimate Histories of Collecting,’’ which was held at the MoMA education center, New York, on May 10, 2008. 12. This also involves the concern of commensuration with money, but I have split it into another category for theoretical clarity. 13. Personal interview with London gallerist, London Art Fair, January 2009. [LAF1]. An ellipse indicates a place where text has been cut, whereas an ellipse in parentheses indicates a pause, e.g. (y). 14. Phone interview, June 3, 2008. 15. ‘‘Is the Killer Art Market Killing Art?’’ Panel Discussion by the Art Dealer’s Association of America, held at the Museum of Modern Art, New York March 26, 2008. Panel participants included art dealers, curators and critics. http://www. artdealers.org/events.forum17.html 16. Personal interview with painter/gallery assistant (anonymous), International Fine Art Fair, New York, May 2008 [NYArt1]. 17. Personal interview with painter/gallery assistant (anonymous), International Fine Art Fair, New York, May 2008 [NYArt1]. 18. Personal interview with Henrik Potter, painter and manager of the Free Art Fair, London, October 2008. 19. Is the Killer Art Market Killing Art?’’ Lecture, ibid.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This is a revised version of a paper presented at the ESA Conference ‘‘Art, Culture and the Public Sphere,’’ Venice, 2008. I appreciate the many suggestions and revisions suggested by the conference audience, Yuval Millo of the London School of Economics, Edward Lynch-Bell, and my anonymous reviewers. This research was supported by grants from the American Philosophical Society, the University of Chicago Overseas Dissertation Research Fund, and the University of Chicago Nicholson Center for British Studies.
REFERENCES Bolger, J. (2006). Is it just art, or is it investment? The Times, April 17. Available at http://business. timesonline.co.uk/tol/business/industry_sectors/consumer_goods/article706273.ece. Retrieved on November 21, 2006. Campbell, R. A. (2008). Art as a financial investment. Journal of Alternative Investments, 10(4), 64–81. Carrier, D. (2003). Commentaries: New York art, Pittsburgh art, art. Journal of Aesthetic Education, 37(3), 99–104. Chang, M. D. (2008). The Mona Lisa Curse. In: M. Chang (Producer), BBC Documentary, Aired September 21, 2008. Chong, D. (2005). Stakeholder relationships in contemporary art. In: I. Robertson (Ed.), Understanding international art markets and management (pp. 84–102). London: Routledge. Crow, K. (2008). The man behind Damien Hirst. The Wall Street Journal, September 6. Available at http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122066050737405813.html. Retrieved on October 2, 2008. Edwards, M. D. (1991). How much is that painting worth? An essay on the value of art. Art Education, 44(1), 9–13. Espeland, W. N. (2002). Commensuration and cognition. In: K. Cerulo (Ed.), Culture in mind (pp. 63–88). New York: Routledge. Espeland, W. N., & Stevens, M. L. (1998). Commensuration as a social process. Annual Review of Sociology, 24, 313–343. Goodwin, J. (2008). Introduction. In: J. Goodwin (Ed.), The international art markets: The essential guide for collectors and investors (pp. 1–32). London: Pastor-Gene`ve and Kogan Page. Green, C. (2003). Art in France, 1900–1940. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Haden-Guest, A. (2008). Art attack. The Sunday Times Magazine, March 30, pp. 26–36. Healy, K. (2006). Last best gifts: Altruism and the market for human blood and organs. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ho, K. (2009). Liquidated: An ethnography of Wall Street. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Hughes, R. (2008). Day of the dead. The Guardian, 13 September. Available at http:// www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2008/sep/13/damienhirst.art. Retrieved on October 2, 2008. Koenigsberg, L. (1989). Art as a commodity? Aspects of a current issue. Archives of the American Art Journal, 29(3/4), 23–35.
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Levin, P. (2007). How do specialists price art? Prices as the product of an epistemic community. Paper presented at the American Sociological Association Annual Meeting, Boston, MA, USA. Marcus, G. (1995). Ethnography in/of the world system: The emergence of multi-sited ethnography. In: G. Marcus (Ed.), Ethnography through thick and thin (pp. 79–104). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Odendahl, T., & Shaw, A. M. (2002). Interviewing elites. In: J. F. Gubrium & J. A. Holstein (Eds), Handbook of interview research: Context & method (pp. 299–316). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Plattner, S. (2000). Profit markets and art markets. In: A. Haugerud, M. Stone & P. Little (Eds), Commodities and globalization: Anthropological perspectives (pp. 113–134). Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield. Radin, M. J. (1996). Contested commodities: The trouble with trade in sex, children, body parts, and other things. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Robertson, I. (2005). The international art market. In: I. Robertson (Ed.), Understanding international art markets and management (pp. 13–36). London: Routledge. Sassen, S. (2001). The global city: New York, London and Tokyo. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Shell, M. (1995). Art & money. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Shore, C., & Nugent, S. L. (Eds). (2002). Elite cultures: Anthropological perspectives. London: Routledge. Steiner, C. (2001). Rights of passage: On the liminal identity of art in the border zone. In: F. Myers (Ed.), The empire of things: Regimes of value and material culture. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. Taylor, P. (2000). World cities and territorial states under conditions of contemporary globalization. Political Geography, 19(1), 5–32. Thornton, S. (2008). The recipe for a record price: Auction house hype, media frenzy and billionaire buyers. The Art Newspaper, May 1. Available at http://www.theartnewspaper. com/article.asp?id ¼ 8471. Retrieved on October 26, 2008. Tully, J. (2008). Hirst marathon totals $200M, smashing expectations. ArtInfo, September 16. Available at http://www.artinfo.com/news/story/28577/hirst-marathon-totals-200msmashing-expectations/. Retrieved on October 2, 2008. Velthuis, O. (2003). Symbolic meanings of prices: Constructing the value of contemporary art in Amsterdam and New York galleries. Theory and Society, 32, 181–215. Velthuis, O. (2004). An interpretive approach to meanings of prices. Review of Austrian Economics, 17(4), 371–386. Velthuis, O. (2005). Talking prices: Symbolic meanings of prices on the market for contemporary art. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Watson, P. (1992). From Manet to Manhattan: The rise of the modern art market. New York: Random House. Wolff, J. (1981). The social production of art. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Zaloom, C. (2006). Out of the pits: Traders and technology from Chicago to London. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Zelizer, V. (1985). Pricing the priceless child: The changing social value of children. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Zelizer, V. (2000). The purchase of intimacy. Law and Social Inquiry, 25(3), 817–848. Zelizer, V. (2006). Money, power, and sex. Yale Journal of Law and Feminism, 18(1), 303–316.
AGENTS OF HYBRIDITY: CLASS, CULTURE BROKERS, AND THE ENTREPRENEURIAL IMAGINATION IN COSMOPOLITAN CAIRO Mark Allen Peterson ABSTRACT Flows of transnational popular culture into Egypt are not so much cases of foreign imperialism imposing itself on helpless Egyptians as they are processes managed by Cairene entrepreneurs whose accomplishments present them as successful agents of modernization, locating the cosmopolitan balance between global brands and goods and local markets and infrastructures. This chapter explores the links between these entrepreneurs, the state’s ‘‘culture of development,’’ and class reproduction. Egyptian transnational entrepreneurialism – speculative, profit-oriented enterprises engaged with transnational flows of brands, commodities, and capital – has become yoked to the state’s goal of national development through economic liberalization. Upper-class cosmopolitan entrepreneurs are increasingly positioned as agents of hybridity, culture brokers who can creatively forge links between supposedly rational and universal economic practices of market capital, Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 225–256 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030013
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and local cultural beliefs and values. Successful entrepreneurs are construed as possessing an ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ by means of which they can overcome structural and cultural obstacles and contribute to the development of an Egyptian ‘‘enterprise culture.’’
There is an important fact about globalization known to many of Cairo’s elites but often obscured in discourses produced both by foreigners and by Egyptians: flows of transnational commodities are not so much cases of foreign imperialism imposing itself on helpless Egyptians as they are processes managed by Egyptian entrepreneurs whose accomplishments present them as successful agents of modernization, locating a cosmopolitan balance between global brands and goods and local markets and infrastructures. A related open secret is that among those who bring international brands to Egypt, from Starbucks to Mango’s, their partners are more often than not companies from the Emirates, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia who already hold regional distribution rights for the Middle East, Africa, Eastern Europe, and Western Asia. If these facts go widely undiscussed, it is in part because the distinction between global modernity and local (national and regional) cultural identities has important consequences. Cairo’s upper classes, from whom the entrepreneurs are drawn, largely define themselves through practices of consumption and displays of taste understood to be ‘‘global’’ – mostly ‘‘Western’’ but also occasionally ‘‘Asian.’’1 Displays of global tastes indicate the expensive educations and transnational worldliness by which elites justify the social positions into which they were born. In turn, many popular discourses including those of the state and business organizations construct these cosmopolitans as the agents who are bridging the gap between global and local, and bringing Egypt into the 21st century. Entrepreneurs play a special role in this process, being cosmopolitans themselves, creating the sites of global consumption through which upper-class Cairenes can engage in these commodified practices of identity construction, and serving as indicators that Egypt is, indeed, entering the world system, with all its neoliberal promises of greater prosperity for all. This chapter explores the links between Cosmopolitan entrepreneurs, the state’s ‘‘culture of development,’’ and class reproduction. My argument proceeds in several parts. After describing the cosmopolitan class, I explore the key concepts of enterprise culture and the entrepreneurial imagination. I then argue that Egyptian transnational entrepreneurialism – speculative, profit-oriented enterprises engaged with transnational flows of brands,
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commodities, and capital – has become yoked to the state’s goal of national development through economic liberalization. Upper-class cosmopolitan entrepreneurs are increasingly positioned by themselves and others as agents of hybridity, culture brokers who can creatively forge links between supposedly rational and universal economic practices of market capital, and local cultural beliefs and values. I will then offer brief case studies describing successful entrepreneurs who are construed as possessing an ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ by means of which they can overcome structural and cultural obstacles and contribute to the development of an Egyptian ‘‘enterprise culture.’’ In the final section, I offer examples of how the failures of unsuccessful entrepreneurs, and the failure narratives of foreign officers of multinational corporations become exclusionary discourses with consequences for class distinctions and identity. I conclude with some thoughts on the implications of this account for studies of globalization, localization, and hybridity.
CONSUMPTION, COSMOPOLITANISM, AND CLASS Originally introduced into sociological use to distinguish between those whose orientation is parochial and those whose orientation is toward more encompassing social structures (Merton, 1957, p. 387ff), ‘‘cosmopolitanism’’ has come to be understood in recent literature on globalization as ‘‘a mode of managing meaning’’ (Hannerz, 1990, p. 238) involving ‘‘the coexistence of cultures in the individual experience’’ (ibid., p. 239). At once a practice and an identity, cosmopolitanism in this sense represents the capacity to live in a terrain of transition and translation, to inhabit not only the territorial landscape but simultaneously the fluid, multibranching topography of imagined communities, migration routes, media circulation, and financial networks across which global culture flows. Cosmopolitanism involves the capacity to manage the ‘‘the challenge of multiple traditions’’ (Eriksen, 1996, p. 245) and to make this capacity part of one’s identity. This cosmopolitan capacity to be open to the world has long been seen as a monopoly of elites and intellectuals, as reflected in the distinctions posited by Hannerz (1990) between ‘‘cosmopolitans’’ and ‘‘locals’’ and by Friedman (1997, 2002) between diasporic elites and their working class counterparts who, he argues, are ‘‘confined in their local ghetto identity’’ (2002, p. 84). A growing number of empirical accounts of working class cosmopolitan migrants from Filipina domestics to Bangladeshi construction workers
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(Werbner, 1999) and nonmobile groups who draw their identity from an orientation toward other peoples far away (Englund, 2004) have challenged this, ‘‘completely upending the question of who is cosmopolitan’’ (Cartier, 2001, p. 240). This new work suggests that what is important is the style through which people imagine themselves as connected to distant places and cultures, and the social ends to which these styles are mobilized. In this sense, both the well-traveled Cairene student studying international business at the American University in Cairo and the Deltan villager discussing with his fellow laborers whether the international news on TV represents the beginning of the end days described in the Quran (El-Aswad, 2002) are equally cosmopolitan and equally indigenous. The former makes use of her economic capacity to participate in transnational flows of goods to establish her status as a member of the economic elite just as her parents and their parents have for generations; the latter uses his capacity to link what he sees on television or reads in newspaper about the wider world to specific passages in the Quran or hadith, or to local knowledge about unseen worlds to maintain and enhance his own status as a man of perception and respectability. In the local context, however, neither the student nor the peasant would regard the latter as cosmopolitan. In Egypt, cosmopolitanism is largely a matter of style, a set of tastes, linguistic codes and registers, bodily comportments, and other practices that operate at once to distinguish the Cairene upper class not only from such people as the Deltan fellah, but from the urban middle classes, while at the same time increasing their similarities and affinities with the managerial and moneyed classes in the wealthy nations of the core of the world system. The cosmopolitans I am writing about here form a class for whom being cosmopolitan through consumption – not only of goods but also of education and travel – is an essential part of their identity and status.2 Cosmopolitanism, in other words, is conceived here specifically as a set of practices (Bourdieu, 1977, 1984) through which the Egyptian upper classes and those with upwardly mobile aspirations construct themselves as transnational elites whose unequal control over Egypt’s economic and political resources is justified by their modernity, and whose modernity is in turn revealed by their cosmopolitanism: their Western educations, their easy movement across transnational borders, their consumption of transnational goods, and a general display of tastes in music, literature, film, clothing, and technologies that distinguishes them from the masses. Certain forms of social mobility in Cairo have always involved attaining competence in the languages, styles, and modes of foreigners: Greeks,
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Romans, Ottomans, Britons, French. Writing of the rise of Westernized elites under colonial regimes, Keith David Watenpaugh emphasizes that class was ‘‘defined not just by the wealth, professions, possessions, or levels of education of its members, but also by the way they asserted their modernity’’ (Watenpaugh, 2006, p. 8– emphasis added). Today, the assertion of modernity is oriented toward ‘‘global culture,’’ particularly (but not exclusively) that expressed in the styles and commodities flowing from Western Europe and the United States and, to a lesser extent, Asia. Since these styles are expressed through expensive commodities, social reproduction is easier than social mobility. Those with wealth can more easily afford the commodities through which they express their cosmopolitanism. The children of the upper classes learn foreign languages at expensive private schools, mingling with the children of the expatriate community and picking up familiarity with the fads of the moment (Peterson, in press). In time, they develop generative logics that allow them to unreflexively keep tabs on changing fashions and markets so as to maintain their style and the statuses that accrue to it. They attend international universities, and the credentials from these justify the social positions they inhabit by virtue of the class positions into which they were born (Russell, 1994). Terms like ‘‘asri’’ (contemporary or modern), ‘‘madani’’ (civilized or refined), and ‘‘ishta’’ (literally ‘‘cream’’ but idiomatically ‘‘cool’’) are contrasted with terms like ‘‘bi’a’’ (vulgarly popular) to distinguish the educated middle and upper classes from the poor majority.3 At the dawn of the 21st century, Egypt’s mean GDP per capita was only $4,000 according to official figures, and some economists estimated it considerable lower. The unemployment rate was 14%, and some 23% of the country lived in poverty – pegged at about $1,200 for a family of four. The cosmopolitan class is drawn from those Egyptians whose income is so far above this mean that they can routinely afford to spend on a meal at McDonald’s more than a cafe´ waiter makes in a day and fill high-end shopping malls like CityStars, with its Mango’s, Charles and Keith, and Bennetton outlets. The ‘‘A and Bþ classes’’ as they are known in local marketing literature make up only 3–6% of the population – but this is still some 2–4 million people, as large as the populations of Kuwait or Dubai. This cosmopolitan class does not, of course, comprise a singular entity, although they may sometimes be so characterized in the international press or by critical Marxist or Islamist writers. There are old money families, and nouveaux riches, and many subdivisions and cross-categorizations of these categories. Elite groups and persons ascribe labels to one another on the basis of where wealth comes from, intergenerational educational capital,
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and other criteria. In my fieldwork, I encountered globetrotting teens with substantial trust funds, as well as families that count their pounds carefully as they strategize their children’s upwardly mobile social futures, and many varieties in between. What all have in common is a particular relationship to a local form of modernity constructed in reference to a global, nonlocal realm, and expressed in a large part through consumption. Members of what I am calling the cosmopolitan class seek to incorporate this modernity into their everyday lives primarily (but not exclusively) through consumption. Yet it is primarily locally that this cosmopolitan class harvests the fruits of its transnational modernity, because participation in global flows is a circuitous route to a significant place in local class and status hierarchies. Particularly striking is the fact that global modernity is usually constructed as a dichotomy between a North American and Western European ‘‘Western’’ style and a local or regional ‘‘authentic’’ Arab style regardless of the actual complexities of transnational flows of goods and capital. Upper-class Cairenes flock to United Colors of Benneton and Mango’s at the elegant CityStars shopping mall to buy Western name brands without regard for the fact that the franchises for these are owned by companies from the Gulf. On the other hand, Pokemon has a global and Asian ‘‘odor’’ (Iwabuchi, 2002) but is, in fact, franchised from Nintendo North America not from Japan’s Nintendo. Cairenes fulfilling their socially constituted taste for Western styles do not always know or care whether commodities and consumption practices that represent cosmopolitan style according to local codes accurately map the flow of global goods. Corporations that understand this can play it to their advantage. Coca-Cola successfully withstood both the anti-US boycott of US products inspired by the Al-Aqsa Intifada and the very successful marketing of Mecca Cola as a regional anti-Coke (Ram, 2009) by increasing the marketing of its Fanta brand products, which were cosmopolitan drinks not associated with Coca-Cola or the United States. Because indexical signification rests as much on perceptions as on actual connections of causality or origin, metadiscourses arise that explore the significance of transnational goods and services, and their place in the moral worlds of modernity, Islam, and Egyptian nationalism. Yet precisely because transnational goods signify by pointing beyond the local, they can dislocate individuals, striking at their sense of being rooted in a particular place and ethos. Consumer cosmopolitanism holds out a style for embracing and managing selfhood, but because global modernity is usually constructed as a dichotomy between a global modernity and local authenticity, this cosmopolitan selfhood is often produced at the expense of a struggle over identity. If identity is the mapping of an experiential self to
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categories of person, these categories are rooted in particular social formations. Even as members of Egypt’s transnational elites embrace ‘‘global’’ styles through consumption, they often find themselves simultaneously attracted to more ‘‘rooted’’ notions of gender, faith, nation, ethnos, and ethos than those they can find at the mall. Cosmopolitanism creates an ambiguous and ambivalent relationship with the local that is often expressed as a struggle or problem: how to be at once modern and Egyptian.4
ENTERPRISE CULTURE IN EGYPT While entrepreneurialism is common throughout Egyptian society, members of the cosmopolitan class play a particular role in conceiving and mobilizing capital for ventures involving transnational consumer goods. Cosmopolitan entrepreneurs, by virtue of their uneasy relations both to the international global consumers whose styles they emulate and the local communities they seek at once to root themselves in and yet differentiate themselves from, are in a good position to borrow and transform ideas. Take, for example, the story of Cilantro. Cilantro was created in 1999 by a group of four friends, three of whom were students at the American University in Cairo and one of whom was educated at a culinary school in the United States ‘‘It all started as an idea,’’ one of them told me in an interview in 2005.5 ‘‘We were traveling somewhere in New York and Europe and we thought, ‘why don’t we create a restaurant [y], a place where you can have fun at.’ ’’ The result was a trendy, successful European-style bistro called La Bodega in Cairo’s upscale Zamalek area. Underneath the restaurant was a small shop that ‘‘we thought we’d take it and do something with it. And at that time we were thinking we’d create a little delicatessen, y and that we’d go and buy some gourmet-ish items and sell it here in Egypt where it wasn’t available.’’ These gourmet items ‘‘got stuck in customs and never made it out. So we had the shop ready and didn’t know what to do with it. So we thought, why not start with a coffee machine? And we had a bakery here at the restaurant and we offer some croissants and things like that.’’ So Cilantro opened in 2000 not as a delicatessen but as a coffee shop, selling espresso-based beverages, baked goods, fresh sandwiches, and salads.6 Its success stimulated the partners to open more outlets so that within 5 years Cilantro had 17 locations around Cairo. And now it’s a huge corporation with four hundred fifty employees where me and my other managing partner are completely devoted to Cilantro. La Bodega is now being taken care of a French manager, she knows her stuff, and it’s thriving. We’re concentrating on Cilantro because we saw the potential for it to grow as a chain y .
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In this narrative, enterprising young Egyptians draw on their cosmopolitan experiences to recognize a market niche and exploit it. Beginning ‘‘it all started with an idea,’’ the speaker draws attention to the role of conceptualization in business enterprise (Bausor, 1994). Their travels and education give them intercultural agency, a competence to locate foreign models and reimagine them in the local context. This story reflects, and contributes to, a larger discourse about entrepreneurship, cosmopolitan character, and development that organizes much of contemporary Egyptian economic activity, at least in those areas we perceive as being about globalization. Of particular significance is the way that Cilantro emerged not from careful planning but from exploitation of the particularities of the Egyptian setting. In Egypt, one usually buys a particular building or portion of a building rather than leasing space; as a result, the owners of La Bodega had an empty space to fill that became Cilantro. The disruption of their original plans for a deli by Egypt’s Byzantine import/export regulations led to a rapid reformulation of plans. Finally, the recognition that their coffee shop was filling a hitherto unperceived market need, and that it represented a relatively low-investment, high-return project, led them to reconceive their business plan to center not on the original restaurant but on the rapid growth of the hastily but successfully invented coffee chain. The name Cilantro, with its hint of pungent spice, certainly seems more appropriate to English speakers as the name of the deli it was originally intended to be than a coffee shop. But why Cilantro rather than Kusbara, an Arabic name for the spice? It is the same reason the bistro is named La Bodega and the top three upscale shopping malls are given English names like CityStars, City Center, and First Mall. Upper-class and upwardly mobile middle-class Egyptians produce and reproduce class identities through practices of consumption (Peterson, 2005, Peterson & Panovic, 2004). Upper-class entrepreneurs create the sites of consumption – private schools, franchise restaurants, coffeehouses – in which these practices take place. As members of that class, entrepreneurs seek to create hybrid spaces, spaces in the local that reference the global through mimesis and contiguity, that continue the reproduction of upper-class cosmopolitan identities and, in the process, further their own cosmopolitan identities. The founders of Cilantro represent the kinds of Egyptian entrepreneurs currently celebrated in key Egyptian economic discourses put forward by proponents of economic liberalization within the government and international institutions guiding Egypt’s economic development. These young men exhibit ‘‘the entrepreneurial imagination’’ and thus demonstrate the growth of an Egyptian ‘‘enterprise culture’’ that can drive Egypt’s current phase of
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economic development. The ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ refers to the capacity of entrepreneurs to ‘‘create opportunities through expectations of an imagined future and exploit opportunities through continuous resource combination and recombination’’ (Chiles, Bluedorn, & Gupta, 2007, p. 467). The development of the entrepreneurial imagination and its spread through a wide sector of the business community defines an enterprise culture. Enterprise culture in contemporary economic discourse has two primary meanings. On one hand, it refers generally to ‘‘energetic faith in the forces of the free market and the corresponding ethos of competitive individualism’’ expressed in ‘‘active citizenship through forms of consumption, individualism, and property ownership y along with the massive privatization of public services and an attack on the so-called ‘dependency culture’ fostered by the welfare state’’ (Franklin, 1990, pp. 18–19) expressed in the United Kingdom by ‘‘Thatcherism’’ and in the United States as ‘‘the Washington Consensus.’’ But enterprise culture is also used by businesspeople as a way to describe a particular kind of organizational system in which people take creative and imaginative approaches to problems, ‘‘thinking outside the box’’ and taking risks. When these efforts are successful, they are said to exhibit the ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ necessary to move the country forward. Some scholars have argued that this distinction between enterprise culture as a gloss for neoliberal economic policies and as a description of a symbolic system that values creative entrepreneurship and risk-taking represents an evolution from one set of meanings to another (Keat, 1991). In the Egyptian context, the two meanings of enterprise culture are complementary, and both are explicated in terms of a third: national development. Egypt’s government has tied its plans for economic prosperity to liberal capitalism, and the creative problem solving of its cosmopolitan entrepreneurs is increasingly articulated as one of the keys to the success of this process. Cosmopolitan entrepreneurs serve as culture brokers, not only partnering with foreign firms to bring in retailers like Starbucks and McDonald’s but drawing on their cosmopolitan knowledge to create the local coffee shops, shopping malls, theaters, and restaurants that index global models but serve local, predominantly upper-class consumers. Enterprise thus becomes a gloss for one of the most visible aspect of localization, ‘‘the process by which firm assets take on new meanings in distinct cultural environments’’ (Brannen, 2004, p. 593). This process places entrepreneurs at the center of meaning making for the kinds of transnational popular culture commodities that shape class identities. Moreover, entrepreneurship burnishes the businessperson’s cosmopolitan credentials. Successful entrepreneurs who bring in trendy consumer goods or create new
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sites of cosmopolitan consumption demonstrate their capacity to successfully negotiate between modernity and authenticity. This is enabled by a slippage of meanings of ‘‘enterprise’’ from practice to personhood. Successful entrepreneurs are described as possessing characteristics necessary to Egypt’s prosperity in the new world order. Successful entrepreneurs exhibit ‘‘enterprise culture’’ and thus validate their cosmopolitan, upperclass status. Unsuccessful entrepreneurs fail to exhibit the traits necessary not only for personal but also for national development. The core concept linking enterprise culture to individual entrepreneurs is ‘‘the entrepreneurial imagination.’’ Although spread through workshops, pamphlets, business self-help books (usually in English), and conversation rather than economic texts, this concept derives from economic entrepreneurial theory. The starting place seems to be the ‘‘business cycle’’ proposed by Schumpeter (1934). Schumpeter’s predecessor, Walras, writing in 1887, had likened the business world to ‘‘a lake, continually stirred by the wind, in which the water continually seeks its equilibrium without ever achieving it’’ (1954, p. 310). Walras conceived of entrepreneurs as agents of equilibrium, whose role was to bring business activities into symmetry. Schumpeter recast entrepreneurs in a dual role as agents of both innovation, which he saw as inherently disruptive, and routine, which he understood to tend toward stability. According to this model, businesspeople engaged in two types of behavior: routine following of business norms and practices, and innovation through disruption of these routines. The business cycle emerges from a tension between businesspeople as creative entrepreneurs and rational economic beings because entrepreneurs imagine innovation but they will only proceed to put these innovations into practice if they perceive that relevant economic conditions are stable enough to ensure profitability. They want to stir the pond, but only when the pond is relatively smooth. Yet innovation ripples the pond in many ways, since one entrepreneur’s vision, successfully employed and producing a period of profitability, will necessarily be imitated, reducing overall profitability not only for the initiator but also for all the imitators. This cycle also occurs on a large scale: when there is a great deal of innovation and imitation, uncertainty about profitability increases. This reduces the likelihood of entrepreneurs acting on their visions and plunges the economy into recession and depression. Even as these downturns stabilize the economy by increasing coordination between economic activities, ideas for innovation accumulate, leading to another period of growth and prosperity. It is not my intention here to assess the value of this narrative for understanding actual economic changes. I am not seeking to contribute to
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Schumperz projected ‘‘sociology of the enterprise’’ (Schumpeter, 1993) but to explore how concepts from his theories of entrepreneurship have entered into the cultural discourses through which Egyptians engaged in economic activities articulate what they are doing. I am, in other words, interested in looking at how the concepts of ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ and ‘‘enterprise culture’’ have slipped from the realm of academic economics and entered into the metaculture (Urban, 2001) of entrepreneurs themselves, and institutions engaged with and by entrepreneurs, and at how the concept is employed in the making of social relations. Two of Schumpeter’s ideas are particularly important for this discussion. First, there is the important role Schumpeter gives to entrepreneurs as the sources of technological change and prosperity.7 Second, there is the almost heroic role that Schumpeter ascribes to entrepreneurs. Schumpeter preferred the German unternehmer (‘‘one who undertakes’’) to the French entrepreneur, and he coined the term unternehmergeist (‘‘entrepreneurial spirit’’) to describe such persons, also referring to them as ‘‘wild spirits’’ and ‘‘fiery souls’’ in homage to their creativity. Schumpeter’s theory has been criticized for assuming that the entrepreneurial imagination ‘‘though inexplicable, was always correct’’ (Loasby, 1996, p. 17). For Schumpeter, as for Kirzner (1973), who critiqued and extended his theories after him, entrepreneurs drive the economy by being just a little more perceptive and daring than most other people, a conceptualization that has important cultural concomitants in Cairo, as we shall see.
THE CULTURE OF DEVELOPMENT Egyptian entrepreneurialism has long been embedded in, and shaped by, a ‘‘culture of development,’’ an enormously powerful set of ideas describing and guiding activities, relationships, and exchanges (Gardner & Lewis, 1996, p. 2). Development discourse represents states like Egypt as unfinished countries in comparison to the ‘‘developed’’ economic powerhouses of the West, and holds out the promise that deliberately planned change, guided by powerful transnational or international institutions, can push these developing countries forward on the road of progress until they are the near equals of the developed nations. This discourse is locally inflected by an understanding that Egypt underwent a profound shift between two visions of modernity, that of the Nasserist paternalistic socialist state and that of the market guided infitah (‘‘open-door’’). While the actual economic changes over the decades have been slower and less dramatic than this narrative of
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change would suggest, the tale of the abrupt turn from socialism to the West accurately expresses the way most people articulate their economic experiences (Abaza, 2006). Under President Nasser (1956–1970), Egypt emphasized public sector consolidation of the economy as a way to maximize the country’s economic potential. The government nationalized all banks and insurance companies, as well as most foreign-owned companies. Those not nationalized were forced into local ownership or into partnerships with local businesspeople or otherwise incorporated into the Nasserist vision. Trade unions and syndicates were largely incorporated as ‘‘partners’’ into the state political system, and the national university system created a steady supply of trained workers to fill managerial roles in the growing state enterprises and in the expanding state bureaucracies. Nasser proposed a ‘‘moral economy’’ (Posusney, 1993, 1997) in which the state essentially guaranteed job security and a living wage (accomplished in part through rent controls and subsidies on necessary subsistence items) in exchange for citizens’ wholehearted contribution to the national project. As the number of educated workers expanded and were provided state employment, employment redundancy became the norm in Egyptian society. The regime of President Anwar Sadat (1970–1981) introduced a new language and set of practices for economic development. Three years after his ascension to the presidency, riding on his popularity as ‘‘the Hero of the Crossing’’ after the 1973 war with Israel, Sadat announced the infitah or ‘‘open-door’’ policy that officially shifted Egypt’s state policy from Nasserism to both domestic and foreign private economic investment. As Timothy Mitchell points out, ‘‘the significance of this change in policy should not be exaggerated’’ (2002, p. 211) because structurally speaking, it represented little more than another rearrangement of state and private economic processes such as had organized Egypt’s political economy since the colonial era. Culturally, however, it produced significant changes in peoples’ social experiences and in the languages through which they articulated these. In particular, it transformed the main sources of transnational cultural discourses about economy from the Soviet Union, the non-Aligned Nations, and the Arab region to flows from Western Europe and North America. Among the most significant changes were the increasingly important role played by three Washington-based political agencies – the World Bank, the US Agency for International Development (USAID), and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) – as sources of new models for state-private economic relations. In 1976, Sadat sought debt relief from these organizations as a reward for his economic and political turn toward the west. The
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World Bank and IMF predicated the loans on a reduction of Nasserist programs, especially government subsidies on basic necessities, and in January 1977, Sadat announced the elimination of subsidies on flour, rice, and cooking oil. But while Western development agencies had important allies, they also had opponents, both official and nonofficial, and they met resistance at many levels (Baker, 1981). Some of these involved powerful public displays of resistance. Shouting ‘‘Ya¯ batl al-`ubu¯r, fe¯n al-futu¯r?’’ (‘‘Hero of the Crossing, where is our breakfast?’’) and other slogans, hundreds of thousands of Egyptians took to the streets in every major city to protest the cutting of the subsidies, with more than 800 people dying in clashes with the police (Olivier, 1994, p. 56). The government then turned to the ‘‘problem’’ of employment redundancy. Law 137 of 1981 ‘‘signified the government’s formal withdrawal from the Nasirist ‘moral economy’ ’’ (Posusney, 1995, p. 52) by authorizing the right of both private sector employers and public sector managers to hire and fire workers, and to set wages and benefits according assessments of prevailing market conditions rather than assessments of the needs of the workers. To offset resistance to this law, it also gave workers the right to strike, which had been illegal under Nasserism as detrimental to the national cause.8 The Mubarak regime (1981 to present) signified a further shift toward privatization as Egypt became increasingly subject to ‘‘the Washington Consensus,’’ a set of 10 prescriptions for reforming developing countries whose economies had not responded to earlier efforts (Williamson, 1994), which focused on deregulation, privatization, and allowing labor markets to determine wages. This new approach was expressed in Egypt through a broad government mandate, the Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Program (ERSAP), which officially began in 1991. This program committed the government to the privatization, restructuring, and, in some cases, liquidation of a large number of its public enterprises. According to the plan’s original timetable, one fifth of Egypt’s total public companies, some 60 companies employing about 366,000 workers, were to be restructured or closed by 1994. Law 203 in 1991 reorganized all public sector companies into 17 profit-seeking ‘‘holding companies’’ and created a ‘‘public enterprise office’’ (PEO) to act as a liaison in assisting private investors to assume control of parts of these companies. On the advice and guidance of foreign donors, especially USAID, the PEO was incorporated into a cabinet-level Ministry for Public Enterprise. In fact, privatization has been slow and cautious. The Mubarak regime wanted no repeat of incidents like the bread riots of 1981. In spite of ambitious ERSAP goals, privatization did not begin until 1993, when shares
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of Misr Chemical were offered on the stock exchange. Most of what has been called ‘‘privatization’’ over the past 15 years has not, in fact, put private companies into the control of nonpublic sector actors or agencies; it has consisted of public offerings of stock (usually limited to no more than 10% of the company), opportunities for employees to buy into the company (again, usually limited to 10%), and sales of assets. Sixty-four percent ‘‘privatization’’ transactions thus did not actually remove companies from government control but rather provided the government holding companies with much needed infusions of cash (Page, 2001). Even with those companies that were sold outright to private investors, the government tried to control anticipated political fall-out by first slating companies for privatization that were not overstaffed and, second, by requiring investors to maintain existing employment levels for periods as long as 5 years.9 In spite of these safeguards, privatization has led to rising labor unrest (Beinin, 2007). Liberal economists argue that the Middle East and North African governments are trapped in a paradox: overinvestment in public enterprises and redundant work force drags economic growth, yet only rapid economic growth will produce the rising wages and increased tax revenues necessary to increase privatization and ‘‘correct’’ labor redundancy (Page, 2001, pp. 72– 73). Having committed to full participation in the world capitalist system, the Egyptian government has three important reasons to increase privatization of companies: first, to maintain the credibility of its privatization program in the eyes of investors, USAID, the World Bank, and the IMF; second, to generate revenue through sales of shares or assets of public companies; and third, to reduce the fiscal burden created by government companies that lose money. Against this, the government must weigh the potential citizen backlash caused not only by a fear of job losses but resistance to the overall insecurity of an uncontrolled labor market. The Egyptian government’s articulation of the growing place of privatization and entrepreneurial capitalism is thus built around two intertwined discourses. The first constructs private enterprise as a national opportunity, emphasizing that for-profit expansion serves the larger national objective of sustainable socioeconomic development for all. The second constructs private enterprise as a national mandate, focusing on political and economic dangers presumed to face any country that fails to keep competitive in the global marketplace. This carrot and stick perspective, in which private enterprise is both carrot and stick, builds on a model of development in which progress is envisioned as a single evolutionary process whose path has been blazed by the ‘‘advanced’’ countries and that other nation-states must inevitably follow.
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Creative entrepreneurship is articulated as an important tool that can overcome the obstacles created by lingering public enterprise structures. Success stories of entrepreneurs who have managed these obstacles are promoted as evidence of progress. For example, dozens of books, newspapers, and magazine articles trumpeted the successes of Ahmad Zayat who purchased the 100-year-old Al-Ahram Beverage Company (ABC) in 1997. Zayat is celebrated both in Egypt and internationally as an example of the entrepreneurial imagination. The Egyptian-born former Wall Street broker managed to buy the moderately profitable ABC for a modest $70 million (less than half the original asking price) in part by promising to leave intact its heavily redundant labor force. Zayat sold a group of investors on the project – something the Egyptian government had been unable to do – and raised enough money for the purchase as well as the investment in improvements. ‘‘The company quickly became the model for privatization in Egypt by modernizing production y, improving quality and introducing innovative marketing and promotions to build its brands’’ (Fick, 2002, p. 255). In 1999, ABC acquired the Nile Brewing Company and Gianclis, the state-owned winery. In 2001, it acquired El-Gouna Beverages, giving it a virtual monopoly on the manufacture of beer and wine. Zayat’s creativity was rooted in his intimate understanding of his potential markets. Zayat took many of his ‘‘superfluous’’ workers and placed them in a fleet of unmarked white vans. People throughout Cairo could order beer and wine from a toll-free number and have it delivered from these vans without the customers’ neighbors knowing, thus avoiding the social disapproval that comes with drinking alcohol in this Muslim majority country. The same creativity is ascribed to Zayat’s handling of the Fayrouz brand of malt beverages. While the brewing process that creates most nonalcoholic beers yields alcohol, that used by ABC to create its Fayrouz brand does not, enabling Al-Azhar to certify it as halal, permit for consumption by Muslims. Flavored with raspberry, apple, or pineapple, Fayrouz became hugely successful as an export product to Saudi Arabia and other Gulf states (Allam, 2003). By 2001, Al-Ahram still employed nearly 4,000 people, and saw gross sales of more than US$100 million and net profits of more than US$20 million. In the best tradition of globalization, Zayat sold Al-Ahram in 2002 to the multinational Heineken corporation for more than US$280 million. ‘‘The enterprise culture is founded on the premise that entrepreneurship is the engine that drives the economy’’ (Jack & Anderson, 1999, p. 110), and the celebration of Zayat demonstrates how contemporary economic discourse constructs entrepreneurship as the engine that drives development.
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These discourses are carefully constructed by emphasizing how entrepreneurs turn obstacles into opportunities and erasing prior or subsequent failures (such as Zayat’s unsuccessful foray into the bottling industry). In the new discourse, neither the state nor the international economic system is entirely responsible for success or failure of a state’s economy. Responsibility for development may also devolve along the success or failure of individuals to demonstrate the entrepreneurial imagination. While acknowledging that it remains important for the state to dismantle its overburdened public service sector, stories like that of Ahmed Zayat imply that creative entrepreneurs cannot only overcome such obstacles but actually use the impediments created by the public sector system to springboard into greater success. The entrepreneurial imagination is exhibited by individuals like Zayat who ‘‘spotted potential where others saw only pitfalls’’ as the New York Times reported (Allam, 2003). In the face of its massive difficulties and potential labor unrest caused by reductions in state sector projects, the state’s new role is to help create such successful individuals and foster a national enterprise culture.
ENTERPRISING EGYPTIANS The public face of Cairo’s globalization of Cairo – the commodification of leisure spaces, the creation of public parks, the growth of shopping malls and the emergence of branded chain retailers, from all of which working class locals are excluded (Abaza, 2006) – is not only the result of the influence of international agencies like World Bank or international corporations investing in Egypt. Much of it is the result of cosmopolitan entrepreneurs creating a ‘‘global style’’ for Cairo by drawing on international models while seeking local profits. In 1999, Tahrir Koshary, one of the most famous ‘‘fast food’’ eateries in the center of Cairo, closed its doors during Ramadan – the slow month for food sales since most people fast during the lunch hours and eat dinners with their families – and began renovating its shop. It became a pattern: every Ramadan the shop would close and on the first day of the subsequent month of Shawwal it would reopen with structural changes to its facility and operation. First, the food operation, in which cooks would scoop spoonfuls of rice, lentils, pasta, chickpeas, tomato sauce, and fried onions into plastic bags, was moved from the window to behind a counter. Then plastic buckets replaced bags. Then the payment counter moved from right next to the door (so that one could pay, receive a ticket, and redeem it from the cooks) to the end of the counter
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(so one could pay after one received their meal). It became clear that Tahrir Kushary was becoming, year by year, more and more like KFC, one of the first and most successful international fast food franchises lining Muhammed Mahmoud street a block away. By 2005, Tahrir Kushary had added a distinctive logo, a fleet of delivery motorcycles, and franchises in outlying parts of the city. Yet its prices remained low, keeping it within the affordability of millions of Egyptians who could not afford KFC. The transformation of Tahrir Kushary represents an example of a phenomenon noted by Watson (1997) and colleagues in their studies of McDonald’s in Asia: the appropriation by local entrepreneurs of specific signifiers and their integration into local consumer markets. These have included smiling employees, new standards for clean restrooms, the use of uniform color schemes, and so forth. While the authors’ attribute these changes to the agency of changed customer expectations, they offer no mechanism describing how these customer expectations get translated into transformations of local businesses. It is useful to recognize that the entrepreneurs and managers who organize production and marketing are themselves consumers. At the same time, entrepreneurs enter the field of consumption with a different set of practices: they experience their own consumption more reflexively, observe consumer behavior carefully, and they imagine consumers, like and unlike themselves, and make judgments about what these imagined consumers will and will not like to consume. Mohammed Tawfiq imagined that upscale Egyptian consumers would take to pizza. He first encountered pizza at a Greek bakery popular with students at the University of Alexandria, where he was studying, but he did not have an American – now global – style pizza until he went to a pizza restaurant while in France on a business trip. The simplicity of the menu and layout, and the efficiency with which the food and customers were processed caught Mohammed’s interest and he became certain that he could open a successful pizza parlor in Egypt. Mohammed came from a family of prosperous builders who bought land and built buildings. As developers, they sold shops in their prospective buildings to prospective shop owners. Occasionally, one would default, leaving them with an empty space. ‘‘And you can’t have an empty shop in your building,’’ he told me. ‘‘It looks very bad.’’ So the family would open a shop: ‘‘we might buy a load of furniture and put it in the shop, and hire a couple of guys to sit in there. And once or twice a year they might sell something.’’ Mohammed and his brother realized that there might be money to be made in putting these accidental shops on a solid business footing. Their first experiment was the Doulmo Bakery, which sold bread, cakes,
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sweets, and pizza. The popularity of pizza with their customers confirmed their sense that a pizza chain was possible. Mohammed went to the United States with the intention of purchasing a franchise and relying on the expertise of the chain. All the major companies wanted far too much money, however, for what was essentially a risky proposition, so Mohammed began visiting as many pizza restaurants as he could, introducing himself to their managers and learning what brands of ovens they used, what arrangements of cooking space worked best, and what did not work and why. Carefully selecting a location in Nasser City, Muhammed opened ‘‘Pizza Plus,’’ a beautifully designed hyperspace (Kearney, 1995), a space so lacking in markers of the local that it could be dropped into France or the United States as easily as Cairo. He faced an unexpectedly high volume of sales, and the first several months were spent tinkering with the system to be able to handle the quantities of pizzas customers were buying. One of Mohammed’s principles involved a recognition that in Egypt labor is the lowest cost in a retail business. Instead of seeing labor redundancy as a negative, he hired more people than were necessary for the work, trained them all, and treated them well so that they would not want to lose the job. In his discussions with US pizza retailers, employee turnaround was always the biggest problem. At Pizza Plus, however high the demand, there were always enough employees to handle it. But his decision to employ so many people was also inspired by a traditional ethic in which successful Arab men help and support less successful people. ‘‘No one has ever asked me for a job, that I have not provided one,’’ he said. Like most jobs in Egypt, the restaurant offers no benefit packages. But Mohammed and his brother spend most of their zakat – the charity equal to 2.5% of one’s wealth that every Muslim is to share with the poor – on caring for their employees and their families’ illnesses, weddings, and other needs. Businessmen like Mohammed thus yoke charitable obligations to entrepreneurial success.10 However, Pizza Plus ran into immediate, significant competition. A wellcapitalized group of businesspeople had partnered with Pizza Hut to bring the franchise to Egypt. In 1995, the same year Pizza Plus opened, the first Pizza Hut opened. Because of its international brand, Mohammed knew Pizza Hut would be more attractive to the upscale, cosmopolitan class whose taste for pizza was whetted by its international indexicality. Pizza Plus, like Cilantro’s and other sites serving cosmopolitan desires, represent hyperspaces, spaces that are global because they are utterly deterritorialized (Kearney, 1995, p. 553) and could exist in roughly the same form anywhere in the world. Branded places like Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, and Starbucks are
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experienced rather as multilocal spaces, spaces that while distributed throughout the world are somehow always the same place. While both are part of the process of ‘‘creating simultaneity on a global scale’’ (Eriksen, 1994, p. 149), for upper-class Egyptians whose tastes are strongly shaped by the brand identification that makes the multilocal experience possible, a Pizza Hut is more immediately attractive, the brand rendering it more authentically global. But ‘‘there is another group of customers’’ said Mohammed, who grow up with cosmopolitan tastes but have more limited means. In addition, there were upwardly mobile middle-class people whose tastes recognized the cosmopolitanism of pizza without having internalized the more sophisticated distinctions of international brands. The crucial distinction between these groups of consumers, Mohammed understood, is disposable income. The trick was to bring in customers who would find Pizza Hut expensive. ‘‘So I looked at my menu and [found that] pizza was the lowest cost item.’’ He introduced a two for one pizza deal. Although ‘‘buy one get one free’’ is one of the oldest devices in the Western marketing repertoire, it was quite novel in Egypt. Nearly any Egyptian to whom I mentioned Pizza Plus, whether or not they had ever eaten there, would nod and say, ‘‘Two for One.’’ The slogan became synonymous with the restaurant. It was highly effective and the restaurants handled an extremely high volume of traffic. Pizza Plus quickly expanded to a five-restaurant chain over 4 years. Pizza Hut, meanwhile, intending to attract both upper- and middle-class sets of consumers, embarked on an ambitious expansion plan and opened 15 restaurants in the same period. After 5 years, however, revenues for both chains began to drop precipitously. Like McDonald’s and many other international franchises, Pizza Hut expanded beyond the number of restaurants that could be sustained by its core audience of well-heeled upper-class Egyptians, and faced competition from such new international franchises as Dominoes. Pizza Plus, meanwhile, suffered from a number of imitators springing up throughout Cairo. Pizza became a food trend, and many restaurants quickly added it to their menus. In addition, hundreds of new pizza parlors of various qualities were started by entrepreneurs to take advantage of this fad. Pizza Plus stopped expansion and Pizza Hut was forced to close some stores. By 2005, Mohammed estimated that there were some 400 pizza outlets in Cairo. All but one of his restaurants continued to turn a steady profit but the high volume and cash flows of the first 5 years were over. This boom and bust cycle is not uncommon in Egypt. One or two entrepreneurs have an idea drawn from their transnational experience,
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localize it, raise capital, and create successful businesses. Once their successful model is established, other entrepreneurs imitate it, with variations, saturating the market and ultimately making the venture significantly less profitable. One can find endless examples of this from the overexpansion of Red Sea resorts to web development companies (Peterson & Panovic, 2004) to fad food stores like pizza and sushi. It is a favorite topic of conversation among many Egyptian businesspeople. Academic economists have described this as an ordinary part of the business cycle. As Richardson (1960, p. 57) says ‘‘a general profit opportunity, which is both known to everyone and capable of being exploited by everyone, is, in an important sense, an opportunity for no one in particular.’’ But while many economists see this as benefitting consumers by increasing competition and reducing prices, Egypt’s extremely modest consumer base makes this cycle far more precarious than in the Western countries from which this model is drawn. One study in 1998, for example, suggested that only 5% of Egypt’s population had the disposable income to afford such transnational consumer goods (Osman, 1998). Another found that the top 3% of Egypt’s population accounts for half of its consumer spending (Bartsch, 1997). The risks associated with entrepreneurship as businesspeople seek to predict markets, limit growth and profit from their investment must be carefully managed because it is not only economic capital at stake but also, as we will see in the next section, social and cultural capital.
THE CULTURE OF FAILURE Because entrepreneurial success is tied to cosmopolitan identity, economic risk is also social risk. In the summer of 2005, I discussed entrepreneurialism with Rami at the health club he had built with two partners. The club was designed around a core concept: that of being a sports academy rather than an ordinary health club. They had recognized this as a market niche, exploited their own knowledge as sports enthusiasts, and developed a ‘‘health academy.’’ Racketball, swimming, and tennis lessons, along with diet and nutrition workshops, were offered as a way to set the club off from its competitors and became the focus of its marketing. So far, the club was profitable, but Rami was worried. Plans for expansion – the construction of a second club under the same brand name and approach – were well underway, and would stretch his and his partners’ capital and credit to the maximum. If either or both the clubs failed, now or down the road, his financial resources would be exhausted and he might be dependent on his
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father and uncles to maintain his family. Again and again in our conversation, he spoke determinedly of the need for ‘‘aggressive expansion’’ and ‘‘the need to take risks’’ if one ‘‘wants to be a success’’ as explanations for this perilous enterprise. Risk and uncertainty are central to Schumpeter’s entrepreneurial theories. Schumpeter was a critic of the mainstream economic assumption that people always behave rationally, and his account of the boom-bust cycle both at the microlevel of individual businesses and at the macrolevel of economic sectors is driven by entrepreneurs unable to make rational choices because of inadequate information. People must act in uncertainty, which requires risk at every level of the economy. The more stable the economy, the more willing people are to take risks (which may lead to destabilizing innovations); the less stable the economy the less willing people are to take risks. The entrepreneurial imagination involves the capacity of successful entrepreneurs to innovate in relative uncertainty through ‘‘the capacity of seeing things in a certain way which afterward proves to be true, even though it cannot be established at the moment, and of grasping the essential fact, discarding the unessential, even though no one can give an account of how this is done’’ (Schumpeter, 1934, p. 85). One way entrepreneurs attempt to handle uncertainty, as we saw in the case of Pizza Plus, is by imitating prior successful models, which may lead to overexpansion. Overexpansion, whether by specific companies (like Pizza Hut) or by entire retail sectors seeking to exploit particular market fads (like pizza), is a frequent theme in stories about business in Egypt. In tourism, for instance, for every international success, there are a half-dozen hotels and resorts unable to turn a profit. In 2000, Osman, a Cairene businessman whose son had been one of my students, told me he had picked up two adjacent Red Sea hotels for a song. Since he had not assumed the original investors’ debt, he was in a good position to ‘‘turn the hotels around’’ with ‘‘aggressive marketing’’ that would pull in tourists from Italy, Germany, and elsewhere in Europe. Osman said the hotels were first class, with restaurants, snorkeling, and boating, and blamed the failure of the hotels on the ‘‘poor management’’ and ‘‘inadequate marketing strategies’’ of the investors who built them – on a lapse, that is, of entrepreneurial imagination. When I met him again in 2005, however, the hotels were continuing to fail. There were simply too many hotels in the area for the number of tourists. ‘‘The location is not good,’’ he explained. ‘‘Even with aggressive marketing and management, and the low value of the pound against the Euro, we can’t bring in enough tourists to maintain [the hotel facilities].’’ He was renting the rooms at extremely low
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prices and slowly allowing the physical structure to degenerate. ‘‘Only if I could find a partner to put in some capital, perhaps we could turn it around.’’ Osman’s story reveals an important element of the notion of the ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ as a feature of identities: it reallocates responsibility for success and failure from infrastructural conditions and the regulatory environment to describe the character of the individual entrepreneurs. If the secret of successful development, on both individual enterprise and national scales, lies in the capacity of the entrepreneurial imagination to creatively discover ways to overcome infrastructural and regulatory obstacles, then it is the imagination that fails. Osman’s narrative initially positions the original builders as poor managers and himself as someone who can come in and use his enterprise to turn things around. When things do not turn around, Osman seeks to reposition himself as the victim of the original builders’ failures of imagination – to choose a better location, for example. At one level, this is a classic example of the tendency of people to attribute their own failures to external situational causes and those of others to internal dispositional causes (Gurevitch, 1989). But there is a defensive note to his narrative, for others will talk about Osman as a failure and the model of enterprise culture limits the effectiveness of blaming, for example, the underregulated development and environmental situation of the Red Sea. Although it is deeply entwined with current models of state-guided development, enterprise culture is not merely some kind of ‘‘false consciousness’’ imposed by a state ideology. It is a cultural model, a system of knowledge for organizing knowledge about the world, making sense of experience, and generating meaningful action. As a cultural model, it is selfconsistent and largely immune to verification, since it contains within it explanations for its own lapses and failures. This kind of model serves many functions, not the least of which is to encourage the continuation of the entrepreneurial impetus of risk taking and innovation in the wake of failure after failure. The discourses of enterprise culture maintain the promise that no matter how poorly a business performs, there is someone out there with the imagination to turn it around and make it work: an Ahmed Zayat to turn overemployment into a resource, a Mohammed Tawfiq to undercut multinational competition, and entrepreneurs like the founders of Cilantro to find opportunity in Byzantine import regulations. But discourses of entrepreneurial imagination can also be mobilized as exclusionary practices for constructing class distinctions.
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‘‘The problem, you know, is that Egyptians don’t have an enterprise culture,’’ Rami told me over our cabana lunch at his club. I looked at him, dumbfounded, and politely disagreed. I offered dozens of examples of creative enterprise among shopkeepers, and others I had witnessed over the years: the vegetable vendor who sold prewashed and cut produce, the taxi driver who learned Japanese and tripled his income, the shopkeeper who parleyed a 200 pound microloan into a refrigerated section, the whole informal economy of sawwayis, guys who park your car for you in overcrowded Cairo. He shook his head dismissively. These were not ‘‘serious’’ enterprises, he said, because they did not risk or produce ‘‘significant’’ capital. Rami thus dismissed more than 85% of the Egyptian population from the discussion of entrepreneurship. This in spite of the fact that young collegeeducated entrepreneurs engaging in competitive, profit-driven businesses, with government microloans, often fare less well than traditional craftsmen engaged in socially cooperative forms of entrepreneurship, even when these tradesmen have been uprooted by government programs from their networks of local suppliers and clientele (Elyachar, 2005). This notion that Egyptians lack an ‘‘enterprise culture’’ was apparently the main point hammered home at a two-day workshop on entrepreneurialism held at one of Cairo’s five-star hotels during the summer of 2005, which Rami had attended with one of his partners. According to Rami, the essence of the workshop was that foreign investors did not understand local conditions sufficiently to prosper without local enterprise. But Egypt lacked an indigenous ‘‘enterprise culture’’ to create such enterprise. It was therefore people of Rami’s class – Egyptian but Western educated, at home in both Arabic and European languages, and knowledgeable about modern business practices, who were the bright hope of Egypt’s future in the global economy. This denial of enterprise culture to Egypt is not limited to high-priced workshops designed to stimulate Egyptian entrepreneurs worried about risky or overextended investment. Within the expatriate community, among the foreign managers of multinational companies, dinner party conversations frequently slide at some point to problems doing business in Egypt. Some of these American, British, Canadian, Indian, South American, and other members of the global corporate managerial class discuss ‘‘local culture’’ almost entirely in terms of the obstacles it presents to the smooth operation of a presumably rational and culture-free business system. The following excerpts from interviews with corporate officers demonstrate the framework through which management conceives local labor.
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For Phil, an American consultant involved in the start up of a major agribusiness, the problem is the local partners and the hierarchical nature of the workplace. They are all so afraid to spend any money unless the big boss okays it. And he’s always traveling. Then he needs to think about it and by the time he makes a decision it’s too late. In agriculture, the seasons change, timing is everything. y Everyone is so afraid to make a mistake we can’t get anything done. You should see them all when the big boss walks in. He’s some kind of retired minister. The whole mood of the office changes. They all just freeze up until he leaves. y
The project Phil heads is funded by Saudi investors and run by the American management company of which he is an officer. Under Egyptian law, the investors must have a local partner who is often, as in this case, a retired government official. Phil describes this situation as one in which the project would move ahead smoothly under untrammeled American management, but which grinds to a halt because of the obstacles posed by the presence of this Egyptian partner who is, he points out, the product of a socialist bureaucracy. For Girgis, Egyptian-born, American-educated director of the Cairo office of a major multinational manufacturer, the problems involve work ethic. [Egyptian employees] ask me, why doesn’t the company believe in promoting Egyptians? These guys come into the office right on the dot, or maybe fifteen minutes late. Never early. They’re never early. Then they have to walk around the room and say hello to every single person. And then they have to get a cup of coffee, and by the time they sit down it’s forty-five minutes into the work day. They say Americans are anti-Arab and I tell them, hey, what am I? I tell them when I was bucking for promotion, I found out what time my boss got to work. And I made it a point to be at my desk working before he got there every morning and after he left every night. And my visibility went up and so did my productivity. And I got the promotion. I can tell them this in Arabic or in English, it’s like I’m speaking a different language.
Girgis offers himself here as a local boy made good, the living embodiment of the promise of multinational employment that has attracted the Egyptians he is now supervising. With hard work and adherence to the corporate work ethic, which puts productivity ahead of family and social relationships, anyone can escape the stigma of the local and rise in the global corporation. Girgis portrays himself as frustrated because, in spite of his facility in both the global and local languages, he cannot translate this message across the social idiom. For Carlos, Peruvian-born director of the Middle East regional office of a major oil company subsidiary, a key issue is corruption. You know, in Latin America and India, all these places [that] are famous for being corrupt, I don’t think we had these problems. Our company, it’s one of the principles of
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our company, we don’t pay bribes, we don’t pay kickbacks. Anywhere. I’ve been here four years and I’ve put in for a transfer. I told them I can’t do any more. I told them it’s time to bring in somebody else. I was only supposed to be here two years, finishing up the work of the guy before me. But we’re nowhere near ready to give control of the office over to the local managers.
Collectively, these accounts by Rami, Phil, Girgis, and Carlos construct Egypt as an anti-enterprise culture. Instead of simply acknowledging that in any enterprise culture many projects will fail, these Western and Westernized managers position the failure of projects in supposed collective characteristics of Egyptian people. Each of these stories involves an assumption that local knowledge and competences are obstacles to creative enterprise in production, distribution, and sales. These stories assert two ways of business, an Anglo-European ‘‘global’’ correct way and a local incorrect way. Local knowledge and competence may be necessary for comprehending the needs of local audiences toward which goods and services can be directed, but they are not regarded as appropriate for managing production and distribution. Similarly, Kehrer (2007) in an otherwise exemplary study of how transnational corporations adapt to Egyptian market milieu takes her managerial consultants at face value when they claim that multinational corporations have ‘‘shown much more ability than local corporations to respond to special local conditions’’ (p. 155). Foreign entrepreneurs, in other words, are assumed in such accounts to be Schumpeterian entrepreneurs who are instinctively correct, while local entrepreneurs must prove themselves. The cases of Pizza Plus, Cilantro, and Al-Ahram beverages shows that local entrepreneurs can be quite savvy about adapting to local, shifting market conditions and one could make a lengthy list of failed international franchises to illustrate that transnationals do not always get it right when they override the misgivings of local partners (even global giant McDonald’s has had a shaky experience in Egypt, expanding too fast and not recognizing that its efforts to appeal to the middle class would alienate its upscale, cosmopolitan primary market). Moreover, in constructing this global:enterprise::local:anti-enterprise dichotomy, these accounts exclude failures by the foreign businesspeople. Phil, for example, neglects to mention that the US company he worked for had gone bankrupt and been acquired by its largest competitor. The company knew how to make the desert bloom but perhaps not how to do so profitably even in Western markets. Girgis’s story erases his own difficulties in returning to Egypt and violating his company’s policy by hiring relatives and friends in accordance with local networks of favors and status (wasta). His own success at corporate social relations may thus be tied more to
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particular social contexts than an ability to ‘‘transcend’’ a local culture (Peterson, 2007). The real question then is not what to do about local culture, but rather what these discourses of distinction between the ‘‘global’’ and the ‘‘local’’ – and successful hybrids – accomplish in regard to constructing cosmopolitan identities. However ‘‘true’’ these respective stories may be as explanations for the failures of these specific projects, the use of such stories creates an exclusionary discourse that helps maintain the class distinction by which cosmopolitan style justifies improved life chances. Taken together, these stories construct an opposition of persons. On one side are Egyptians of the working and middle classes who are represented as lacking any real ‘‘enterprise culture,’’ which can only come to them through the kinds of international educations and patterns of transnational consumption that are the patrimony of the upper class. On the other side are the foreign administrators, businesspeople, and managers who come to operate international companies. From this dialectical opposition comes the synthetic identity successful entrepreneurs adopt and new entrepreneurs aspire to: the enterprising Egyptian entrepreneur who both understands capitalist business ethos and the local system and so can create economic success in the changing global economy. In so doing, the cosmopolitan class constructs itself in Schempeterian terms as apart from (and superior to) the Egyptian masses, while at the same time serving as the pivotal engine of the Egyptian economy. Within this idiom, to speak of foreign investment, of privatization, and of international marketing is to speak of the need for a class of cosmopolitan Egyptians to partner, manage, and reimagine these processes, and so benefit from them, as producers, managers, and consumers, in ways that exceed those of middle and working class Egyptians. Yet this cosmopolitan entrepreneurial identity is fraught with tension. Where foreigners can blame their failures on the Egyptian culture, cosmopolitan culture brokers’ failures instead suggest that they have failed to strike that balance between Egyptian and modern – that they are too Egyptian or too Westernized – to successfully create the kind of enterprise culture that would validate their cosmopolitan class identity.
CONCLUSIONS It is increasingly becoming clear that the strengthening of local and national identities and the spread of global market capitalism are not contradictions but two aspects of the same dynamic process (Mazzarella, 2004; Miller,
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1997; Wilk, 1999). Notions of a ‘‘McDonaldization’’ of ‘‘local’’ culture, involving the equalization of consumption, and an associated transfer of values that weakens local domains of meaning are ubiquitous, but do not well reflect the reality of the changes in the economic sphere that are occurring as a result of transnational flows of consumer goods. By partnering with ‘‘local cosmopolitans’’ – members of the class that consumes many of these goods as status bound tastes – foreign investors and transnational corporations ‘‘are in fact extremely well-equipped to respond to the diversity of local cultural spheres of meaning within their diverse markets’’ (Kehrer, 2007, p. 152). While Marxist-oriented writing that sees contemporary globalization as a product of a uniform Western capitalism (Harvey, 1990; Wallerstein, 1974) has increasingly given way to accounts of ‘‘glocalization,’’ ‘‘hybridity,’’ and ‘‘me´lange’’ (Appadurai, 1996; Hannerz, 1992; Pieterse, 1998), there is yet little effort to describe the ways in which specific hybrids are constructed, and to ask what is hybrid to whom, under what circumstances and in what ways. In particular, the question of who is producing transnational consumer goods, and their social relations to consumers requires explication. In Egypt, I have argued, members of the cosmopolitan class facilitate these processes by acting as the agents of hybridity. As ‘‘cultural brokers,’’ cosmopolitan entrepreneurs produce, manage, and market most of the enterprises that have been transforming Egypt over the last 15 years, giving Cairo its increasingly cosmopolitan face and enabling the processes collectively glossed as ‘‘globalization.’’ They do so within a complex social field. Egypt’s current models of development are predicated in part on the implementation of Western management techniques for production and marketing whose premises contradict many preexisting national economic institutions. The notion of the ‘‘entrepreneurial imagination’’ offers a way to overcome this contradiction by yoking the dynamics of capitalism to the capacities of individuals and teams of producers, managers, and marketers to creatively overcome infrastructural obstacles and, indeed, even turn them to advantage. But occupying these roles has important implications for the cultural identity of cosmopolitan Egyptian professionals. Western management techniques masquerade as universally efficient, maximally applicable practices. Because they are articulated as culturally neutral, managerial failure is often articulated neither as a result of regulatory impediments to entrepreneurship, nor as part of the normal boom and bust of the business cycle, nor even as a clash of different cultures. Rather, failure is articulated as caused primarily by the impediments of local culture. As culture brokers, members of
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Egypt’s cosmopolitan class walk a thin line between being ‘‘too Egyptian’’ or ‘‘too worldly’’ to successfully manage these supposed cultural obstacles. Entrepreneurial success becomes the ultimate arbiter of whether one had fully managed the essential balance between fully Egyptian and fully modern.
NOTES 1. Pokemon is an example of a global commodity ‘‘from’’ Asia. The issue is complicated, though, because both the Egyptian Ministry of Information, which bought and dubbed the TV series and Lay’s Egypt, which franchised the characters for advertising campaigns, franchised from Nintendo North America rather than from the parent company in Japan (Peterson, in press). 2. Class is an older and more established concept than globalization, but no less problematic. That people live in hierarchically stratified systems is obvious, not only to the anthropologist but to Egyptians. What is problematic is the nature of the boundaries between the classes. Classes are forged in everyday performances. I will follow Bourdieu in acknowledging that class is thus mutable, but in patterned ways. 3. Bi’a is a slang term of uncertain origin. Abaza (2001) suggests that it derives from a euphemism for ‘‘smelly,’’ and is associated with the culture of the ‘‘aishwaiyyat’’ (slums). And as both Abaza (2001) and Ghannam (2002) point out, characterization of an area as a slum is itself an important ideological construction crucial to the production of ‘‘modern’’ counterspaces in Cairo. 4. There are important countercurrents to class construction as I have outlined it. As Englund points out, worldliness, whether it is a cosmopolitanism of impoverishment as he studied in Malawi, or a cosmopolitanism of privilege, as described here in Cairo, entails a deterritorialized mode of belonging that creates ‘‘an uneasy relation to the home that imposes itself on the subject’’ (2004, p. 293). Cosmopolitans in Cairo often face internal dilemmas about the natures of their selves as cosmopolitans and as Arabs, Muslims, or Egyptian citizens, dilemmas strongly influenced by the pull of Islamist counterdiscourses. There is no room to discuss this here, but see Peterson (2011). 5. Anonymity was the default for all participants in this research. Participants were given an opportunity to waive anonymity but only a small number chose to do so. 6. Cairo has a long tradition of coffee houses, from the traditional ‘‘ahwa’’ (Hattox, 1985) to Colonial-era cafes (Bieber-Roberts & Pierandrei, 2002), but Cilantro, with a handful of competitors, introduced Cairenes to the late 20th century branded coffee shop chain serving espresso-based coffee beverages, already ubiquitous in other global cities and of which Starbucks is perhaps the best exemplar (see De Koning, 2006). 7. Later, after shifting from the University of Bonn to Harvard, Schumpeter argued that it is large corporations with substantial resources to invest that drive the economy. These two theories are often held to be complementary, rather than contradictory. 8. I am dealing primarily with urban and industrial privatization. The recent history of agricultural privatization follows a somewhat different trajectory.
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9. In addition, the holding companies often seek to improve their own performance by offering for sale only those companies that are losing money. 10. There is much to be said about the relationships between ‘‘religious virtue’’ (Turner, 2000), the state, and cosmopolitan identity, but this is beyond the scope of this chapter.
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Elyachar, J. (2005). Markets of dispossession: NGOs, economic development and the state in Cairo. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Englund, H. (2004). Cosmopolitanism and the devil in Malawi. Ethnos, 69(3), 293–316. Eriksen, T. H. (1994). Ethnicity and nationalism: Anthropological perspectives. Boulder, CO: Westview. Eriksen, T. H. (1996). Small places, large issues. London, Sterling, VA: Pluto Press. Fick, D. S. (2002). Entrepreneurship in Africa: A study of successes. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood Publishing. Franklin, S. (1990). The values of enterprise culture. Anthropology Today, 6(1), 18–20. Friedman, J. (1997). Global crises, the struggle for cultural identity, and intellectual porkbarrelling: Cosmopolitans versus locals, ethnics and nationals in an era of dehegemonization. In: P. Werbner & T. Modood (Eds), Debating cultural hybridity: Multicultural identities and the politics of antiracism (pp. 70–89). London: Zed Books. Friedman, J. (2002). Champaign liberals and the new ‘‘dangerous classes’’. Social Analysis, 46(2), 33–55. Gardner, K., & Lewis, D. (1996). Anthropology, development and the post-modern challenge. London: Pluto Press. Ghannam, F. (2002). Remaking the modern space: Relocation and the politics of identity in a global Cairo. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gurevitch, M. (1989). Comparative research on television news: Problems and challenges. American Behavioral Scientist, 33(2), 221–229. Hannerz, U. (1990). Cosmopolitans and locals in world culture. Theory, Culture and Society, 7, 237–251. Hannerz, U. (1992). Cultural complexity: Studies in the social organization of meaning. New York: Columbia University Press. Harvey, D. (1990). The condition of postmodernity. Lake Oswego, OR: Blackwell. Hattox, R. S. (1985). Coffee and coffeehouses: The origins of a social beverage in the medieval Near East. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Iwabuchi, K. (2002). Recentering globalization: Popular culture and Japanese transnationalism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Jack, S. L., & Anderson, A. R. (1999). Entrepreneurship education within the enterprise culture: Producing reflective practitioners. International Journal of Entrepreneurial Behaviour & Research, 5(3), 110–125. Kearney, M. (1995). The local and the global: The anthropology of globalization and transnationalism. Annual Review of Anthropology, 24, 547–565. Keat, R. (1991). Introduction: Starship Britain or universal enterprise? In: R. Keat & N. Abercrombie (Eds), Enterprise culture (pp. 1–20). New York: Routledge. Kehrer, M. (2007). Transnational consumer goods corporations (TNCs) in Egypt: Reaching toward the mass market. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 151–172. Kirzner, I. M. (1973). Competition and entrepreneurship. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. De Koning, A. (2006). Cafe´ latte and Caesar salad. In: D. Singerman & P. Amer (Eds), Cairo cosmopolitan (pp. 221–233). Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Loasby, B. J. (1996). The imagined, deemed possible. In: E. Helmsta¨dter & M. Perlman (Eds), Behavioral norms, technological progress, and economic dynamics (pp. 17–32). Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press.
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EARLY MARKETS AND THE MARKET CROSS George Williams ABSTRACT The market cross was a common structure and symbol used in early markets in England and Scotland. Although its precise origin is obscure, its use appears to be connected with religious traditions. Early markets in medieval Britain, especially rural markets with no central authority present, likely faced obstacles in serving as places of trade between strangers. Many market towns and trading centers did exist at church or religious gatherings, but these might have followed pre-Christian or pagan sites, and similarly, the market cross itself may be related to the pre-Christian practice of constructing stone pillars to create trade sanctuaries or to represent a divine witness. Such structures used as religious symbols, therefore, are likely to have facilitated the emergence of impersonal markets of exchange.
INTRODUCTION Scattered throughout cities and towns in England and Scotland are ornamental, often pillar-like structures, which traditionally marked the centers of markets and fairs. Although these ‘‘market crosses’’ resemble pillars, their structures also include carved spires and crosses, as well as ornate, covered structures. Today, given the aesthetic and historic nature Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 257–274 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030014
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of many market crosses, they are used to interest tourists into visiting respective towns in Britain. Traditionally, the market cross was primarily a symbol of a village’s right to trade. Its structure and placement guaranteed its visibility to a wide number of market participants, suggesting that considerable importance was attached to its function as a symbol. Precisely what symbolic meaning it was supposed to have is less clear. Beyond the obvious use of marking the location of the market, the market cross may have been designed to have a stabilizing, unifying effect on the possibly chaotic and unstable nature of early markets. Most of the surviving examples date between 16th and 18th centuries. Each market cross had a unique design. The typical form for the Scottish market cross typically consisted of a pillar-like stone on a square or circular stepped base (Fig. 1).1 At its top would be a carved heraldic icon or decorative object,
Fig. 1.
Market Cross at Crail in East Fife, Scotland.
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such as a sundial or unicorn. Similar structures composed the market crosses of England; however, in some cases covered structures such as ornate gables were added around the market cross to provide some small shelter from rain. Curiously, despite the name ‘‘market cross,’’ relatively few were ornamented with a cross or other prominent Christian symbols. In addition to their role symbolizing the village’s right to trade, these structures were also sites of public proclamations and royal ceremonies. One colorful example from 1561 had four ladies representing Fortune, Prudence, Justice, and Policies greeting Mary Queen of Scots from the elevated platform, and wine was engineered to gush forth from the gargoyles of the cross. In another royal ceremony, wine flowed from gargoyles of the Aberdeen cross during a visit by Queen Margaret in 1511 (Thompson, 2004). In 1538, the Edinburg market cross was decorated in honor of Queen Mary of Guise (Hutcheson, 1900). King James used the Edinburgh cross to bring together ‘‘barbarous nobles and make them shake hands over a feast partaken of before the eyes of the people’’ (Chambers, 1847, p. 169). In addition to being used for official proclamations and public ceremonies, market crosses were used as meeting places, festivals, and sites of punishments and executions. The history of the market cross, thus, involves multiple roles. However, in this chapter I focus on its role in the evolution of Britain’s markets. In the next section, we explore the nature of medieval British markets, especially exchange in inland, rural areas. These cases often had no central authority to safeguard against theft and enforce property. The argument is made that the religious nature of these sites supported some conditions for trade. Next, we examine the history of the market cross. Although much remains unknown about its origin and implementation, we explore this structure and its link with religion. Based on some claims and evidence that the market cross evolved from pagan traditions, we explore the religious roots of the pillar symbol that pre-dated Christian Britain. The last two sections discuss and provide a conclusion how religious practices and symbols may have played a role in the emergence of markets and impersonal exchange.
EARLY MARKETS IN BRITAIN The evolution of markets in medieval Europe faced numerous complications and hindrances. Early markets were rife with uncertainty and the possibility of conflict, due to conditions such as the variable quality of goods, uncertainty in the ability and willingness of authorities to guarantee
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property rights, and often the lack of an agreed upon standard of currency.2 Theft between fellow villagers in rural areas without legal enforcement is a topic of recent research by anthropologists.3 North (1991) has identified a number of conditions for markets to function properly to include the presence of notaries, merchant law courts, and standardized weights and measures to overcome the problems of information costs of dealing with strangers as well as providing the proper incentives for contract fulfillment.4 In addition to these factors, Karl Polyani and anthropologists, such as Mauss, have argued that markets and impersonal exchange, so common and dominant in our modern world, may have been less important in medieval Europe than gift exchange, rituals that tended to create alliances between potential rivals. It is widely believed that markets existed in Britain many centuries before the Norman Conquest, but little is known about these early markets. The archeological evidence, presented by Hodges (1982), suggests that before the upheavals and Viking invasions of the 9th century, markets primarily were located in major towns and ports, with trade between and around these centers. Such markets included long-distance trade with relatively highvalue goods, supplied by merchants and middlemen from other cities in Europe. Impersonal trade likely developed in these centers of long-distance commerce near the strongholds of Saxon chieftains or abbeys of monks to benefit from these sources of security. Sawyer (1968, p. 62) surveys the evidence of charters granting exemption to toll payments to coastal markets and finds that royal agents collected tolls in the coastal markets in the 8th century. In the 9th century toll collecting expanded to inland urban centers such as Worcester. Despite the potential of gains of trade for the merchants, as well as the incentive of rulers to gain revenue through taxing such trade, no guarantee that such exchange could occur without institutions for safeguarding the property and safety of foreign merchants. Grief (2006) analyzes the development of long-distance trade in the complex and unstable environment of late medieval Europe. He notes that different interpretations of the facts, such as the quality of merchandise between foreign and local merchants, created real obstacles for the emergence of substantial trade. One incident among several he cites to illustrate this instability occurred in Boston, England in 1241, when a Flemish merchant accused an English trader of not repaying a commercial loan. As a result: An uproar on all sides and the English merchants assembled to attack the Flemings, who retired to their lodging in the churchyard y The English threw down the pailings, broke the doors and windows and dragged out [the lender] and five others, whom they foully
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beat and wounded and set in the stocks. All the other Flemings they beat, ill-treated and robbed, and pierced their cloths with swords and knives y Their silver cups were carried off as they sat at table, their purses cut and the money in them stolen, their chests broken open and money and goods, to an unknown extent, taken away.5
The growth of the coastal markets in England was followed by a surge of market towns, where local exchanges for basic commodities goods occurred. Soon after 900, Edward the Elder established tightly regulated markets, along the lines of European markets that survived the fall of the Roman Empire. Controlled by the Crown, local barons, or local monasteries, these markets, called ports or boroughs, were officially sanctioned locations for buying and selling goods. In addition, the laws of Edward the Elder required a market reeve or other trustworthy agent to witness the transaction. The function of the reeve or witness was not only to prevent theft, but also to help ensure an orderly transfer of property rights. Of course, such regulation provided a source of revenue from tolls on market goods. According to Masschaele (1997, pp. 60–61), the resources of the AngloSaxon rulers were not adequate to do much more than pass decrees that sales take place in recognized towns and markets. However, under the Norman kings, markets eventually were understood as areas of public jurisdiction, vested in the crown. With such royal protection these market towns flourished and their creation led the way for an urban expansion through England in the 11th and 12th centuries. The Domesday Book, compiled in 1086, providing the earliest evidence for many markets, records 60 markets, but the list is certainly incomplete.6 The number of small market towns or boroughs increased substantially in the 200 years following the Conquest. According to Britnell (1981, p. 209), over a thousand market towns were founded by 1349, with some of the charters issued for markets that already existed. In 1153, David I established a similar system of trading towns or boroughs in Scotland. Like the English market towns, the Scottish boroughs monopolized all trade within their assigned location. Masschaele (1997, pp. 59–61) elaborates on the legal framework of these markets. A market or fair could not be held without royal license; thus landlords set out to obtain royal charters granting their right to hold a market. Inherent in the grant of a market franchise were several fundamental rights, which included the right to jurisdiction over any disputes that arose in the course of a market day, the privilege of receiving tolls from those using the market, the right to punish offenders at the market with fines, and the right to a monopoly of sales transactions in the area surrounding the market.
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Early Inland and Rural Markets Little information is available for rural or inland trade before the 10th century; however, these may have been more important for understanding the traditions underpinning the use of the market cross. Unlike the coastal and urban market centers, these sites were likely trade centers for basic commodities, supplied by producers. However, Britnell (1993, pp. 6–7) notes that the nature of exchange was likely to be more complex than simply impersonal trade with basic commodities. The inhabitants in small towns and villages possessed a high degree of familiarity with one another. Britnell demonstrates this by citing several examples of records which list various villains, tenants, and millers with only one name. He also notes that a third of the population recorded in the Domesday of 1086 consisted of laborers, craftsmen, traders, as well as landless families and subtenants, who likely were highly dependent on the larger agrarian unit for employment. Thus, communities of small size with complex personal ties and responsibilities between members would unlikely lead to market relationships that are generally associated with impersonal relationships between strangers. The exchanges resulting in this environment likely ranged across different types, including reciprocal gift giving, barter, distribution between landlords and tenants, as well as some commercial exchanges between villagers and rural craftsmen. In contrast to the coastal trading centers, these had relatively little impersonal trade. A number of factors contributed to this high degree of familiarity among inhabitants of rural medieval England. Obviously, fewer options for transport resulted in a relatively stationary population. In addition, manors were largely self-contained units; thus strangers within rural areas were often something novel. Relatively large groups of unfamiliar people were rare and could be provocative. The intense familiarity within one region, with relatively little habitual contact with large numbers of strangers could breed distrust of those from a different territory. Perhaps the most important feature characterizing inland, rural trading centers was the lack of a central authority. Since manors were largely self-governing entities, no institution or official existed to safeguard against theft or arbitrate between parties from different regions. Without some central authority to check against theft or fraud and a mechanism to facilitate transfer of property rights, trade with valuables faced greater risk. Obviously, these risks are increased if greater mistrust exists between groups of different territories or manors. With little or no authority to settle disputes, such trading centers would be limited to low, perhaps negligible
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volumes of commercial activity. Further, such small volumes of trade would be unlikely to generate sufficient revenue through a toll or tax on trade to justify reeves or other officials. Sawyer (1986, pp. 65–71) argues that religious gatherings provided opportunities for trade in inland, rural areas. Such religious assembles, including churches and sacred festivals, typically allowed relatively large groups, possibly from different regions, to gather peacefully. Gatherings at churches, which met regularly, would create a group of inhabitants that had familiarity with one another, or at least shared a common social identity with respect to the religion. Sawyer notes that many of the pre-existing markets, on which the later market towns were founded, had their origins in connection with Christian assemblies, such as church meetings on Sundays. Sawyer cites the evidence in the Domesday Book, and finds that the markets that were listed appeared to be associated with major churches or religious associations. Sunday trading was normal in pre-Conquest England, according to Sawyer, and continued despite some efforts to abolish it until the 13th century. Despite its offences to some, regular Sunday meetings helped facilitate trade in a number of ways. First, such gatherings would solve the problem of providing a sufficiently large number of potential buyers in a predominantly rural area to interest sellers with their goods. Second, these meetings would occur in a space and frequency so that participants would be familiar with one another, reducing the likelihood of cheating or theft. Third, the connection of the church likely reduced the potential for hostilities between parties, especially if participants in the market were members of the same church. Sawyer speculates that several of the earliest and most important churches where trade between producers occurred may have been pre-Christian or pagan sites. The lack of written evidence of pagan roots is not necessarily an important factor, he notes, since the churchmen who produced and preserved the earliest writings probably saw little value in preserving pagan history. Another indication of the possible pagan roots with later Christian sites, he argues, is the evidence available in Scandinavia, which he argues had a similar culture to pre-Roman Conquest Britain. Sawyer cites several towns that were the homes of notable churches in Denmark and Sweden that, based on their name, seems to have been originally a pagan holy site. For example, the name of the cathedral city of Lund is named after a small wood or grove, set apart as a holy place. Other church towns incorporated the pagan word for temple ‘vi’ into their name, such as two Episcopal cities in Denmark, Viborg and Odense, which in an earlier form means ‘‘Odin’s vi.’’ Sawyer also notes examples of Christian festivals in Sweden that also had pagan roots.
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Festivals, which met less frequently than weekly church gatherings and drew larger crowds from more diverse regions, created other possibilities for trade, as well as risks. The opportunity for mutual gain through exchange increases with the size of the gathering. But arguably, the infrequency and the relatively large number of participants drawn from across the region would tend to increase the uncertainty and hence potential volatility of trade during festivals. However, these gatherings were usually held at a sacred time of the year and perhaps a place such as a shrine or sacred burial place of a hero. The tension accompanying exchange among distant strangers may have been diffused by the religious nature of the practices or the location of the gathering that was venerated by the group of participants. One example of note is the September feast of St. Cutubert, a major regional event for Northumbria. All who attended the feast were supposed to fall under the protection of the saint seven days before and after the festival. Lughnasa, an important annual Celtic fair, was held in early August at the start of the harvest season. According to Binchy (1958, p. 124), these fairs in Ireland were typically held at ancient burial grounds and perhaps originally held funeral games for kings and heroes. He describes these gatherings as sites where the exchange of goods occurred, as well as games such as horseracing, various athletic competition, and tribunals for deciding quarrels between different parties. Some of these fairs evolved into cattle fairs in modern Ireland, as well as continue to provide opportunities with buying and selling handicrafts. Other sites for local inland markets were the neutral boundary between two territories. Cunningham (1890, p. 76), Gibbins (1897, p. 3) and Lord Avebury (1912, p. 260) argue that the practice of trading at such sites occurred in England before the 10th century, marking the boundary with an upright stone that was the predecessor of the market cross. The boundary stone presumably marked the boundary as a neutral area, facilitating trade between groups of the adjacent regions. However, there might have been religious practices and beliefs associated with these also. Boundary stones also facilitated some kinds of trade in ancient Greece, as we will discuss more in the following text. Thus religion may have played some role in the emergence of early markets, especially in rural areas where a central authority was absent. At church gatherings, religious festivals, and sacred sites, shared religious beliefs across different, potentially hostile groups, likely helped to create opportunities for peaceful exchange. Evidence exists to suggest that such occurrences existed at pre-Christian religious sites and festivals also. Such trade may have coexisted with gift exchange practices or possibly
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have been embedded in such rituals. Nevertheless, the volume of such trade, to say nothing about impersonal transactions, was probably insignificant compared to the coastal and more populous trading centers.
THE MARKET CROSS There are no documents that reveal the origin of the market cross. Nevertheless, in the 16th century, practically every town had a market cross (Everitt, 1976, p. 181), and it is probable that they were introduced much earlier. The claim by Gibbins and Cunningham, that the market cross may have descended from the boundary stones, appears reasonable, but there is no archeological literature to verify this. Nevertheless, at some point these pillar-like structures appeared in the early markets in England, perhaps in the expansion of market towns that occurred in the 11th and 12th centuries. The highly stylized, ornamental features of those that remain suggest some purpose beyond something purely utilitarian, such as marking a trading center. The historical events associated with these structures, such as royal proclamations and official punishments, suggest that they may have been embedded in a system of beliefs and traditions whose origin is lost. Nevertheless, the symbolic references of the market cross remain ambiguous. Although some contain symbolic references to royal authority, this does not appear to be ubiquitous. Local authorities were presumably given primary responsibility for the various cross design, given the range of diversity on the existing market crosses. Although there may be a connection with some religious beliefs, strong religious features are absent on most market crosses. Some have argued that the market cross was intended to have a Christianizing influence on the market place. For example, Hutcheson (1900) argues that the origins of the market cross likely stemmed from early Christians sanctifying districts by erecting the sign of their faith (Small, 1900, p. ii). A parallel explanation offered by Drummond (1860) that the tradition of making deals and oaths in the vicinity of churchyard crosses in early medieval times may have evolved into the use of the market cross as a center of market activity. These traditions may have developed in the early markets in the relatively safe vicinity of abbeys after the fall of Roman rule, noted earlier. Thomson and Urquhart (1998) suggest that routes which served the needs of pilgrims seeking wayside crosses for prayer and contemplation may have also provided sites for merchants for making oaths and transactions (p. 464). Thus the practice of the market cross being the center of market activity may have stemmed from these earlier Christian practices.
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However, as we have noted, there are few extant market crosses that exhibit strong Christian features. Some market crosses do resemble Christian crosses or exhibit Christian symbols, but these are not typical. Most market cross designs are predominantly secular, often adorned at its apex with the figure of a unicorn or winged horse.7 The overall structure of the market cross is that of a pillar or spire, not a cross.8 Hutcheson discusses the early Christian practice of inscribing the sign of the cross on existing pillar stones of pagan origin. This practice, he argues, presumably served the purpose of sanctifying a pagan monument and creating a Christian one. However, this raises the possibility that the market cross had pagan roots and that its use as a symbol is linked with pagan associations. Hutcheson also notes that some market crosses were erected in proximity to various clusters of standing stones or boulders, raising the possibility that the purposes of the two are linked. Thus the use of the market cross may be linked with similar structures erected for pagan purposes. For Hutcheson, this purpose was likely ceremonies for oathtaking. He cites a number of examples in the 13th and 14th centuries where ceremonies and oath-taking with nobles was conducted at such standing stones and other ancient stone monuments. He also adds the Old Testament Biblical examples where stone pillars were used in conjunction with oathtaking and bargain-making (Hutcheson, cited in Small, 1900, pp. ii–iii). Overall, explanations that the market cross is linked with Christian practices or traditions appear possible but not compelling. The likelihood that these pillar-like structures are remnants of pre-Christian or pagan is significant, but as we have noted, no explanation rooted in period documentation exists. However, pillar stones were used extensively in the pre-Christian world. Could beliefs and practices associated with such pillar stones have supported or facilitated early trade? Here we turn to the preChristian practices and symbolic references with these structures.
PRE-CHRISTIAN SYMBOLIC INTERPRETATIONS Pillar stones have been found throughout Britain, and we are unlikely to find a single, compelling explanation for these structures from prehistoric times. Jackson (1984) studied a class of stones erected by the Picts, a prehistoric people in Scotland. These stones, while not exactly pillars, are nevertheless tall stones with various drawings and symbols carved by the Picts. Through systematically analyzing the frequency and combination of various symbols, he has argued that that these stones were most likely used to proclaim
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kinship alliances through marriage between members of different lineages. The permanent nature of the stone, for the Picts, allowed it to serve as a permanent ‘‘witness’’ to an ‘‘eternal’’ alliance. This ‘‘witnessing’’ function of the pillar-stone may be important because, as noted earlier, the early market places were regulated to provide a reeve or other official whose capacity as a witness would facilitate the transfer of property. Perhaps a more important explanation of ancient pillar stones has to do with their connection with phallic worship, usually associated with rituals or practices intended to promote fertility in women or ensure an abundant harvest. Evidence of phallic worship in the form of pillar stones, sometimes resembling a male phallus, has been found throughout Britain, Europe, and Asia. Hanney (1915) provides a respectable list of surviving phallic columns found throughout Britain, similar to those found in India, Egypt, and Greece. According to Scott, Britain’s priests followed customs to erect pillars, as well as create heaps of stone on high places, in a similar way as the ‘‘pagan’’ and ‘‘idolatrous’’ Israelites did. Noting that reverence of pillar stones likely survived in Scotland as recently as the early 18th century, he also argues that many of the stone crosses found throughout Britain were originally pagan pillar-stones, the cross being sculptured on them with the coming of Christianity in an attempt to turn their pagan idols into Christian symbols (Scott, 1966, p. 186). For our purposes here, we must examine another ritual use of stone pillars, the boundary-stones, usually associated with the God Mercury or Hermes. Hermes (Mercury) is often associated with communication and messenger of the Gods, but he was also the God of boundaries, passages into hidden places, or neutral territory between tribes. Hence, he aided travelers, merchants, and the dead entering into the other world. As a messenger of the Gods, he was also the patron of orators and he invented the lyre. As aforementioned, Lord Avebury, as well as other historians, noted that upright, boundary stones marked neutral territories between nations. He argues that these territories, used by ‘‘merchants in order to exchange on neutral ground the products of their respective countries,’’ were the first markets. He also notes that these boundary-stones, by virtue of their connection with Mercury, were used to mark burial places, markers for engraved laws, proclamations, and historical events (Avebury, 1912, p. 260). Brown describes how stone heaps and columns, associated with Hermes, were used to create trade sanctuary in ancient Greece. Herms were typically boundary markers used on roads and borders and marked a place of communication between strangers. These stones would also be placed anywhere where strangers might habitually meet, such as the crossroads
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between villages, in the forest or some hilltop, or perhaps at the entrance of a house, where visitors would be received. These stone heaps arose as a religious and social institution to meet the occasional need of interacting with moving outside of the family or clan and interacting with strangers. Such conditions included trade with strangers within the community or procuring goods or raw materials from a neighboring community or farther. Magico-religious ceremonies to create sacred ground were used to facilitate such meetings for exchange. Such ceremonies fell under the domain of Hermes, the God of the boundary, roads, doors, and guide to hidden places (Brown, 1947, pp. 32–39). Stone heaps linked with Hermes were also used in conjunction with the practice of ‘‘silent trade,’’ a form of exchange where the parties never meet. The seller leaves the goods and price at a marked place, perhaps a stone heap at a boundary point, and the buyer takes the good and leave the price. The practice illustrates the transformative powers of Hermes, as well as his powers as an intermediary between strangers. In addition to stone heaps, square-cut blocks of stone, surmounted with the God Hermes’ head, marked places for chosen trade. Distrust between different clans was high in ancient Greece, thus trade was promoted by creating zones of safety. These ‘‘herms’’ were used to bestow gifts needed for travelers in hopes that they in turn would receive such items when needed. Hermes was a patron for travelers and guide for roads, doors, and strange places. Below, we consider an interpretation of the stone pillar found in Biblical passages that suggests, in addition to a witnessing function, a ‘‘Gate of Heaven’’ through which angels ascended from Earth to Heaven and back, perhaps not unlike Hermes guiding travelers through hidden places. Hermes appears to be symbolically linked with the male phallus, suggesting a connection with phallic worship (which we have noted to be prevalent in ancient Britain). Later representations of Hermes in classical times took the form of a square-cut block, containing an erect penis and surmounted with the god’s head. Thus Hermes, through being the God of the boundary stone and the intermediary between strangers, also became the God of trade and commerce. Altogether, the symbolism of the upright boundary stone suggests an association with both trade and fertility. There are other examples where pillar-like objects were used to create trade sanctuary. The German Irminsul were pillars venerated by the Saxons and were said to symbolize the connection between heaven and earth. Grimm (2003) cites from the 12th century Kaiserchronik a description of one irminsul that suggests a connection with Mercury: ‘‘Upon an irminsul
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stood an idol huge, him they called their merchant’’ (p. 116). This in turn suggests a similarity between the Irmin pillars and the Greek herm. Another similar example is cited by Thurnwald, who describes a religious ceremony among the Loango, in the West Coast of Africa, used to reduce the likelihood of violence in these potentially volatile situations. There, erections of various kinds were used to symbolize a ‘‘truce of God’’ to help create peace in the market. These included mounds fenced in with stakes, memorial posts, and structures of poles intertwined with fig tree branches (Thurnwald, 1932). Mircea Eliade’s work also highlights the symbolism of the pillar, as well as similar forms such as the tree of life, which has been used in a wide range of cultures. The interpretation he emphasizes is a bridge or link that represents a channel for communication between the higher, spiritual realms and the lower realms, including the earth and subterranean levels. According to Eliade, variants of this cosmology, where prayers to Gods could be sent via such channels of communication, are found in tribal or shamanic peoples in the regions of Eastern Europe, Asia, and Arctic North America. But he also argues that this symbol manifests in more developed cultures, such as Egypt, India, China, Greece, and Mesopotamia. Known in these regions as the world tree, celestial column, world axis, or world mountain, Eliade maintains they represent a means of communication between the earth and the higher regions where the Gods dwell. In some cases, the symbol of the world axis, or similar symbol, would be incorporated into a post or pillar that supported dwellings or a central stake in the center of the village. These poles would be regarded as sacred; offerings would be made to an altar at its base (Eliade, 1964, pp. 259–264). Of these various pillar-like symbols, Eliade does suggest additional themes associated with the World Tree. In addition to its function as a communication link between the earth and heavens, the World Tree also represents the ‘‘inexhaustible spring of cosmic life,’’ and is thus connected to notions of fecundity, fertility, and creation (ibid., p. 271). Thus, in addition to providing a link between man and the Gods, the World Tree is a reservoir for life that nurtures all beings. This interpretation is consistent with the beliefs linking the pillar with phallic worship that we have discussed earlier. The link with trade, however, appears rather weak in Eliade’s work. However, if we recall the nature of this ancient trade, conducted in the vicinity of a boundary stone, dealing primarily with animals and the harvest of crops, between producers and consumers (with few middlemen or merchants), we can see how trade of this sort is linked with fertility. Trade around the boundary stone helped allow one to receive the bounty of the land.
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The symbolic representation with a link with heaven may help explain the pillar’s use as a witnessing function, as perhaps used in the Pictish symbol stones explored by Jackson. As we have noted earlier, Hutcheson cites Old Testament Biblical examples to argue that stone pillars were used in oath-taking and bargain-making. In the book of Genesis, Jacob uses a stone pillar as a witness with his agreement with Laban (Genesis 31:44–52). In the book of Joshua, Joshua uses a stone pillar in conjunction with a tree as witness and God’s sanctuary. Stone pillars, however, do not appear to be used exclusively as a ‘‘witness’’ in the Bible. After a dream where he sees angels ascending and descending, Jacob makes a stone pillar to mark the ‘‘Gate of Heaven.’’ He then vows to tithe to God, perhaps with the pillar serving as witness (Genesis 18:11–22). In a later passage, Jacob sets up a pillar of stone to mark the place where God reveals to him that he is to father of the nation of Israel. These passages appear to suggest that the stone pillar is used to mark a place where the land is linked with the divine, a place where angels ascend and descend, or a place where one receives God’s message. Thus the nature of the stone’s link with the divine, representing a portal to heaven, may have contributed to its capacity to serve as some sort of ‘‘witness’’ before God. These Biblical references suggest functions that include a gateway or link to heaven as well as a means to witness before God. The two are inherently related, presumably, as the witness function depends on its use as a divine link, and the facility of the pillar to allow for the Divine to be witness appears to facilitate oath-taking and bargain-making between two strangers. This capacity for creating a divine witness may have also contributed to earlier traditions using a pillar for proclamations and ceremonies, in addition to its use as the center of the market.
DISCUSSION The prominence, placement, and regularity of the market cross in Britain’s early market towns suggest that it played some symbolic role. However, no documentation from the original builders exists to explain the origins of the practice. Nevertheless, the market cross appears to have emerged from earlier practices of creating a relatively stable place for trade. As I have noted, the lack of central authority in early rural markets left these trading centers without mechanisms to guard against theft and fraud, as well as a means to safeguard the transfer of rights. Naturally, trade between unfamiliar, perhaps hostile, parties would likely be difficult under these
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circumstances. Thus religious traditions may have played a mediating role and helped to facilitate the emergence of trading practices. The Christian links, such as church gatherings and seasonal festivals, appear to be following earlier traditions, at least in some cases. Similarly, Christian practices with market crosses probably were attempts to replace pre-existing customs with pillars. The original purpose or meaning behind the earliest construction of pillar stones, perhaps at boundaries, may well have been lost to the builders of the market towns in later centuries; perhaps their continued use from earlier traditions was sufficient to help foster stability and a sense of authority. As we have seen, there appears to be considerable evidence of earlier customs and religious beliefs from a range of cultures that supported pillar construction for purposes that are consistent with encouraging order and stability in a potentially chaotic, dangerous environment. Looking beyond Christian interpretations, a review reveals a number of symbolic interpretations for the stone pillar. These have included sexuality and fertility, a source of divine power, a means of communication between Heaven and Earth, and something that represents a link, junction, or portal between different domains. Some or perhaps all of these meanings apparently supported various customs and practices to promote fertility (for crop and offspring), ensure prayers are heard, help proclaim a law or authority, and create the means for the divine to be present and ‘‘witness’’ a pledge or kinship arrangements. Perhaps most important for our purposes, the pillar has been used in ancient Greece and perhaps other places to facilitate trade among strangers. Although we have uncovered several interpretations, the work of Eliade and others suggests that the pillar and its close cousin, the tree of life, manifested in various ways in many different ancient cultures. From this view, it is tempting to see these symbols and customs, not as belonging to disparate or disjoint beliefs, but distinct aspects representing divine power. Thus, the pillar can be seen as a source of cosmic energy that makes the land fertile as well as a means for allowing God (or a God such as Hermes) to witness and thus authenticate the transfer of property between strangers. The association of the pillar with divine power is consistent with all of these various uses. Most important here, a structure associated with a divine link and witness can be used to facilitate a sanctuary for trade in a potentially hazardous or chaotic environment. That is, a symbol or practice where participants from differing regions can agree represents a link between heaven and earth, through which the divine is made present and witness transactions, could conceivably be used to create a safe harbor for trading.
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Thus the pillar-like market cross in Britain is most likely derived from practices that associated the pillar with divine power. Although some of these practices had little to do with the emerging markets in Britain, others, such as the Herms used as boundary stones in ancient Greece, appear to have a similar application. Because of the overall coherence in meanings for the pillar used in a diverse range of magical or religious practices, the argument that the market cross belongs in this family of practices has great appeal. Of course, it is probable that market cross participants were unaware of the early symbolic meanings we have suggested. No documentation exists that suggests that participants of 10th century markets held such views with the market cross. Most likely, pillars were erected in the center of the market towns to follow earlier traditions such as the boundary stones, with perhaps little knowledge of the original beliefs. The path-dependent nature of traditions suggests that many will endure long beyond when the original reason or symbolic meaning is well understood. Even if the original reasons are forgotten, such rituals or symbolic structures endure because they eventually evoke a sense of stability, continuity, endurance, and a link with the past. These evoked feelings would presumably also promote stability and order in early markets. Thus market participants would not need to be aware of the original meanings for the market cross to have a beneficial influence on the market.
CONCLUSION The market towns in Britain were a critical phase in the evolution of markets. Early markets in the middle ages bore little resemblance to ubiquitous markets that have mingled itself with nearly every aspect of modern life. Rural markets in early Britain were isolated patches of a society where barter and gift exchange coexisted and a central authority rarely existed to ensure peaceful transfer of property. Here, strangers from distant towns or villages might create a more chaotic, hazardous condition. There are no records through which we can definitively show the symbolic meanings used at the market cross. But the use of pillar-like structures in ancient times suggests a tradition for creating a trade sanctuary or a ‘‘divine witness’’ that could facilitate the transfer of property and ensure a more peaceful trading environment. The expansion of market towns from the 10th to the 13th centuries likely increased the scale and use of markets from which the citizens were accustomed. A plausible use of the market cross
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during this transition was to preserve a tradition that had helped create stability in earlier periods. Markets evolved in Britain, ultimately with rules and regulations that helped foster the level of impersonal trade that was a prerequisite for the large scale of trade necessary for modern economies. The market cross survived, however, suggesting that practices and customs embedded in early religious beliefs played a role in the emergence of markets and more impersonal trade.
NOTES 1. The figure, showing the market cross of Crail, Scotland, is taken from Small (1900, Plate 10). 2. Hutcheson notes that counterfeit money was also common. Practices were established to bring money to the market cross where it could be examined and authenticated (Small, 1900, p. vi). 3. Fieldwork has been conducted to examine this in Italy (Banfield, 1958), Mexico (Foster, 1965), Vietnam (Paige, 1975), and Malaysia (Scott, 1978). 4. North (1991) also argues that the development of such markets enabled longdistance trade, which was crucial for developing the economies of scale necessary for modern economies. 5. See Grief (2006, p. 95). 6. See Sawyer (1981, p. 156). 7. Of 110 market crosses surveyed by Small, only 28 incorporate some cross-like symbol, and many of these are not clearly Christian. Some are in the style of a Celtic cross or use a foliate style. In other cases, the cross is not incorporated into the structure of the market cross, but is instead exhibited in less prominent way, such as a shield emblem or flag. 8. As noted previously, recent innovations have moved toward a gabled canopy, sometimes with no pillar present.
REFERENCES Avebury, R. H. L. (1912). The origin of civilization and the primitive condition of man. London: Longmans, Green and Co. Banfield, E. C. (1958). The moral basis of a backward society. Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Binchy, D. A. (1958). The fair of Tailtiu and the feast of Tara. E´riu, 18, 113–138. Britnell, R. H. (1981). The proliferation of markets in England, 1200–1349. Economic History Review, New Series, 34(2), 209–221. Britnell, R. H. (1993). The commercialisation of English society 1000–1500. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brown, N. (1947). Hermes the thief: The evolution of a myth. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press.
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Chambers, R. (1847). Traditions of Edinburgh. Edinburgh: W. & R. Chambers. Cunningham, W. (1890). The growth of English industry and commerce during the early and middle ages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Drummond, J. (1860). Notice of some stone crosses, with especial reference to the market crosses of Scotland. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries for Scotland, 4, 86–115. Eliade, M. (1964). Shamanism: Archaic techniques of ecstasy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Everitt, A. (1976). The market towns. In: P. Clark (Ed.), The early modern town (pp. 168–204). London: Longman Group Limited. Foster, G. M. (1965). Peasant society and the image of limited good. American Anthropologist, 67(2), 293–315. Gibbins, H. de. B. (1897). The industrial history of England (Fifth Edition, Revised). London: Methuen & Co. Grief, A. (2006). Institutions and the path to the modern economy: Lessons from medieval trade. New York: Cambridge University Press. Grimm, J. (2003). Teutonic mythology, part I. Whitefish, MT: Kessinger Publishing. Hanney, J. B. (1915). Symbolism in relation to religion. Port Washington, NY: Kennikat Press. Hodges, R. (1982). Dark age economics: The origins of towns and trade A.D. 600–1000. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Hutcheson, A. (1900). Introduction. In: J. W. Small (Ed.), Scottish market crosses (pp. i–xi). Stirling: E. Mackay. Jackson, A. (1984). The symbol of stones of Scotland. Elgin, UK: Orkney Press. Masschaele, J. (1997). Peasants, merchants, and markets: Inland trade in medieval England, 1150–1350. New York: St. Martin’s Press. North, D. (1991). Institutions. Journal of Economic Perspectives, 5(1), 97–112. Paige, J. (1975). Agrarian revolution: Social movements and export agriculture in the underdeveloped world. New York: Free Press. Sawyer, P. H. (1968). Anglo-Saxon charters: An annotated list and bibliography. Royal Historical Society, Guides and Handbooks 8. London. Sawyer, P. H. (1981). Fairs and markets in early medieval England. In: N. Skyum-Nielsen & N. Lund (Eds), Danish Medieval History New Currents (pp. 160–161). Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanu Press. Sawyer, P. H. (1986). Early fairs and markets in England and Scandinavia. In: B. L. Anderson & A. J. H. Latham (Eds), The market in history (pp. 64–71). London: Croom Helm. Scott, G. R. (1966). Phallic worship: A history of sex and sexual rites. London: Luxor Press. Scott, J. C. (1978). Weapons of the weak: Everyday forms of peasant resistance. New Haven: Yale University Press. Small, J. W. (1900). Scottish market crosses. Stirling: E Mackay. Thompson, L. J. (2004). The Scottish market cross: An historic burgh icon. History of Scotland, 4(6), 24–34. Thomson, L., & Urquhart, D. (1998). Scottish market crosses: Their spiritual and secular significance. In: J. M. Fladmark (Ed.), Search of heritage as pilgrim or tourist (pp. 461–472). Shaftesbury, UK: Donhead. Thurnwald, R. (1932). Economics in primitive communities. Oxford University Press.
PART III ECONOMIC ACTIVITY AND IDENTITY
SHIFTING TRANSACTIONAL IDENTITIES: BAZAAR-STYLE TRADE AND RISK MANAGEMENT IN THE PRESTIGE ECONOMY OF THE GABOR ROMA (ROMANIA) Pe´ter Berta ABSTRACT This chapter focuses on brokerage in the prestige economy of the Gabor Roma ethnic subgroup in Romania. It argues that the necessity of the brokers’ employment as well as their economic importance comes from the significant uncertainty characterising the prestige-object transactions, that is, these brokers are occasional entrepreneurs specialised in risk management. The theoretical purpose of the chapter is to demonstrate that brokers and goods mediated by them can be associated with more than one socially constructed transactional identity (cultural, political, economic, etc.) at the same time. It also aims to highlight the shifting nature of these identities – they are not constant and context-free
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 277–308 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030015
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qualities, but highly context-sensitive social constructions that can appear in various combinations.
INTRODUCTION Since the publication of Boissevain’s (1974) seminal monograph, anthropologists’ interest in the study of brokerage has increased. Brokers are most often classified in the literature on the basis of the identities attributed to the goods mediated by them, and by the character of symbolic and other boundaries that the goods pass through as they change owners. The best known and most frequently studied type of mediators are economic brokers (see Bierschenk, Chauveau, & Olivier de Sardan, 2002; Lewis & Mosse, 2006). Political brokers coordinate political conflict management as well as organise the flow of goods considered as having political significance (votes and political loyalties in exchange for state subsidies and commissions, for example – see Auyero, 1999; and Komito, 1992). Cultural brokers, however, mediate cultural representations: culturally specified types of knowledge and symbols of cultural identities (cf., Hagedorn, 1988; Richter, 1988; Szasz, 1994). In this latter category could be included, among others, anthropologists, museum curators and art dealers studying, displaying and commodifying cultural otherness (Steiner, 1994), or aboriginal health workers coordinating communication in inter-cultural encounters in Australia (Soong, 1983). It should be clear that brokers, and goods mediated by them as well, can be associated with different transactional identities (cultural, political, economic, etc.). This chapter analyses ideologies and practices related to brokerage in the prestige-object economy of the Gabor Roma living in Romania,1 with a special focus on the brokers’ roles as risk-managers.2 Its theoretical purpose is twofold. On the one hand, it demonstrates that brokers and goods can be associated with more than one socially constructed and attributed transactional identity at the same time (cultural, political, economic, etc.). On the other hand, it aims to highlight the shifting nature of these identities. As for this particular case, the chapter shows that the same brokers and goods are defined by the participants as political and economic in one group of transactions while they are interpreted as cultural and economic in other ones. It argues that the transactional identities of goods changing hands and their brokers are not fixed, stable and contextfree qualities, but highly context-sensitive social constructions that can appear in various combinations.
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BACKGROUND – THE ROMANIAN GABOR ROMA AND THIS STUDY According to the 2002 official census, Romania had a population of 21,680,974 people, with ethnic Romanians accounting for 89.5%. The largest ethnic minorities are Hungarians (6.6%) and various Roma ethnic subgroups, the members of which make up 2.5% of the population. By the official census 535,140 Roma live in Romania. (According to the unofficial estimations of various non-governmental organisations, however, their number is between 1,800,000 and 2,500,000.) Other ethnic groups (Ukrainians, Germans, Turks, etc.), account for the remaining 1.4% of the population. The official language is Romanian, which is spoken as a mother tongue by 91% of the population, with Hungarian and different dialects of Romani language (cf., Szalai, 2006) being the most important minority languages, spoken by 6.7% and 1.1% of the population, respectively. The Romani-speaking ethnic subgroup known as ‘the Gabors’ or Gabor Roma (Fig. 1) is one of the many ethnic subgroups of Roma living in Transylvania, a historical region in the central part of Romania. According to the estimation of Gardner and Gardner (2008, p. 155), there are approximately 14,000 Roma in Romania who would identify themselves as
Fig. 1.
A Group of Mourning Gabor Men. Photo by Pe´ter Berta (2001).
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County Map of Romania Showing the Region of Transylvania (in Grey).
Gabor. As for the current regional distribution, the largest Gabor Roma communities are located in Mures- County, but Gabor families can be found in great numbers in such cities as Oradea, Cluj Napoca, Satu Mare, Bras- ov and Timis- oara as well (Fig. 2). The overwhelming majority of these Roma now live in Romania, although after the political transformation of 1989 a few families settled in Hungary, where some have received citizenship. Most of the Gabor Roma belongs to the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. Today, the most common source of income among them is intermediary trade. The majority of Gabor Roma merchants trade in second-hand clothing and shoes, precious metals, antiques, dish sets, carpets, curtains and so on, especially in Romania and in Hungary. Following the end of the third Balkan war (2001), Serbia, Slovenia and Croatia also became favourite destinations for traders. A segment of merchants makes money on peddling, whereas others sell their commodities at urban second-hand markets, or import second-hand clothes and shoes in bulk from Western Europe, which they resell to retailers. The customers of Gabor traders include both Roma and non-Roma (Romanians, Hungarians and others). The relatively high income from trading enables many Gabor families to live at a higher
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standard of living than most of their non-Roma neighbours living in Transylvanian rural settlements. Partly due to the rise in economic and social status they have realised in the past two decades, the Romanian and Hungarian media often reports on the Gabors, representing them as an exemplary case in contrast to other Romanian Roma subgroups who live in worse economic circumstances. In accordance with this rise in status, the Gabors have increasingly come to define themselves as the ‘aristocracy’ of the Transylvanian Roma. In the anthropological literature on Roma, the dominant point of view is that their social and economic relations are grounded in an ideology of egalitarianism and the ethics of sharing (see Stewart, 1997, pp. 51, 56, 57; Stewart, 1998, pp. 28, 34; Blasco, 1999, pp. 84, 136). In reality, however, for the Gabor Roma the ethics of sharing and the politics of difference are equally significant organising principles – the former and the latter principles mutually complement, explain and shape one another. These Roma do employ ideologies and practices of social differentiation, often constructing hierarchies within their communities, but not only along the lines of (former) occupational groups. Hierarchy also plays an important role in the shaping of the relations between genders, age-groups and patrigroups as well as in the evaluation of social status and success. In consequence, the Gabors can be characterised as having a high level of status awareness and sensitivity, and they consider expertise in morally accepted techniques for constructing and manipulating differences between individuals, patrigroups, and local communities, as a highly valued competence. I rely here on the experience of 21 months of anthropological field research carried out at different times between 1998 and 2009 in several communities of the Gabor Roma and also on close interactions with some Ca˘rhar Roma3 participating as brokers, creditors or buyers in prestigeobject transactions realised between Gabor and Ca˘rhar Roma men. I spent the larger part of my time in the Gabor communities of a three-settlement micro-region in Mures- County. The ‘centre’ of this area, where my most detailed information comes from, is a Gabor community of approximately 800 Romani-speaking people. The Roma often refer to it metaphorically as the Baro gav ‘Big Village’ or the Cˇentro ‘Centre,’ to express its exceptional social and political significance within their ethnic subgroup. I have also got to know, and maintained contact with, a number of Gabor Roma families living in other settlements surrounding this micro-region, in the nearby county seat (Taˆrgu Mures- ), in more distant larger towns of Romania (Cluj Napoca, Oradea, Satu Mare, etc.) as well as in Hungary.
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PRESTIGE ECONOMY AND BROKERAGE AMONG THE GABOR ROMA The prestige economy under discussion is one of the most important symbolic arenas of the politics of difference among the Gabor Roma. It includes two groups of silver objects defined as prestige goods: beakers (taxtaj in Romani – Fig. 3) on the one hand, and tankards (kana in Romani – Fig. 4) on the other. As the possession of the more valuable pieces can be a source of significant renown and social prestige, their owners try to retain them as long as possible and to bequeath them to their sons. Beakers and tankards are interpreted by these Roma as symbols of economic prosperity as well as ethnic and – if they are passed on from father to son – patrigroup identity and imbued with political meaning and significance. All of these objects have been produced by non-Roma (mainly Transylvanian Saxon and Hungarian) silversmiths, primarily in the 17th and 18th centuries.4 At the very beginning of their social careers, before
Fig. 3.
A Valuable Stemmed Beaker (taxtaj kusˇ tikasa). Photo by Pe´ter Berta (2006).
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A Valuable Gabor Tankard (kana). Photo by Pe´ter Berta (2009).
reaching the Gabors, they were in the possession of Transylvanian non-Roma aristocrats, burghers and congregations of the Calvinist Church (see Berta, 2009). For a beaker or tankard coming from non-Roma to become a prestige item among the Gabors, four criteria have to be fulfilled. The piece (1) must be made out of silver and (2) it must not have been recently produced. (3) As for shape, even if a silver object meets the above requirements, it is not automatically regarded as a prospective prestige item. Although the Gabors’ concept of kana refers exclusively to roofed tankards, the term taxtaj refers only to a few formal subtypes of beakers, among which the trumpet-shaped footed beakers (taxtaj kusˇtikasa) are valued the highest. In other words, there is a value hierarchy among beaker forms. (4) In addition, there is a symbolic prerequisite stating that after an object’s arrival among the Gabor Roma, it should ‘pass through the hands’ of at least two or three Gabor Roma owners, thus developing a genealogy consisting of them – an ethnicised social career of its own.
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The Gabors hardly take any interest in the non-Roma period of the transcultural biography of their beakers or tankards. When they compare the value or negotiate the price of prestige objects changing hands among them, they exclusively take account of the former Gabor owners. Their group – or more exactly, the social prestige attributed to them – constitutes the ethnicised symbolic-mnemonic patina, that is, the genealogy of a prestige object, and this is one of the most important qualities ‘paid for’ by the buyers during the transactions realised among the Gabor Roma. Of course, when estimating the value of a piece, they consider its material characteristics (material patina) as well. Until these objects pass the borders of their ethnic subgroup, they are regarded by the Gabors primarily as commodities, and the economic value attributed to them is hardly different from the purchase price paid for them on the antique market. The increase of value after an object becomes a Gabor prestige item is clearly represented by the conspicuous difference of price domains of the different (Gabor Roma and non-Roma) value regimes. Although the price of such items on the antique market usually does not surpass US$9,000–$11,000, after becoming Gabor prestige objects they change hands among the Gabor Roma for amounts several times higher. The price of the more valuable objects can even reach US$200,000– $400,000. The overwhelming majority of the transactions occur within the Gabors’ ethnic subgroup because only purchases of prestige items in circulation among them bring individual social prestige. The prestige economy under discussion is a non-centralised, informal, gendered and ethnicised segment of the Romanian economy. The Gabor prestige-object market is characterised by a lack of institutionalisation, and it cannot be linked to one or more regularly visited physical locations, as in the case of Moroccan bazaars (cf., Geertz, 1979), auction houses (cf., Geismar, 2001; Velthuis, 2005) or shopping centres (cf., Miller, Jackson, Thrift, Holbrook, & Rowlands, 1998). This is an ‘invisible’ market or, in other words, a market without a marketplace. The Gabor Roma gains their knowledge about the current relations of supply and demand as well as the material properties and cultural biographies of prestige objects from their everyday conversations with each other. From the individual’s point of view, the majority of the economic roles related to this type of market (broker, seller and buyer) are rarely and irregularly fulfilled, and only for a very short time. It is rare, for example, for a man to sell or buy three or more valuable prestige items during his lifetime. These objects mostly change hands for cash (usually for US dollars or euro), but occasionally the seller asks for another lower value piece
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instead of a part of the purchase price. The Gabors’ prestige economy can be defined as a subculture of collectors that is very similar to that of art collectors specialised in certain types of art objects (cf., Satov, 1997; Steiner, 1994). However, in the case of the Gabors we find absolutely no means of public, visual representation such as catalogues, public exhibitions or art shops. As I have pointed out elsewhere (Berta, 2007) the prestige economy in question is an ethnicised phenomenon. During the transactions made among them, the Gabor Roma purchase for themselves symbolic goods inseparable from their own ethnic ‘pantheon’ or history as well as identity (the social fame of the previous Gabor owners, etc.). Because the validity of the value agreements concerning the material and symbolic properties of these objects coincide with the boundary of the Gabors’ ethnic subgroup, both the participant framework (ideal sellers, buyers and audience) and the prestige coming from this economy can be labelled as ethnicised. Only the Gabor Roma are willing to pay for the renown of the former Gabor owners, and only they reward with social acknowledgement the acquisition of an item with a ‘great name’ (baro anav in Romani). Consequently, participants in this prestige economy are almost exclusively Gabor Roma. As for non-Gabor Roma participation, some members of the Ca˘rhar Roma subgroup, who have a similar prestige-object economy, occasionally become involved as marginal participants. In addition, some antique dealers also participate in the Gabors’ prestige economy from time to time. The majority of the Transylvanian Romanians and Hungarians, however, apart from a few anthropologists and some non-Roma living in the immediate vicinity of the Gabors, have no knowledge of it at all. My knowledge of this economy is based on (a) the observation of numerous prestige objects, (b) drawings and verbal descriptions of some pieces by Gabor Roma, (c) regular participation (mostly as a listener) in topic-related Romani discourses, (d) detailed analysis of prestige-object transactions, (e) and the documentation and interpretation of the (trans)cultural biographies of the more valuable pieces found today in this Roma ethnic subgroup. From examining the Gabors’ oral history and the cultural biographies of their prestige objects we can say that this economy is not a result of the Gabors’ significant rise in economic status around the Romanian political transformation of 1989, but a phenomenon which can be traced back at least to the middle of the 19th century. Today there are numerous beakers and tankards in the possession of the Transylvanian Gabor Roma; in ‘Big Village’, where I spent the better part of my time during fieldwork, there are more than three dozen of them. These objects can be found only where the
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political ambition and the economic resources needed to purchase and possess them are sufficiently available. Among these resources, the two most important are wealth (money), and the option of inheritance of a prestige item.5 For this reason, only a small group of men participate in the prestige economy as owners. The broker participating in the trade of silver beakers and tankards (cenzar in Romani – Fig. 5) is an entrepreneur who receives a success fee from his client and often also from the person with whom his client makes a deal. A transaction coordinated by a broker can take place either between Gabor men only (an intra-ethnic transaction), or between a Gabor man and a member of the Ca˘rhar Roma ethnic subgroup (an inter-ethnic transaction).6 A client might employ more than one broker at the same time for the arrangement of the transaction or for the fulfilment of a part-task. This is especially so with the sale of more valuable objects. In such cases, several Gabor Roma men with varying experience in brokerage might visit the seller and the potential buyers and offer them their expertise and patronage. As brokers participating in the trade of valuable pieces can expect significant success fees, intense competition for a commission often emerges between potential brokers. Prestige-object transactions also usually involve the mobilisation of the social network of a seller or buyer, especially brothers
Fig. 5.
Gabor Couples. The Man on the Left (d. 2004) was One of the Most Renowned Gabor Brokers. Photo by Pe´ter Berta (2001).
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and co-parents-in-law (parents of their children’s spouses) with whom they have good relations. Members of such networks often offer their support and services, without any promises of monetary payment – at least not on the surface. Broker tasks are thus often provided not by one single person, but by a small group of men, the composition of which can change even in the course of the same transaction. Such groups can include both (monetary) profit-oriented brokers and supporters who consider their participation primarily as a moral obligation. In some cases a broker will himself bring in helpers by mobilising his sons or brothers. As has already been made clear, prestige-object brokerage is both a gendered and an ethnicised practice among the Gabors. It is associated with and directed exclusively by men; only they can become the owners or heirs of beakers or tankards, and only they can participate as brokers in the deals. (Widows whose sons are too young to take possession of the prestige items inherited from their fathers can also become temporary owners of these objects.) The ethnic character of prestige-item brokerage is clearly demonstrated by the fact that only Gabor Roma brokers participate in the organisation of ‘Gabor seller – Gabor buyer’ transactions. Inter-ethnic deals, however, are a different case. If a Gabor seller decides to sell a prestige object among the Ca˘rhar Roma, he can either visit the Ca˘rhar men considered by him as potential buyers, or any of the Ca˘rhar brokers known to him. If he does not know whom to contact among the Ca˘rhars, he will probably pay a commission to a Gabor broker who has some knowledge of the Ca˘rhar Roma, lived for a longer time in the Romanian regions inhabited by them, or had already participated in inter-ethnic transactions. The employment of non-Roma brokers in transactions between Gabors or between the Gabors and the Ca˘rhars is out of the question; they do not possess most of the competence (see below) necessary for successful brokerage. The presence of a broker is not an indispensable condition for a transaction. If the deal takes place between persons who are closely related and have harmonious relations with each other, or if both the seller and buyer are influential men and experienced brokers themselves, they often arrange the transaction without commissioned mediators.
SOURCES OF UNCERTAINTY IN PRESTIGE-OBJECT TRANSACTIONS Why is a broker employed in several of these transactions? It is due to the considerable uncertainty surrounding them. This uncertainty may stem from
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the following factors: (1) difficulty in quantifying an object’s monetary value, (2) difficulty with the verification of an object’s nominal authenticity,7 (3) scarcity of reliable information on supply and demand in the Gabor or Ca˘rhar Roma prestige-object market and (4) the relative lack of persuasive ability. Because of the high level of uncertainty, both the economic importance of price bargaining and brokers managing it are equally considerable. Support from an experienced broker can produce savings or profits measurable even in the tens of thousands of US dollars. It is often due only to the broker’s activity that a buyer or seller makes a deal with the broker’s commissioner from among the competing potential clients. Among the four reasons for the uncertainty aforementioned, the first two are especially deserving of detailed consideration.
Why is it Hard to Express an Object’s Value in Quantitative Terms? The expression of a prestige object’s value in quantitative terms (in money) is an indispensable part of each sale, but it is often not free from difficulties. Certain characteristics of the value discourse surrounding these objects, and the items’ singularity, make prediction of the final purchase price, and even the estimation of an appropriate price, problematic. Dominance of the Discourse of Qualitative Value When determining the value and price of their beakers and tankards, the Gabors take into consideration two factors: their symbolic-mnemonic and material patina. The value of material properties is estimated on the basis of a prestige-object aesthetics comprising value agreements concerning shape, capacity, ornamentation, etc. As for the latter, ruler portraits, horses and mythological or imaginary creatures (unicorns, griffins, etc.) are the most highly valued in contrast to, for example, floral motifs or domestic animals that are ranked lower. Expertise in this aesthetics is an ethnicised type of cultural capital: it is exclusively typical of the Gabor Roma. Value discourses focusing on prestige objects are characterised by the dominance of qualitative terms. When the Gabors speak about the properties of a prestige item, they do not apply any common unit of measurement that could make the qualitative value of one property comparable with that of another. That is, they usually do not express the value relations among the characteristics of an object in quantitative terms (in money). Therefore, the precise ways in which the various properties are
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related to one another cannot be quantitatively defined, and nor can exactly what proportion of the value or purchase price of a piece is due to a given characteristic. For example, the Gabors do not express in quantitative terms how much more valuable are the ruler portraits than the floral motifs, or what proportion of the value or purchase price of a given object is due to the symbolic-mnemonic or the material patina. The relative lack of quantitative terms is a characteristic feature of the prestige-object transactions as well. When the Gabors quantify the value of an item up for sale, they negotiate on one sum only, the allinclusive purchase price. This sum is not to be divided in parts either during the price bargaining or in later discussions evaluating the transaction or the purchase price. The expression in money of an object’s (qualitative) value usually happens when it is already obviously very near to getting sold or put in pawn.8 Apart from these situations, in the discourse on beakers and tankards we regularly find qualitative expressions of value like ‘more famous’, ‘world brand beaker’, ‘world champion beaker’ or value metaphors like ‘the father of beakers’ (a positive metaphor) or negative ones like tripidjili (a small punch used for tinsmith’s works) and konzerva (a can). The dominance of qualitative expressions of value is closely connected to the cultural definition of these objects. They serve primarily not as commodities to be sold but as prestige goods, whose ideal mode of existence – at least for the more valuable pieces – is inalienability. That is, the Gabors grant social prestige to an owner who can retain a valuable item as his property for a long time and bequeath it to a son. The ideal form of profit that buyers expect from beakers and tankards is the fame and prestige that comes from the maintenance of their inalienability and from the symbolic-mnemonic and material patina attached to them. Gabor men buy prestige objects not to resell them in the shortest time to the person who makes the best offer, that is, not for obtaining the greatest possible profit expressed in money. The more valuable objects are sold only in time of economic crisis. The Relative Lack of Standardisation of Object Properties: Singularisation As explained earlier, there are three material preconditions that must be met for a silver object to be seen as a prestige item among the Gabors. These are related to material, age and form. Beakers and tankards, however, possess a large number of other material properties that affect their value. As for the beakers, some of them have hardly any decoration whereas others have several highly appreciated decorative elements. A volume of approximately
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1 l is regarded as the most sought-after, but many beakers are smaller and a few are much larger. (According to my knowledge, the volume capacity of the largest Gabor beaker was approximately three and a half litres.) Several decorations (such as certain inscriptions, portraits, representations of animals or copies of ancient coins) occur only on one particular beaker, and although some decorative elements are similar, no two prestige objects are exactly alike – all of them are unique handicrafts. This is also true of the items’ ethnicised genealogies (the series of their former Gabor owners) as well. These objects are thus highly singularised concerning both their material and symbolic properties: every beaker and tankard can be characterised by a proper name constructed by the Gabor Roma, a unique composition of material attributes, an individual series of Gabor owners and a singular cultural biography. This singularisation makes impossible the mere substitution of any object for another and makes difficult the comparison of two or more pieces or the value attributed to them. Singularity, however, is a peculiarity of not only the objects themselves but of each transaction as well. Each deal is a unique ‘microcosm’, characterised by a continuously changing, individual composition of circumstances. This is the reason why we cannot find two perfectly identical purchase prices in sales transactions – even the purchase prices are singularised. This threefold singularisation is clear to the Gabors themselves. This is why, when expressing the value of a beaker or tankard up for sale in quantitative terms, they do not regard its earlier purchase prices or those amounts paid for other prestige objects by Gabors as significant points of reference. That is, an object’s (qualitative) value is not primarily represented by and expressed in terms of its former purchase prices, even in such cases when a piece has gone through several hands in the recent past. The high level of singularity partly explains why the values attributed to the prestige objects are so varied, and why price dispersion is so significant. The lowest purchase price known to me (US$10,000) was paid for a fourdecilitre beaker that had just recently arrived among the Gabors and that was sold by its first Gabor Roma owner to the 19-year-old son of his elder brother in January 2005. The transaction was done with the approval, and under the supervision, of the elder brother, who was supportive only in the interest of brotherly relations. As the value of this beaker was unusually low among the Gabors, the buyer could expect no increase of prestige from the transaction at all. And, to the contrary, several rivals of his family mocked the deal. Because of this reason the elder brother tried to distance himself from it, asserting to the public that the beaker was bought exclusively by his
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son, and that he had not assisted financially during the transaction. The highest purchase price in the deals I documented (US$1,200,000) was paid in September 2009 by a wealthy and influential Gabor man for a highly appreciated beaker that had been in pawn for years. Difficulty in the quantification of (qualitative) value, however, does not explain why it is worth to employ a broker. Singularity and the dominance of qualitative expressions of value are factors that cannot be influenced by a broker any more than by his client. Why, then, is the employment of a broker remunerative? It is because the high level of uncertainty opens a large field for bargaining and manipulation, and the ability of different actors to protect their interests is quite varied: some are more successful than others at impression management (cf., Goffman, 1957) and convincing people. The main sources of this success are: (a) expertise in the workings of the prestige economy and professional reputation gained as a broker and (b) individual social status and influence. To clarify the relation between social status and persuasive ability during transactions, it is necessary to touch upon the cultural logic of value and price construction and also upon how these processes are embedded in the Gabors’ social relations. In the estimation and quantification of the value of their prestige objects the Gabor Roma rely only on the opinions of men belonging to their own ethnic subgroup, and they completely ignore value judgements of nonRoma. They do not even consider seeking the opinions of art historians or antique dealers, who determine the value and meaning of these items according to a different value regime. At least with respect to beakers and tankards, the Gabors constitute a relatively closed, ethnicised community of value. The processes of value estimation and price bargaining often can be characterised by prolonged negotiations, a strong need for social consensus, high level of subjectivity and intensive lobbying. An owner cannot effectively declare his own item valuable by himself and thereby define its place in the local or regional value hierarchy of prestige objects. His opinion can only become a widely accepted value statement if it is ratified/ authenticated by several other Gabor men as well. Individual ability to ratify/authenticate value, however, varies from person to person, and is deeply connected to social status and influence. During negotiations on a beaker or a tankard’s value, the Gabor men who can exert the greatest influence on public opinion are the ones who are often consulted for advice and support in the case of conflicts or collaborations (marriage alliances, economic transactions, etc.). These are widely respected and wealthy heads of families, and are mostly in their 50s and 60s. The level
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of influence that they can exert on beaker and tankard value discourse is reflected by the common expressions: that they are able to ‘wash off or lift up a beaker with one single word’ or ‘to make gold of a can’. The brokers usually belong to this group of influential Gabor men. Sellers of low social status (‘weak masters’) are especially motivated to bring in a man who is not only an expert in the prestige economy but also a very influential person as well. Such sellers ‘cannot set prices alone’; they do not have the ability to effectively argue for the value of their items in the course of price bargaining. A more powerful buyer can often override a seller of lower social status by capitalising on his own social influence. He can easily symbolically devalue a beaker or a tankard that he wants to buy and then purchase it for a lower price than what would be reasonable. A less influential seller thus often employs a broker to avoid such an outcome and improve his bargaining position. He will hope that the broker has a significant effect on the quantification of his piece’s value and the price bargaining, and that he will be able to emphasise its valuable properties more convincingly than he could do himself, and thus will manage to induce the buyer to pay a higher price.
De-Materialisation of Objects and the Politics of Visibility Although sellers look to brokers to maximise a sale price, a prospective buyer often employs a broker because he is not sure that he can correctly identify the desired object on the basis of the inspection of its material qualities, and also because he fears that the seller might sell him a similar authentic prestige object, or an artificially aged copy. A certain broker is often chosen because he has already seen a particular object and thus can easily identify it. Problems with verification of nominal authenticity derive primarily from the special way of conspicuous consumption of these prestige goods. Indeed, Gabor beakers and tankards are generally not available for viewing and inspection. In contrast to non-Roma art collectors, the Gabor Roma do not publish catalogues with photos of their prestige objects or organise exhibitions for them, or even display them in their homes, where guests can see them at any time. Quite the opposite, they are kept in various hiding places. A frequent strategy is to entrust a piece to a non-Roma in the neighbourhood, on whose loyalty and secrecy the owner can count. The non-Roma keepers usually get small amounts of money and other gifts in return.
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Although beakers and tankards are a frequent topic of discourse among men, the objects themselves are only rarely made accessible to other Gabor Roma. Curious as it may seem, few of the Gabor men living in ‘Big Village’ have seen more than a tiny fraction of the prestige objects currently in the settlement. If a Gabor man wants to see another man’s beaker or tankard, the best way is usually to be hosted by him as a guest and then make a formal request. Requesting in this way is a socially marked practice. Such an initiative requires a careful evaluation of the circumstances on the part of the guest, as the formulation of the request, as well as its fulfilment or rejection, is often considered as an indirect representation of the status relations between those present and their patrigroups. The motivation lying behind such requests is usually curiosity about the material qualities of a beaker or tankard, stimulated to a great extent by its relative invisibility. Making a formal request to see a piece is easiest for an owner’s close male relatives (brothers, co-parents-in-law) and for highly respected, influential Gabor men – those considered by the owner as appreciated members of his social network. Political rivals, however, cannot access each other’s prestige items. The probability of a request’s fulfilment is also low if the status distance between the solicitor and the owner is very great to the advantage of the latter. The social meaning of the refusal in this case is that the guest is not one who can effectively influence either the value and fame of the host’s beaker or tankard or his social prestige and network. As a direct refusal would negatively influence on owners’ social face (cf., Goffman, 1967, p. 5) and reputation, they tend to employ indirect rejection strategies. The social marker of a prestige object’s value and social significance for the Gabors is not how many people have already seen it but rather how many important Gabor men speak about it among themselves, and how often they do so, or the amount of effort made by others to acquire it (or, if this is not possible, to induce the owner to sell it to someone else). The social life of these objects is related primarily to discourse: their fame and significance are represented by being spoken about rather than being gazed at. Since these Roma make their beakers and tankards almost completely invisible, that is, de-materialise them, the more valuable objects become subjects of political and economic secrecy that contributes greatly to the reproduction of the social interest in them. This strategy of object used might be defined as an invisible or discursive conspicuous consumption. It is partly due to the relative de-materialisation and limited visual access that we can speak about the politics of (in)visibility or representation concerning these objects and that the Gabors often commission brokers to verify the nominal authenticity of pieces.
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PRESTIGE OBJECT PURCHASING AS A BAZAAR-STYLE TRANSACTION: BROKERS AS RISK MANAGERS The nature of the knowledge about prestige items’ quantitative value and about their nominal authenticity is very similar to information possessed by customers in bazaars analysed by Geertz. According to Geertz (1978, p. 29; cf., 1979) in the bazaar information Is poor, scarce, maldistributed, inefficiently communicated, and intensely valued y The level of ignorance about everything from product quality and going prices to market possibilities and production costs is very high, and much of the way in which the bazaar functions can be interpreted as an attempt to reduce such ignorance for someone, increase it for someone, or defend someone against it.
For buyers it is often very difficult to know whether or not they can acquire something for a moderate (or for a ‘fair’) price. Because of this, the Search for information – laborious, uncertain, complex, and irregular – is the central experience of life in the bazaar y The main energies of the bazaari are directed toward combing the bazaar for usable signs, clues as to how particular matters at the immediate moment specifically stand y the most persistent concerns are with price and quality of goods. (Geertz, 1978, p. 30)
According to Appadurai (1986, p. 43) scarcity of information about the quality and value of commodities, and the considerable effort made for its collection, do not only characterise buyers in the Moroccan bazaar, but also some segments of modern industrial societies. Appadurai (ibid.) therefore argues for the necessity of a more general application of ‘the bazaar as an analytical category’: ‘bazaar-style information searches are likely to characterize any exchange setting where the quality and the appropriate valuation of goods are not standardized, though the reasons for the lack of standardization, for the volatility of prices, and for the unreliable quality of specific things of a certain type may vary enormously’. The ‘complex and culturally organized information mazes’ (ibid.) and the ‘bazaar-style information search’ (ibid.) that helps a buyer to find his or her way in them are also characterise the market of Oriental carpets and that for used cars in industrial societies (cf., Alexander, 1992, pp. 84–85; Fanselow, 1990; Geertz, 1978, p. 31; Rees, 1971, pp. 109–118). In Fanselow’s (1990, p. 251) interpretation, the uncertainty afflicting buyers in a bazaar is primarily due to the ‘information asymmetry’ between them and sellers. According to him, in the bazaar money has a special status as the most standardised and therefore most reliable commodity. It is the
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value of the money that is the most predictable, in contrast to all other commodities that ‘are unstandardised and therefore unpredictable and unreliable’, and whose ‘inspection is difficult, time-consuming and therefore costly’ (ibid.). The seller usually knows the value of the money better than the buyer knows the value and quality of the commodity he or she buys. Buyers, therefore, normally try to moderate their uncertainty – to manage risk – in two ways: (1) through an intensive information search or (2) through clientelisation – by establishing with some sellers a long-term business relation based on mutual confidence (cf., Geertz, 1978, 1979; Ichinosawa, 2007, p. 128). I argue that the prestige-object deals among the Gabors are similar to bazaar-style transactions in terms of the great amount of uncertainty, the volatility of prices, and the economic significance of price bargaining, for example. The potential sources of uncertainty in this case are the difficulty of value quantification and of the verification of the objects’ nominal authenticity, the scarcity of information on current supply and demand, and the relative lack of persuasive ability. In the prestige-object transactions, however, information asymmetry only exists regarding nominal authenticity and not regarding uncertainty in expressing value in quantitative terms that has to be faced both by the buyer and the seller. The Gabor Roma attempt risk management through the strategy of compulsory substitution (Kornai, 1993, p. 257) – by employing brokers who are experts in bazaar-style information searches and who also provide a number of other services in the course of the transactions. (Since beaker and tankard deals are relatively rare and irregular, there is hardly any possibility of establishing a regular business relationship between a buyer and seller. The Gabors thus cannot rely on advantages coming from clientelisation.) It is primarily due to the uncertainty surrounding prestige-object deals that the significance of price bargaining and the scope for action as well as the economic importance of brokers coordinating it, is remarkably large.
PRACTICING BROKERAGE The Broker as a Tout The potential buyer or seller often has only limited knowledge of the current supply and demand relations in the prestige-object market, and thus he would only be able to find an ideal person with which to do business alone through great efforts and plenty of luck. Therefore, he often sees a broker.
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He is short of knowledge concerning: (1) what beakers and tankards are up for sale in the Gabors’ ethnic subgroup, as well as their quality (in the case of a purchase) and (2) who has enough political ambition and money to buy a piece (in the case of a sale). The search for a potential buyer or seller sometimes only takes a phone call, and so it passes in some minutes or hours, but in many cases the broker must personally contact the potential clients who often live in different Transylvanian settlements. If he is repeatedly rejected, or if a client with whom he has been in advanced negotiations withdraws from the deal, the search can continue even for weeks or months or can even fall through.
The Broker as an Estimator After having mapped the supply and demand relations in the prestige-object market, a broker will inform his client about the persons who should be contacted for bargaining. If the client wants to buy, the broker needs to explain the quality and estimated value of the items up for sale and to give guidance on which ones are most worthy of consideration. If the client wants to sell an item, the broker has to give an estimation of this object’s value and information on any offers he has received that should be considered. The key questions are the same in both cases: (1) What is a reasonable price and what is an advantageous deal at the given moment? (2) Which concessions are worth being made during price bargaining? As aforementioned, a client often commissions a broker exactly because of uncertainty surrounding monetary value expression and a lack of clarity regarding the relationship between value and price. This type of compulsory substitution (Kornai, 1993, p. 257) helps a buyer to avoid buying a dilo taxtaj (a ‘crazy beaker’) – a relatively valueless piece – whereas paying a price significantly higher than what would be regarded as reasonable by most of the Gabors.
The Broker as a ‘Machine of Persuasion’ Prestige-object deals are often not free of competition. One reason for this is that the relation between supply and demand is rarely balanced. Several Gabor men might wind up competing to purchase one highly appreciated item, or more than one owner may put items up for sale at once, thus causing a temporary oversupply in the prestige-object market. A search
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for potential buyers or available objects, therefore, is not always enough for a successful transaction. The broker often also has to persuade the chosen client – not infrequently by prevailing over other brokers – to make a deal with his client and to refuse the offers coming from others. If those interested in a transaction have not yet decided to make a deal, the broker is expected to convince them of the significance of the transaction. Therefore, it often falls on him to convince the chosen potential buyer to really buy, or the potential seller to really sell, a beaker or tankard.
The Broker as an Expert on Nominal Authenticity As explained earlier, visual access to prestige items is highly restricted – it is not a rare thing for only a handful of men to have previously seen an object up for sale. If a potential buyer is not among that handful, he needs a broker who has already inspected the piece. The broker, in the course of the formal ‘request to see’ (an inevitable part of the transaction) can therefore verify with certainty whether or not the object presented is in fact the one the client wants to buy.
The Broker as a Price Bargaining Manager After the search for, and visitation of, potential buyers or sellers, the broker starts negotiations with the person from whom he received the best offer. He may employ several discursive tactics to manipulate this offer. The willingness of a buyer to spend can be increased by a convincing depiction of the positive qualities of the object. The broker may for example dwell on the social significance of its former Gabor Roma owners, the renown they provided the object with, or its valuable material properties. He can also refer to the current market situation, arguing that there is no more important piece available, and point out that others may set their eyes on it if the potential buyer waits too long, or remind him of the fact that he might wind up spending the money he set aside for purchasing a prestige object on something else if he does not act quickly. On the contrary, it is generally easier for a broker to whittle down a seller’s minimum price than it is to convince a buyer to spend more. As the Gabors usually part with their more valuable beakers and tankards only when facing a serious economic crisis, most sellers are actually limited in their flexibility during bargaining. In contrast to a potential buyer, who normally can decide to postpone a
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purchase, the seller usually needs to find a buyer within a reasonable time. After discussing the final price with the potential buyer or seller, the broker negotiates separately with both parties to reduce to the least degree possible the difference between the two amounts. If this difference is relatively small, he organises a meeting for the parties, and by emphasising the advantages of the imminent deal as well as the ‘insignificance’ of the price difference, he tries to convince them to divide this difference by half (or by any other fair proportion) and fix a price.
The Broker as an Eyewitness Usually, at the time of actual exchange, not only are the contracting parties present but also a second group – that of the witnesses, including the brokers themselves as well as other men who are mostly consanguineous and affinal relatives of the parties. The significance of their presence becomes obvious when one considers the potential for conflicts that may arise later if one of the parties accuses the other of violating the terms of the agreement (which are often verbal contracts). The witnesses also supervise the handover and testify that the amount of money agreed on has in fact been received by the seller. They are also important sources of information – they will later describe in detail the content of the agreement and the circumstances of the transaction to people who could not see the deal take place. The broker, of course, has the most detailed information on the transaction and is the most important witness – called upon first in case of need.
The Broker as a Manager of Renown The job of a buyer’s broker does not end with the close of a deal. In the terms of the Gabor Roma’s business ethics he is morally obliged to spread the news of the transaction and to increase the reputation of the buyer and his newly bought prestige object in the course of the subsequent social gatherings. He also has a vested interest in making the news of the deal as public as possible, for each successful transaction serves as proof of his expertise. The remarkable deals connected with his name are symbolic trophies that are useful for building confidence: they enhance his popularity, thus bringing him more commissions.
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Successful Gabor brokers are characterised by several traits, which can be summed up by dividing them into the following three categories. (1) Business ethics, experience and reputation. The higher the likelihood that a broker will respect an agreement with a client, and the greater the fame of the deals in which he has participated in the past, the higher his popularity will be. (2) Ethnicised types of knowledge. Successful brokerage would be impossible without the acquisition of the following ethnicised types of cultural capital, typical of the Gabors (and a small handful of non-Roma antique dealers and interested social scientists who have been in contact with them for a long time): – An exhaustive knowledge of the Gabors’ prestige-object aesthetics and the related value agreements. Without this, the broker would be unable to estimate the value of objects’ material qualities and to compare two prestige items with each other. However, the social distribution of this knowledge is not uniform: even some of those ambitious Gabor men preparing to buy a beaker or tankard possess only fragments of it. – Knowledge of the Gabors’ ethnic pantheon and history as well as the cultural biographies of objects up for sale. The broker must have detailed knowledge, for example, on the previous Gabor owners of an item for sale, and especially on their personal qualities that can enhance the value of the piece. As the buyer primarily pays for the former Gabor possessors’ social prestige, that is, for the ethnicised symbolicmnemonic patina, without the aforementioned types of knowledge the broker would not be able to estimate an item’s value authentically or to manipulate it and to represent the interests of his client. – A detailed knowledge of the important events and trends in the Gabors’ prestige-item market. A successful broker needs to have up-to-date information on the shifts in supply and demand relations (who possesses enough money and political ambition for a purchase, who will be forced to sell an item in the near future, etc.) and on major conflicts and rivalries centring on various prestige objects and deals. – Very broad intra- and inter-ethnic connections. (3) Rhetorical Abilities and Experience. Finally, the broker has to possess the rhetorical skills and experience sufficient for persuading potential buyers and sellers, and also for reading their intentions. It is clear why, then, in contrast to the socialist horse fairs analysed by Stewart (1992, 1997), that no non-Roma can act as a broker in a prestigeobject deal among Gabor Roma men – due to the ethnic character of their
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prestige economy and to the competencies essential for successful participation in it. The following transaction between two Gabor men serves as a good illustration of most of the brokers’ roles aforementioned. In the course of this deal, which took place in December 2000, a richly gilded trumpetshaped footed silver beaker with a capacity of seven decilitres changed owners. (All parties mentioned here are represented by pseudonyms.) This piece was decorated with a series of elaborated floral motifs, the richness of which was characterised by one Gabor Roma man in the following way: the surface of this object ‘is so richly decorated that there is no place on it where one could put down a needle’. (That is, there is no unadorned part of the surface that is larger than a needle.) The Gabor Roma cultural biography of this beaker, as it is known today, goes back to the early 1930s. In the following decades it was owned by eight Gabor possessors. The object’s ethnicised symbolic patina, that is, its social value and fame arising from its Gabor social career, is mostly due to its second and fourth owners. The second possessor, who lived in Mures- County and purchased this beaker in the early 1940s was considered to be one of the wealthiest men of that period among the Gabors. At his death in 1950 he left behind five beakers and a tankard to his sons, but his widow (the third owner) soon had to sell them. (Four of these beakers and the tankard are still in the ownership of Gabor men.) The fourth owner, whose wealth and social prestige has also contributed to a great extent to the value and reputation of this beaker, was an influential head of a family in Cluj Napoca who bought it for 105,000 Romanian lei9 from the second owner’s widow in 1961. Before his death in the mid-1970s, he left it to his eldest son (the fifth owner) who then sold it to ‘Janko’ living in Cluj Napoca (the sixth owner, who participated in the following transaction as the seller) for 1,700,000 Romanian lei in 1982.10 In the following 18 years Janko enjoyed the ownership of the beaker in question, but in the late 1990s he was imprisoned for a while. During this period, due to the remittances of cash sent to him as well as to loans taken on because of the loss of his earnings, his family accumulated a remarkable debt of more than 60,000 German marks.11 Owing to the impatience of his creditors, soon after his release in November 2000 Janko made a phone call to ‘Rupi’ – one of the most influential Gabor men, with significant experience in brokerage (see Fig. 5). Janko invited him to his home because he wanted to employ him as a broker. Rupi, who also had a silver beaker bequeathed by his father, did not acquired his wealth as a trader or a building contractor as the majority of
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Gabor men usually do, but as a manager of social and economic relations within his own ethnic subgroup. He was regarded as one of the number of powerful men who are ‘both feared and respected’ in several Gabor communities. That is, he was seen as a man who, in the course of conflict management, would not shrink back from threats of physical violence, but apart from this he was very committed to the social ethics governing relationships among Roma, and put great emphasis on constructing and maintaining his public image and reputation. A remarkable part of Rupi’s income came from the following sources: (a) success fees received for his participation in the organisation of marital alliances as well as for his activity as a prestige-item broker; (b) bridegroom-prices and other cash gifts received in the course of marrying off his own grandchildren12 and (c) investing these sums in lending money for interest. Rupi thus hurried, together with his two sons, to Janko’s Cluj Napoca home, expecting to acquire a significant success fee from the deal. Having accepted the commission, Rupi made a formal request to see Janko’s beaker to check its nominal authenticity, that is, to verify that it was truly identical with the piece known by the Gabor Roma as Janko’s beaker. (The broker as an expert on nominal authenticity.) Then he inquired about the amount of Janko’s debt as well as the price he expected to receive for his item, and Rupi himself estimated its value. (The broker as an estimator.) Finally, they agreed on the amount of the success fee due to the broker: 20,000 German marks (US$9,063). In the terms of their agreement, this amount was independent of the final purchase price. Rupi then visited some of his Gabor acquaintances in Mures- County whom he suspected of having enough money saved up and the political ambition necessary to buy this beaker, to find out if they were interested in the transaction. (The broker as a tout.) However, although the beaker on sale was regarded as one of the 10 most valuable Gabor prestige items, none of the men visited wanted to participate in the deal. The reason was obvious: none of them dared to do business with a seller who had dubious business reliability and bad moral reputation. Most of them feared that Janko would later require of the buyer additional sums over the purchase price and that he would not shrink back even from conflict to achieve his aim. (According to my Gabor Roma informants, before the change of political regime in 1989 Janko had partly acquired his wealth by capitalising on his connections with some police officers living in Cluj Napoca. They allegedly had other Gabor men imprisoned on baseless charges before Janko offered them his help in return for significant ‘success fees’ and had them released.) One of the reasons why Janko commissioned a widely respected, influential broker
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was because he had correctly presumed that a number of Roma will be unwilling to do business directly with him. The broker’s presence thus also served to reduce distrust stemming from Janko’s bad reputation and was interpreted as a guarantee of the deal’s fairness. After some unsuccessful visits, Rupi went to see one of his acquaintances living in Turda (Cluj County) – ‘Mate’ – whom he had not mentioned to anyone before. Mate was a member of a patrigroup of lower prestige and had no beaker yet. He acquired his wealth after the change of political regimes in 1989, mostly through commissions received from state-owned construction companies, and had made some efforts to convert it into personal fame in Gabor symbolic arenas of politics of difference, such as the prestige-item economy or competition for marital alliances established with Gabor men of high social status. Like most Roma, Mate regarded these symbolic arenas as effective vehicles for status-raising. As he was very eager to buy a good beaker, he was willing to risk potential conflicts with the seller in the future. One Roma man remarked, ‘No other Gabor man dared buy that beaker, because then he would have been pressured to give more money every year – ‘You have bought my beaker, so now give me this-and-this much!’ – but this one, being a dangerous man himself, dared to buy it’. Thus, Mate did not need much persuasion to participate in the transaction. The broker described to him the value and social significance of the beaker in the following manner: ‘It is a valid and famous beaker, you can buy it! (y) This is a richly decorated and gilded footed beaker, a very valuable piece! It has great fame, because it belonged to the great Pista [the second owner] who lived in the village of Harco. So you don’t have to be afraid to spend your money on it. (y) It is a beaker that will bring great fame to you. You can mention it and boast with it everywhere among the Gabor Roma!’ (The broker as a ‘machine of persuasion’.) Mate, who was not experienced in estimating the value of prestige items, put all his confidence in the broker. To quote Mate: ‘I will pay as much as you say for it, Rupi, if you say it is valuable and worth being purchased, then I will buy it!’ Finally, Mate promised to Rupi 20,000 German marks (US$9,063) as success fee if he ‘would stand on his side’ and help him to purchase the beaker at a reasonable price. Thus, in this case, the broker offered his services to both participants, undertaking the representation of their respective interests, and agreed with both of them on a fee to be paid after a successful transaction. (The exact sums, and the fact that he also accepted the commission of the future buyer, were kept secret by him.) This strategy is much more profitable than only accepting the commission of the seller or of the buyer, as in this way the broker receives money from two sources.
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After Rupi negotiated separately with both interested parties, he organised a meeting for them in Janko’s Cluj Napoca home. Here, after some brief bargaining, they agreed on a purchase price of 300,000 German marks.13 (The broker as a price bargaining manager.) However, Mate did not have enough cash at his disposal, so he borrowed more than 100,000 German marks (US$45,318), and this was how he succeeded in paying the purchase price in the presence of the broker and his sons as well as some close family members of both parties. (The broker as an eyewitness.) The fact that in spring of 2006 Mate (the seventh owner) was forced to sell this beaker bought in December 2000 was partly due to the large sums borrowed, as he was unable to pay them back. At this time the beaker was purchased by a 36-year old, wealthy Gabor man living in Cluj Napoca (the eighth owner) for US$400,000.
CONCLUSIONS: SHIFTING TRANSACTIONAL IDENTITIES In the introduction I argued, (a) that brokers and goods mediated by them can be associated with more than one transactional identity at the same time and (b) that these identities are highly context-sensitive social products that can appear in various combinations. Let us illustrate this with the example of the Gabors’ prestige-object transactions. (1) Brokering symbols of economic prosperity. Beakers and tankards changing owners in intra- or inter-ethnic trade are considered by the Gabors to be goods for elite consumption. They are assets (tartalıˆko or rezerva – reserve in Romani) that can be converted into money in times of financial need. Thus, the men coordinating these deals are economic brokers, whereas the prestige objects are economic goods. Commodity status or identity can be regarded as a permanent transactional identity of the beakers and tankards changing owners. However, these items are also deeply intertwined with various identity projects – in several contexts they are interpreted as political and cultural goods by the Gabor Roma, that is, as symbols of political and cultural identity. In order to clarify this point, we should distinguish between two types of deals: intra-ethnic ones where the objects also acquire political meaning and inter-ethnic ones between Gabor Roma and Ca˘rhar Roma, where the learning and management of cultural differences is also of crucial importance.
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(2) Brokering symbols of political identity (intra-ethnic trade of prestige goods). As aforementioned, beakers and tankards are to the Gabors symbols loaded with political significance and value. They are political trophies for whose possession potential buyers often intensively compete. The prestige economy itself is an important part of the Gabors’ r´omani politika (Roma politics – see Berta, 2007), that is, it is a symbolic arena that serves for the construction, representation and manipulation of the economic and social differences between the participants (individuals, patrigroups, local communities, etc.). Buying a much sought-after beaker or tankard is, however, not only an individual political success. Prestige objects become symbols of Gabor Roma patrigroups regarded as political units and patrigroup identity, when their owners bequeath them to their sons. If a more valuable piece is transmitted by inheritance through generations, it is interpreted as a clear marker of the economic well-being and political success of the owners’ patrigroup, and its members attribute special emotional and identity value to it. One of the reasons why potential buyers compete for the acquisition of more famous objects owned by other Gabor Roma is that they consider them as future ‘raw materials’ for the representation of their own patrigroups and patrigroup identities. Therefore, brokers coordinating intra-ethnic transactions are political brokers as well – they are facilitators and managers of political identity projects and, to a certain extent, they are also sources of their dynamics, for without brokers several of the deals would probably never be realised. (3) Brokers as managers of cultural otherness (inter-ethnic Gabor Roma – Ca˘rhar Roma trade of prestige goods). The Gabors, however, sometimes sell their prestige objects not within their own ethnic subgroup, but among the Ca˘rhar Roma. During these transactions, objects retain their commodity identity and monetary significance, but a further object identity comes to the forefront as well: they are interpreted as cultural goods, that is, as symbols of cultural identity and cultural otherness. As I have aforementioned, the Ca˘rhar Roma also define certain types of silver objects as prestige goods and classify them into the elite register of consumption, and they estimate their value in a similar way to the Gabors. The ultimate purpose of the Ca˘rhar owners, too, is to see that the more valuable pieces remain the property of their own patrigroup for as long as possible. The respective prestige economies of the Ca˘rhars and the Gabors are, however, only similar and not identical. Regarding former prestige-item owners, for example, both Roma subgroups
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consider only their own members as sources of value, and their prestigeobject aesthetics also differ in some ways. In order for a Gabor broker to display a Gabor prestige item for sale among the Ca˘rhar Roma in accordance with their value preferences and thus obtain the highest purchase price possible, he must acquire cultural background knowledge of the Ca˘rhars’ prestige economy and consumer culture as well. During inter-ethnic transactions, the Gabor brokers are therefore also cultural brokers who, through the analysis, comparison and manipulation of the similarities and differences between the Gabors’ and the Ca˘rhars’ prestige economies, try to represent their clients’ interests in the most effective way.14 The commodity status or identity of prestige items thus remains a significant factor in all transactions, whereas it is up to the participant structure of the current deal which other object identity (political or cultural) becomes dominant as well. The Gabor brokers’ transactional identities can also be characterised by the same context-sensitivity. They often participate in the deals as economic and political, and sometimes as economic and cultural brokers, serving as clear examples of the shifting nature of transactional identities.
NOTES 1. The comprehensive term Roma (plural) refers to all of the various Roma ethnic subgroups. With the terms ‘the Gabors’ or ‘Gabor Roma’ I refer to the members of the Gabor Roma ethnic subgroup. 2. The only systematic anthropological analyses dealing with brokerage among Roma are by Stewart (1992, 1997), who conducted fieldwork in a Mashari Roma community in socialist Hungary, concentrating, among others, on brokers coordinating horse deals. 3. The Romani-speaking ethnic subgroup known as ‘the Ca˘rhars’ or ‘Ca˘rhar Roma’ is one of the ethnic subgroups of Roma living in Transylvania. Ca˘rhar Roma communities can be found primarily in Sibiu and Bras- ov Counties. Silver objects bequeathed from father to son, defined as prestige goods, constitute the elite register of consumption between the Ca˘rhars as well. However, the social distance between the Gabors and the Ca˘rhars is significant. Both of these Roma subgroups maintain ethnic endogamy and participate in the social events of the other subgroup very rarely. The contacts between them are limited to occasional economic collaboration, the majority of which are prestige-item transactions. Ca˘rhar Roma often try to purchase Gabor prestige objects whose material characteristics are considered valuable by them. Gabor owners also frequently take out large loans from Ca˘rhars, leaving their prestige items in pawn. Gabor Roma, however, only very rarely buy silver objects from Ca˘rhar owners.
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4. The German-speaking Transylvanian Saxons are a people of German descent whose ancestors settled in Transylvania from the 12th century onwards. 5. When a Gabor man buys or inherits a valuable prestige object, his aim is to make it inalienable (cf., Weiner, 1992). That is, he tries to retain it and hand it down to a son. Daughters may not inherit prestige objects from their fathers. 6. With the terms ‘interethnic transactions’, ‘interethnic deals’ and ‘interethnic trade’ I refer exclusively to prestige-object transactions between Gabor Roma and Ca˘rhar Roma. When a Gabor man purchases a beaker or tankard from non-Roma in order to transform it into a prestige item he sometimes also employs a broker-like helper. The activity of these helpers is limited to searching for a potential business partner. Therefore, it is important to distinguish them from brokers coordinating transactions between Gabor men or between Gabor and Ca˘rhar Roma. 7. A beaker or tankard displayed for a short time is regarded as nominally authentic if, according to those Gabor Roma present, it is undoubtedly identical with the piece whose individual proper name has been applied to it. Following Dutton’s (2003) definition, the term nominal authenticity focuses on the ‘origins’ or ‘provenance’ of the object in question. 8. During an economic crisis, Gabor men often borrow money from one another, with monthly interest that can vary on a large scale. If the sum borrowed is higher than US$20,000–$25,000, the creditor usually asks for some guarantee in case the debtor cannot not pay his debt. Silver beakers and tankards are the most precious goods that can be offered as pledges among the Gabor Roma. 9. According to data of the National Institute of Statistics (Romania), the monthly gross average wage in 1961 was 898 Romanian lei, that is, the purchase price was 116.9 times the monthly average wage. 10. The monthly gross average for Romania in 1982 was 2,936 Romanian lei, so the purchase price was the equivalent of 579 months’ average wages. 11. According to the exchange rates of the National Bank of Romania, one German mark was 11,504 Romanian lei and US$1 was 25,385 Romanian lei on 4 December 2000. Therefore 60,000 German marks was the equivalent of US$27,190. The gross average wage was 3,975,929 Romanian lei (US$156) in this month. 12. Among the Gabors, arranged marriage is a common practice which usually takes place between the ages of 13–16, with the complete exclusion of churches and state institutions. Selection of a spouse and organisation of a wedding ritual are overseen and directed primarily by fathers and paternal grandfathers. As for spouse selection, one of the most important factors is the future alliance (xanamikimo in Romani) between the families of the persons to be married and the political, social and economic benefits that may be obtained by making such an alliance. 13. 300,000 German marks was equivalent to US$135,954. As the monthly gross average wage was 3,975,929 Romanian lei (US$156) in December 2000, this purchase price was 868 times the gross average wage. 14. It is an elementary interest of a Gabor broker to authenticate the material patina and the ethnic identity or provenance of a piece on sale presented to the Ca˘rhar Roma, that is, its being a prestige object among the Gabors. Only so can he induce the potential Ca˘rhar buyers to offer for it such a high purchase price for which such objects change hands among the Gabor Roma.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am heavily indebted to Andrea Szalai and to two anonymous reviewers for their comments on earlier versions of this chapter. I am especially grateful to the editor for his useful and thought-provoking suggestions and criticism, as well as for his encouragement. I alone bear responsibility for any errors of fact, interpretation or judgement. The field research was made possible by the generous support of the following institutions: Hungarian Scientific Research Fund (OTKA); Hungarian State Eo¨tvo¨s Scholarship; Ministry of Hungarian Cultural Heritage; Open Society Institute (Budapest) and Soros Foundation.
REFERENCES Alexander, P. (1992). What’s in a price? Trading practices in peasant (and other) markets. In: R. Dilley (Ed.), Contesting markets. Analyses of ideology, discourse and practice (pp. 79– 96). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Appadurai, A. (1986). Introduction: Commodities and the politics of value. In: A. Appadurai (Ed.), The social life of things. Commodities in cultural perspective (pp. 3–63). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Auyero, J. (1999). ‘From the client’s point(s) of view’: How poor people perceive and evaluate political clientelism. Theory and Society, 28, 297–334. Berta, P. (2007). Ethnicisation of value – the value of ethnicity. The prestige-item economy as a performance of ethnic identity among the Gabors of Transylvania (Romania). Romani Studies, 17, 31–65. Berta, P. (2009). Materialising ethnicity: Commodity fetishism and symbolic re-creation of objects among the Gabor Roma (Romania). Social Anthropology, 17, 184–197. Bierschenk, T., Chauveau, J.-P., & Olivier de Sardan, J.-P. (2002). Local development brokers in Africa. The rise of a new social category. Institut fu¨r Ethnologie und Afrikastudien, Johannes Gutenberg-Universita¨t, Mainz. Working Papers Nr. 13. Available at http:// www.ifeas.uni-mainz.de/workingpapers/Local.pdf Blasco, P. G. (1999). Gypsies in Madrid. Sex, gender and the performance of identity. Oxford: Berg. Boissevain, J. (1974). Friends of friends. Networks, manipulators and coalitions. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Dutton, D. (2003). Authenticity in art. In: J. Levinson (Ed.), The Oxford handbook of aesthetics (pp. 258–274). New York: Oxford University Press. Fanselow, F. S. (1990). The bazaar economy or how bizarre is the bazaar really? Man, 25, 250–265. Gardner, D. J., & Gardner, S. A. (2008). A provisional phonology of Gabor Romani. Romani Studies, 18, 155–200. Geertz, C. (1978). The bazaar economy: Information and search in peasant marketing. The American Economic Review, 68, 28–32. Geertz, C. (1979). Suq: The bazaar economy in Sefrou. In: C. Geertz, H. Geertz & L. Rosen (Eds), Meaning and order in Moroccan society. Three essays in cultural analysis (pp. 123– 244). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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Geismar, H. (2001). What’s in a price? An ethnography of tribal art at auction. Journal of Material Culture, 6, 25–49. Goffman, E. (1957). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Anchor. Goffman, E. (1967). Interaction ritual. Essays on face-to-face behavior. New York: Anchor. Hagedorn, N. L. (1988). ‘A friend to go between them’: The interpreter as cultural broker during Anglo-Iroquois councils, 1740–70. Ethnohistory, 35, 60–80. Ichinosawa, J. (2007). Economic anthropology of Bangkok go-go bars: Risk and opportunity in bazaar-type market for interpersonally embedded services. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 125–150. Komito, L. (1992). Brokerage or friendship? Politics and networks in Ireland. Economic and Social Review, 23, 129–145. Kornai, J. (1993). A szocialista rendszer. Kritikai politikai gazdasa´gtan. [The socialist system: The political economy of communism] Budapest: HVG Kiado´i Rt. Lewis, D., & Mosse, D. (Eds). (2006). Development brokers and translators. The ethnography of aid and agencies. Sterling, VA: Kumarian Press. Miller, D., Jackson, P., Thrift, N., Holbrook, B., & Rowlands, M. (1998). Shopping, place and identity. London: Routledge. Rees, A. (1971). Information networks in labor markets. In: D. M. Lamberton (Ed.), Economics of information and knowledge (pp. 109–118). Hammondsworth: Penguin. Richter, D. K. (1988). Cultural brokers and intercultural politics: New York-Iroquois relations, 1664–1701. Journal of American History, 75, 40–67. Satov, M. (1997). Catalogues, collectors, curators: The tribal art market and anthropology. In: J. MacClancy (Ed.), Contesting art. Art, politics and identity in the modern world (pp. 215–241). Oxford: Berg. Soong, F. S. (1983). The role of Aboriginal health workers as cultural brokers: Some findings and their implications. Australian Journal of Social Issues, 18, 268–274. Steiner, C. (1994). African art in transit. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stewart, M. (1992). Gypsies at the horse-fair. A non-market model of trade. In: R. Dilley (Ed.), Contesting markets. Analyses of ideology, discourse and practice (pp. 97–111). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Stewart, M. (1997). The time of the Gypsies. Boulder, CO: Westview. Stewart, M. (1998). Brothers and orphans: Two egalitarian models of community among Hungarian Rom. In: S. Day, E. Papataxiarchis & M. Stewart (Eds), The lilies of the field: Marginal people who live for the moment (pp. 27–44). Boulder, CO: Westview. Szalai, A. (2006). Egyse´gesse´g? Va´ltozatossa´g? A ciga´ny kisebbse´g e´s a nyelvi sokfe´lese´g [Unity? Variability? The Gypsy minority and linguistic diversity]. Nyelvtudoma´nyi Ko¨zleme´nyek, 103, 163–204. Szasz, M. C. (Ed.) (1994). Between Indian and white worlds: The cultural broker. London: University of Oklahoma Press. Velthuis, O. (2005). Talking prices. Symbolic meanings of prices on the market for contemporary art. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Weiner, A. (1992). Inalienable possessions. The paradox of keeping-while-giving. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.
REVERSE OSMOSIS AND A CAN OF BEANS: AN ETHNOGRAPHIC STUDY OF LATIN AMERICAN IMMIGRANT SHOPPERS IN NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE Peter Redvers-Lee ABSTRACT This chapter looks at how Latin American immigrants go about shopping for groceries in Nashville, Tennessee, and relates this simple act to a wider political economy. The chapter examines the act of shopping for groceries and the immigrants’ preferences through elements largely ignored by the prevailing economic paradigm. To some extent, the immigrants are aware that their mode of shopping is not entirely ‘‘rational’’ and that their choices are often informed by nothing more than ‘‘feelings’’ toward a place or product. The ethnography examines how the immigrants deal with their now dislocated practice of shopping in their everyday life in the new city. In examining this process, the ethnography considers the public spaces in which the practice of shopping takes place, and includes both those stores catering directly to immigrants and those serving a wider market.
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 309–329 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030016
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INTRODUCTION When Rosario looks over the meat counter at the carnicerı´ a, she has no articulated preferences at hand to describe her selections. But she is certain of the cuts of meat she wants and why. She won’t buy the chicken, sitting in trays right next to the various carvings of red meat: ‘‘It just doesn’t look right, does it?’’ The statement is an affirmation; she doesn’t need an answer. It did not take her long to decide that the chicken at this Nashville store, catering to the specific ‘‘tastes’’ of immigrant Latin Americans, and specifically those from Mexico, was not up to scratch. But the red meat here is special. The meat at Kroger ‘‘doesn’t look so good.’’ So Rosario makes a once-a-week trip with her husband in their aging car, to a butcher shop seven miles from their apartment in downtown Nashville, Tennessee. They head for a carnicerı´ a on Nolensville Road, in the southeastern section of the city, to buy a few pounds of red meat and some vegetables. After half an hour haggling and bantering with the butcher, Rosario and her spouse take their few pounds of meat – bones for soup that ‘‘you can’t really buy at another store’’ and some cuts for a stew that cost $1.89 a pound – and clamber back into their car to take an even further detour.1 This time they head for Sam’s Club. And there Rosario stocks up on chicken – a very large package that meets her subjective requirements of what looks right for chicken. They are a professional couple with no children and they make the most of their shopping expedition. Rosario explains that she doesn’t shop as frequently as she would like. Thus, the couple makes this an expedition, but not one without humor. They joke a lot with each other, tempers never flare, and he chides her good-naturedly about how they first met. At Sam’s the couple purchase other items: a large tin of cookies, clothing (socks for the husband), washing powder, some vegetables, and a few canned goods. They fill their cart close to the top with bulk items, pay after showing their $35-a-year membership card, and leave. In keeping with the expedition-like nature of their shopping, they decide to stop for a quick meal at a Mexican restaurant on the way back to the apartment. They debate the possibility of the food spoiling in the car but it is not a hot evening and they decide the stop is worth the minimal risk.
SHOPPERS’ PREFERENCES AND ECONOMIC THEORY Rosario’s shopping expedition and her vague and inarticulately defined preferences – what looks and feels right – could not be taken at face value as
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a clear-cut or even rational choice. In discussing advertising and consumption, Ed Schiffer suggests there are two contradictory views of consumption: ‘‘one that grants the consumer intelligence and one that figures him as some sort of unpleasant hybrid of stomach and ego that has no choice but to consume and thereby be consumed’’ (Schiffer, 1998, p. 291). The satisfaction of our fundamental needs (thirst, hunger, and perhaps a sense of comfort from the familiar) compete and work in tandem with our more easily articulated needs and desires. Rosario and her spouse’s choices expose the tensions that lie along this continuum. Schiffer expresses the conundrum with remarkable clarity: ‘‘Our acts of consumption may be simultaneously a matter of refined judgment and crude desire. Consumption in general, and eating in particular, is an activity that highlights much that is equivocal in the human condition’’ (ibid., p. 292). Rosario thinks of herself as a savvy shopper. She is conscious of price: that is why they shop at Sam’s. Her specific choices belie any argument that the couple is shopping solely to fulfill the baser consumer desires. And she and her husband defy the economists’ belief that we minimize transaction costs, the costs we incur with each trade, as we go about our daily economic lives. To get the ‘‘utility’’ they need from their groceries, they are prepared to travel and pay. Rosario admits she spends more on meat at the carnicerı´ a. And the miles traveled to the store and the time taken (the shopping part of the expedition alone lasts more than two hours) does not go unnoticed by the couple. The prevailing economic paradigm offers little theoretically or heuristically to explain the nature of their shopping preferences. As one standard text explains: ‘‘economists assume that in making their choices, consumers are motivated to maximize their utility, the total satisfaction that they derive from the goods and services that they consume. Neither psychologists nor economists can measure utility directly. But our inability to measure something does not mean that it is not real’’ (Lipsey, Courant, & Ragan, 1999, p. 140). The utility of utility then seems to be lacking. ‘‘Economists gradually came to recognize that all that mattered about utility as far as choice behavior was concerned was whether one bundle had a higher utility than another – how much higher didn’t really matter’’ (Varian, 1999, p. 54). Amartya Sen, in his critique of utility, describes this as a paucity in the informational base (Sen, 1999). For Rosario, the paradigm is unable to explain her willingness to pay the additional costs in both time and money. While philosophical logicians regard notions of preference as troublesome (Newman, 1998), economists have held relatively steadfast to the microeconomics of preference bundles. While attempting to do what Ben Fine calls a colonization of the social sciences (2001), economic theory comes up short
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in explaining the very factors that inform the discipline’s core theoretical underpinnings. In this process of colonization, economic theory has fallen to the couch of psychology for help and much is now being done across the two disciplines, particularly in behavioral economics, a subfield spawned by the work of Richard Thaler who, recognizing the normative aspects of the economics of consumer behavior as well as some of the shortcomings of rational choice, turned to the work of psychologists Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman (Thaler, 1980). Thaler (2000) understood homo economicus as Homo sapiens, a link that others have suggested lay some way back at a particular branch in the family tree. ‘‘Economic man and psychological man are in fact close relatives, both descended from their ancestors Jeremy Bentham and Adam Smith. It seems that in the course of history this kinship has been forgotten, and each has gone his own way’’ (Greenaway, Bleaney, & Stewart, 1991, p. 808). Many economists, however, remain unconvinced. ‘‘[I]t is not a concern y how preferences are formed and changed by advertising, social contracts or personal experience. Moreover, the general structure of preferences goes unexamined, although the structure may be very important in understanding economic behavior’’ (ibid, p. 808). The difficulty is not that no two individuals have the same preferences. This is of little consequence when preferences are aggregated. The perplexing issue for the theory of preferences is with the core assumption of consistent preferences – ‘‘the assumption that a rational individual will choose consistently’’ (Black, 1997, p. 78). Individuals ‘‘desire variety’’ in the short term and, over the long term, ‘‘individuals’ needs and tastes may change’’ (ibid., p. 78). Thus, individuals’ preferences may be far from consistent. One method for exploring the idiosyncrasies of individual preferences lies outside the realm of both psychology and economics. Rosario and her husband may perhaps be savvy shoppers, and they may be fulfilling base human desires, but an essential understanding of how their preferences are culturally and background driven is much more clearly revealed through ethnography than through the blind acceptance of a presumed ‘‘preferred preference bundle.’’
METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS Participation in and observation of Rosario and her husband’s shopping expeditions were just two of a number of methods used in this research. The research started in late 2002 with open-ended telephone interviews with
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managers at four Nashville chain supermarkets. It then proceeded through 2003 and 2004 with a survey questionnaire of shoppers, conversations, and interviews with supermercado managers and shoppers, participant observation at three stores, followed by group discussions, a second closed-question interview, and eight individual taped interviews. Community organization leaders, immigrant advocates, legal professionals working on behalf of immigrants, and Hispanic leaders and educators were also interviewed. The initial telephone interviews with grocery store managers were brief, with open-ended questions asked in order to probe the managers’ knowledge of the actual or perceived buying habits of Spanish-speaking immigrants and in order to form a primary understanding of managers’ attempts to reach this market. A set survey questionnaire was then used with shoppers outside of two supermercados, both on Nolensville Road. The process of administering the questionnaire suggested participant observation as a more pertinent method as 9 of the 25 initial shoppers invited to take the survey declined. Of those who declined, the majority was male (seven males). Many of those accepting the invitation to take the interview were women with young children. However, no count was kept on this number, nor of the number of accompanying children. The survey was administered during the working day, and consisted of 29 questions, including demographic items, whether shoppers bought with cash or credit, the number of people being shopped for, frequency of location visits, types of purchases, and the proximity of the shop to home or work. Shoppers were also asked about the length of time they spent shopping, the total amount they spent, and the appeal or attraction of the store. The supermercados chosen are all on Nolensville Road, a busy main artery of Nashville that lies along the boundary of a series of census tracks with the highest percentages of Hispanics in Nashville. Nolensville Road had also been undergoing a revival in the late 1990s, with many of the new businesses catering to immigrants (The Tennessean, 2003, pp. 1–24). The 2000 Census put Davidson County’s Hispanic population at 26,091, a figure disputed by many of the county’s Hispanic organizations (personal communication, November 2004). The greatest densities of Hispanics were in census tracks to the northeast of county, north of the Cumberland River, and east of Interstate 65 South. Southeast of the county on both sides of Interstate 24 East, stretching from the airport westward, are a number of other high-density Hispanic populated tracts. Nolensville Road borders these tracts. Also, according to the 2000 Census, this area has the highest concentration of people of Mexican origin. Observation of the stores on Nolensville Road included two to three visits per week at different times of
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day over a four-month period, more intensively in October and November 2002 and less frequently in early 2003. These were followed up by random and infrequent visits during the remainder of 2003 and 2004. These visits included informal conversations with shoppers as well as conversations with management. Shoppers were asked about their buying patterns and shoppers were asked for their receipts. Observations were made of purchases, and patterns were discerned regarding types of shoppers and their purchases during different times of the day and on different days of the week. While observations were made at three stores, one store became the focal point and it was at this store that most observations were made. Four extended group conversations were held through English language classes at a community organization in late 2002. The organization is within blocks of Nolensville Road and is located within the center of the high-density Hispanic census tracts. The instructor for the English language classes allowed generous use of the class time and the content of this research was made the topic of the day’s lesson. Students, at various levels in the mastery of English as a second language, discussed in an informal manner all aspects of their shopping habits. Much of the concluding comments presented here come from those discussions. Students from these classes were then interviewed individually as were some of the Spanish-speaking workers at the community organization for a total of eight extended interviews.
LATIN AMERICAN NASHVILLE Rosario and her spouse are not alone in how they approach their grocery shopping in Nashville. The city hosts a significant immigrant population and many of these immigrants are from Latin America, pushed and drawn across the border (in the pre-2008/2009 economic downturn) by the promise of jobs and decent (in relative terms) wages. In this transforming landscape, the supposedly simple act of shopping for food in Nashville becomes an activity infused with much more meaning than just a quick trip to the store. It becomes an act of ethnic affirmation; shopping affirms identity (Halter, 2000). ‘‘In this [anthropological] literature, ethnic food is often regarded as a system of communication that discloses the daily practices and the habits that people enact when they purchase, cook, and eat their food. In transnational contexts, ethnic food is also seen as a vehicle for understanding the practices of ‘home cooking,’ where food practices represent a symbolic and cultural connection with the homeland’’ (Ferrero, 2002, p. x). As immigrants, shopping and the subsequent consumption of their groceries
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offers Rosario and her husband succor and comfort in their marginalized position within this southern city. In Pierre Mayol’s urban French study, the neighborhood becomes the interlocutor between the person and the city (Giard, Mayol, & de Certeau, 1998). In the Latin American’s new and alienating environment, where the immigrant is the worker or service bee, ethnicity becomes the middle term in the ‘‘existential dialect’’ between the immigrant and the new city. ‘‘Both immigrants and host country often feel ambivalent about the way they live together. Immigrants want to feel at home – but they also want, to varying degrees, to keep their original values and culture’’ (Economist, 2002, p. 9). Martha Rees’s study of labor demand and migration centers these dynamics in the relationship between demographic changes and crisis conditions at the local level and the external pull of the demand for labor in the United States. ‘‘Stereotypes and antiimmigrant policies make them feel even more insecure and reinforce the structure of this labor market’’ (Rees, 2007, p. 44). Holding on to their ethnic foodways as a means of maintaining an identity is the key to alleviating the process, and provisioning through shopping an essential element in its execution. Thus buying tortillas becomes an act chained to the wider political economy of a marginalized group living in an urban area that Saskia Sassen would call a transnational city (Sassen, 1998), an irony perhaps clouded over by the city’s traditional country music mythology. The 2000 U.S. Census states that there are just over 40,000 immigrants from Latin America living in the metropolitan area of Nashville – 3.3% of the total population. (In 1990, there were just 7,665 Hispanics.) The veracity of these figures, however, can easily be questioned. Many of the immigrants are in the United States illegally and work hard to escape officialdom’s detection. The Hispanic population of Tennessee grew by 203% between the years 1990 and 2000, four times the national average (Farris, 2005). Drawing from various data sources, the Migration Policy Institute reports the growth of the foreign-born population at 56.9% between 2000 and 2007. Of the foreign born, 48.3% of the immigrants were from Latin America (Migration Policy Institute, 2009). It is thus likely that the true figures for Nashville and Davidson County are closer to the national figure of 13% of the population. Advocacy groups for Spanish-speaking immigrants suggest that 65% of the Hispanic population of the greater Nashville area is undocumented (personal communication, November 2004). The official census figures for Nashville state that three-fifths of the immigrants are male and most are of working age and that they live together in households that average about four people. As with past immigrant groups in other American cities, the communities of Latin American immigrants have clustered in certain sections of Davidson
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county, the most dense areas being a wedge between Interstates 40 and 24 and a section fanning out eastward from Nolensville Road, an axis road that runs roughly northwest/southeast through Nashville. This is a familiar pattern: ‘‘In a country where Latinos are a prominent ethnic minority group and where population shifts to Sunbelt cities have encouraged a new urban spirit, Latinos (recent and old) have established new communities, maintained older ones, and in the process reconfigured local conditions by creating a presence where none existed’’ (Martinez, 2002, p. 132). The community is well served by the media. In 2002–2004, there were at least three free newspapers, three local AM Spanish language radio stations, and a sometimes FM station. There are churches specifically for Spanish speakers, and numerous firms clamoring for the immigrants’ business, including a local hospital, a cinema, numerous car dealers, and locally owned and chain groceries. If the local newspaper can be taken as a gauge, this is a vibrant market. Over a three-month period in 2002, The Tennessean reported on a local hospital ‘‘building relationships with Hispanics,’’ the conversion of an old cinema to a Spanish-speaking theatre, as well as general ‘‘tips’’ on how businesses can reach the ‘‘Latino’’ population. Business opportunities are also considerable. A local immigrant-owned and immigrant-oriented Nashville bakery was recognized by the Chamber of Commerce as one of the ‘‘50 fastest-growing privately held companies in Middle Tennessee.’’ In addition, since 1990, Latino disposable income in Tennessee has grown sevenfold to $3.2 billion (Porter, 2002a). This growth in business is not a purely local trend as witnessed by the same Wall Street Journal story that goes on to describe the start-up of a Spanish-speaking television station in Charleston, South Carolina. These newspaper stories also reveal an irony. While nonimmigrant businesses are retooling themselves to attract a wider customer base, the immigrant businesses are doing much the same, trying to attract more nonimmigrants to their stores (French, 2002). One carnicerı´ a is a good example as it expands by moving to a new location. There the owner says: ‘‘she hopes the new store will have a broader appeal. ‘We hope to get more Americans in there.’ ’’ The majority of the products now are from Mexico but ‘‘the increased space in the new store will allow them to carry more American products’’ (Jordan, 2002).
THE SUPERMERCADOS OF NOLENSVILLE ROAD Among the grocery stores are a number of shops that closely resemble the supermercados of Mexico.2 Jayant Anand, in a study of supermarkets in
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Citlalicalli, Mexico, made a distinction between five types of market, from public markets through to self-service stores and supermarkets, with the classification made by the square footage for traditional small retailers, convenience stores, and supermarkets. The study found that retail chain supermarkets had no adverse effects on the independent stores in Citlalicalli but the stores had responded by upping their retail space, taking on more products, and adopting the self-service format (Anand, 2009). Comestibles Mexicana follows a similar format, and is one of the oldest and most established of these stores in Nashville. The store is on Nolensville Road, squarely within the most densely settled Hispanic section of Nashville. Nolensville Road acts as a rallying section for all immigrant communities of the city, and stores along all sections of the thoroughfare attest to this. Signs advertise Halall foods and the cuisines of the West Indies, India, and the Far East. Just to the south of Comestibles Mexicana is an adult bookstore. Across the road and just to the north is a motel and numerous auto repair shops line the thoroughfare. Immediately around Comestibles, though, things Latin American dominate. An evangelical church has its operations nearby and so does a Hispanic community organization. Most of the signs are in Spanish, including those at Willard’s Jewelry right next door to the Comestibles Mexicana. The area would seem to fit well with Mike Davis’ definition of magical urbanism: ‘‘Latinos are bringing redemptive energies to the neglected, worn-out cores and inner suburbs of many metropolitan areas’’ (2000, p. 51). Comestibles Mexicana itself consists of a number of businesses – a restaurant, a compact disc store, the grocery store, and a tortilla bakery – all catering to the immigrant community. Next to the jeweler is the restaurant, the flagship of the operation and a popular and award-winning Mexican eatery in Nashville. To the south of the restaurant parking lot is the supermercado and it sits alongside the compact disc and gift shop. Behind all three is an alleyway that separates the front-end businesses from a warehouse-like building where tortillas are made and supplied to businesses throughout the state. The front of the store clearly advertises its raison d’eˆtre. The full-length pane-glass windows display colorful pictures of things Mexican. On the right are pictures of fruits and vegetables along with drawings of milk cartons, meat, and chicken. Dried gourds line the bottom of the window along the floor. Up front are strung sombreros and the pin˜atas that hang from the ceiling inside are clearly visible. The left-hand window apes the theme, but on this side the illustration is of an actual store peopled with shoppers. Atypical for a store that acts as a community rallying point, not too many signs adorn the front door other than an ad for the Western
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Union services available within. There is a clear view both into and out of the shop. The importance of restaurants and grocery stores such as Comestibles Mexicana as rallying points for migrants has not been lost on politicos from the home country. Representatives from Michoaca´n state have frequently used these types of businesses to rally support and feel out the opinions of the migrants (Porter, 2002b). And migrants, in turn, use the meetings to rally for more influence back home. One morning in the early fall of 2002 there is much excitement in the store. A camera crew is filming for an upcoming commercial to run on a local television station and Milton Se´mola, the manager, stands sentry up front while the finishing touches are put to a large gleaming silver machine that is surrounded by a shoulder high wire fence. The machine and its wired-off section sit right in the middle of a space in the front of the store. To the left is the cashier’s stage, a built up section that looks down and across the store, over the silver machine, and across to the racks of pastries on the other side. The reason for the excitement – the big silver machine – soon becomes evident. Comestibles Mexicana has installed a tortilla maker up front in the store. Twice a day, and constantly on Saturdays, the store will churn out fresh corn and wheat tortillas for customers. It is a deft business maneuver – it soon becomes apparent that shopping for fresh and familiar bread products is a major problem for Latin Americans in Nashville. All area grocery stores sell tortillas (some made by Comestibles Mexicana) but finding such fresh tortillas has until now been impossible. Competition with Comestibles Mexicana is tough. It is not the only such complex of businesses serving Latin Americans in Nashville. A few miles up the road there is another supermercado, also set up as a cluster of store, restaurant, and compact disc outlet. And it appears a carnicerı´ a on the same road will soon follow the format too (Jordan, 2002). So the installation of the tortilla machine at Comestibles Mexicana is a particularly proud moment for Se´mola. He takes time from his schedule of marking up goods, packing shelves, and dealing with customers to savor the moment. Se´mola is usually a busy and guarded man. Yet he has no problem with an observer hanging around the store or even with the intrusion of someone asking shoppers questions in the small confines between the aisles. ‘‘Just stay out of the way,’’ he says. But he has little inclination for being interviewed about the modus operandi of the store. He seems concerned that the business will not be reflected fairly. It appears too that Kroger has been spying. Recently a man was spotted stalking the aisles, taking notes on prices. Se´mola says he was asked to leave. Slowly, however, over the late summer and early fall weeks Se´mola begins to reveal some of the store’s
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approaches to its clientele. ‘‘They want things they are used to,’’ he says, and that includes personal products like the rows of shampoos that line the shelves behind the cashier’s counter or the creams that fill the space under a glass counter just in front of the hair products display. No, the store is not modeled after supermercados in Mexico, he says. Not consciously, at least. With this denial, it seems that Comestibles Mexicana follows no formula at all, especially not the careful calculus for stocking and layout so closely followed by most American supermarkets, where eye-level, color, and even movement are taken into consideration. At Comestibles Mexicana, two long displays divide the center of the store into three aisles and on the shelves items appear to be haphazardly stacked. To the right, just past the pastries, are the frozen goods and across from these fridges are lines of washing liquid, not the boxed kind usually sold in the United States, but the formless plastic bags of liquid common in Latin America. They share the shelves with beans and other canned goods. More washing liquid can be found on aisle three, an arm’s reach from the curious plastic buckets that turn out to be filled with multitudes of peppers in every shape and size. Toward the back of the store is the meat section, always staffed with a busy butcher. Fish, shrimp, chicken, and beef line the display along with other cooked items like savory rice. The specialty cuts of meat, very different from those of regular U.S. supermarkets, are advertised with their prices on luminous cardboard signs. For the small area, the selection of available cuts seems astounding. To the right of the meat display, and down its own aisle, runs the vegetable section. Interspersed throughout the store are the nonfood items: brooms, mortars and pestles, pin˜atas, cooking utensils, and more. The confusion in the layout of goods is reflected in the products themselves. Arlene Da´vila, who disputes the idea that there is a U.S. ‘‘Hispanic’’ market, suggests that the relationship between U.S. born Latinos and the immigrant population is one of some entanglement. The advertising industry has a stake in collapsing very different identities to create a ‘‘blended’’ Latino (2001). A closer look at the groceries on the shelves of Comestibles Mexicana at first seems to reflect the entanglement and its resulting confusion. But the marketing has logic or, at the very least, the goal of the purveyors is unambiguous. Grocery producers, like many of the Nashville retailers, want to reach the widest audience possible. Judging by the advertising in the Spanish-speaking newspapers, the competition among supermercados is fierce. Many of the businesses frequently take out full-page ads in those publications. Advertising through the radio outlets is also common and Comestibles Mexicana has run spots on the local Channel 17 television station. Some of the advertising done by local representatives of
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the chain groceries is also aimed at the same demographic. A flier for Harris Teeter, carried in September 2002 in The Tennessean, trumpeted ‘‘Hispanic Heritage Month’’ with a prominent two-by-eight inch box depicting flags from various Latin American countries. However, the only ethnically identifiable products advertised in the multipage flier were English muffins, Copenhagen Danish, and French onion dip. No token beans were to be found. H.G. Hill advertises in Spanish – a full-page in La Campana newspaper – displaying cans of beans, bottled water, and meat cuts familiar to immigrants. The bottled water is a particularly prized item as the unexplained preference is for water treated through a reverse osmosis process. The mixed advertising signals may perhaps make little sense. Those on the product packaging perhaps do. The product differentiation is somewhat akin to that described by Michaela Kehrer in Egypt where transnational corporations have adapted products to fit the local cultural and political setting. There global products have been adapted ‘‘to the local living conditions and the emotional and political needs of Egyptian consumers’’ (Kehrer, 2007, p. 116). At Comestibles Mexicana, a packaging of cheese makes it clear as to whom the real appeal is being made. In small red and green lettering: ‘‘100% Queso.’’ In the same colors but in much larger type: ‘‘Natural Cheese.’’ The colors of the Mexican flag (a motif on much of the packaging) are used as an appeal (easily interpreted as one crossing cultural, ethnic, national boundaries) but English-speakers are the customers the manufacturers really want to draw. Closer inspection shows that the cheese is made in the United States and distributed from Chicago. Less clear in intent is Mexican-made Moctezuma drinking chocolate. The ‘‘icon’’ is obviously an Aztec nobleman but English and Spanish text share equal billing, and a visit to the advertised website (www.chocolatera.com) reveals an informative site in both languages. Verde Valle’s black beans trumpet the land of origin – Mexico – and state proudly ‘‘la autentica cocina de Mexico.’’ But the Mexican company’s label, although prominently displaying the Mexican flag, is in both English and Spanish. Comestibles Mexicana’s store-made products, however, do not seem to follow a pattern. The salsa verde, in a nondescript plastic tub, has a label in Spanish only. The company’s tortillas have labels mostly in English. A can of Knorr Beans, with an all English-label, sells for $1.29. The same can sells for less than a dollar at Kroger. At $2.99, the Jalapen˜o peppers with sardine fillings, an acquired taste at any price, turn out to be ‘‘manufactured in Mexico’’ but distributed from San Diego. The can proclaims that ownership of the trademark resides with Ocean Garden Products, a U.S. company.
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THE SHOPPERS Although the products appear to be a little something for everybody, Comestibles Mexicana’s customers are mostly Spanish speaking. During the weekday mornings and afternoons, the most frequent shoppers are female, often in pairs, and usually of different ages (possibly mothers and daughters), with children in tow. The children have free reign of the aisles, running between them and around the center displays. The management is oblivious or just very much unconcerned. There are no bilingual signs here on how the customer’s child is to behave once strapped into the shopping cart. In fact, there are no shopping carts. The weekday customers move slowly around the store, deliberately picking out with great care their purchases. The occasional male visits are usually to use the Western Union facilities or to stop by the meat counter. At a certain time in the late morning, the pan dulces drop in price. Then younger groups of men, dressed in the rough and soiled clothes of laborers, come in and buy the pastries in batches by the dozen. Standing just inside the store and up against the pane-glass windows, it is easy to see the customers as they make their final transactions at the cash register. Nearly all the purchases ring up to less than $10. And a closer peek at the products shows that many of the purchases include items that Daniel Miller would call ‘‘treat’’ items, defined as ‘‘an extra extravagance that lies outside the constraints of necessity, thrift or moderation that binds together most mundane provisioning’’ (1998, p. 40). For these customers, the treat items are mostly selections from the cases of pan dulces or perhaps the imported but inexpensive candy from the shelves toward the back of the store. Other items, though, seem to be products not easily available at the major grocery stores – the special cuts of meat, the uniquely Latin American fruits and vegetables (yucca for 99b), or a selection from the array of available peppers. During holidays, says Se´mola, items like tamale wraps and the ingredients for homemade tortillas are popular. Otherwise the purchases are as simply mundane as a shapeless bag of washing liquid. On Saturdays, the store is abuzz. The mix of shoppers changes. Men are now more evident, shopping together in groups or accompanying partners and usually with children tagging along. Most of the shoppers seem to spend more and their shopping patterns appear to be a little quicker and sharper. It is the weekend after all, not a time to spend just shopping. Occasionally the green letters on the register display rise to just under the $50 mark. These shoppers struggle with their overflowing baskets. The meat counter sees more activity, mostly from the men. And the newly installed tortilla machine pumps out the flat bread – corn and flour – that sells briskly for $1.49 a bag.
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Besides these conventional grocery store items, and on weekdays as well as Saturdays, other draws to Comestibles Mexicana are the Western Union facilities and the vast array of phone cards. These are kept and displayed up front and the Western Union lectern looks out over Nolensville Road. A large sign advertises the availability of new service to Guatemala. Aided and abetted by Western Union, this flow of immigrants to el Norte is fueling a reverse flow of capital back to the immigrants’ home countries. And this points out an essential irony to this process of globalization. While capital can flow freely, the movement of people is strictly held in check. What Paul Streeten (2001) has called the tripod of globalization – trade, capital, and labor – finds its localization behind the plate glass of Comestibles Mexicana. Nevertheless, before the end-of-the-decade economic downturn, remittances back to home countries were an important element of the business. Although the figures for Comestibles Mexicana are not available, a comparable grocery store in Charleston, South Carolina, made between 2,500 and 3,000 transfers a month in 2001 (Porter, 2002a). In 2000, a report by the Pew Hispanic Center calculated that Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua received about $10.2 billion in money transfers from the United States (Suro, Bendixen, Lowell, & Benavides, 2002). At Comestibles Mexicana, money transfers are an important reason to visit the store, the clerk attests. But, as shoppers point out, using the Western Union is something well divorced from the regular shopping expedition.3 Transferring money is a task demanding a separate visit. It is at a local community center, as an exercise with the English language class, that the specific patterns of immigrant Latin American shopping start to emerge and clarify. The Community Center is nestled in the bosom of Latin American immigrant settlement of Nashville, nearly abutting an interstate but still squarely within the surrounding, densely Hispanic residential area. Housed in an old school, and less than a mile from Comestibles Mexicana, the premises are shared with a health clinic. The doors to the center open into a messy anteroom festooned with posters advertising every service any immigrant could possibly need or supply, including the oddly worded flier ‘‘Jesu´s can do anything, even paint.’’ (Jesu´s is a migrant looking for work.) Just past the receptionist’s desk, the anteroom opens out to what was once the gymnasium. But now it is covered in tables and folding chairs in no particular order save as a rough half-moon set up around the opening to a cubicle set off in the corner. Cluttered along with papers on a bookcase outside the cubicle is a poster board covered in slogans that clearly convey the Center’s sentiments. ‘‘Immigrants and their children add about $10 million each year to the economy of the United
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States.’’ ‘‘Immigrants pay 94.5% more in taxes than they receive in benefits at a national level.’’ Outside the cubicle the immigrants sit, in pairs, as couples, alone, or cradling children, patiently waiting for services, everything from looking for work, to trouble-shooting mortgages, to solving immigrant status problems. Here the immigrants have a safe haven from a state and metropolitan area frequently hostile to their presence. ‘‘Forty-one percent of those who took part in the Middle Tennessee State University poll (2002) said Hispanic residents were making life worse here. Just 28% responded the same way in 1998’’ and ‘‘Middle Tennesseans were more likely than others in the state to have negative perceptions of Hispanic immigrants’’ (Wadhwani, 2002a). These findings, and the newspaper report that brought them to a wider audience, stimulated a heated response from the local Hispanic community. In two reports and a column, local Hispanic leaders extolled the benefits of a vibrant immigrant community to the city of Nashville (Soto, Mejı´ a, & Gonzales, 2002; Wadhwani, 2002b). A newspaper columnist, Tim Chavez, in a spirited defense of Hispanics, betrayed at the same time an apparent split between those immigrants in the United States legally and those here without papers. In particular, he decried the fact that many illegal immigrants lived in overcrowded apartments and thus brought disfavor to all the area’s Hispanics (Chavez, 2002). At the community center, however, someone is at least looking after their interests. And here they welcome an opportunity to chat about something as mundane as shopping for groceries. The English language classes start in the midmornings in an upstairs room, a room as cluttered as anywhere else in the center. The classes are relaxed and the immigrants sit in anticipation in a circle around a few centrally placed tables. Over the course of two months’ observation, class members changed frequently as did the number of students in the class. On some days only four students were in attendance, on others as many as 14 people crowded around the tables. English skills were as varied as class attendance but enthusiasm was always high. Countries of origin spanned the globe. However, mirroring the official statistics, most of the students were Spanish speakers from Latin America. On one particular morning in the fall of 2002, the coffeemaker is on and a clock, some children’s drawings, and a shabby map are a few of the items on the wall that contrast starkly with a well-drawn sketch on the chalkboard. The students work from their photocopied pages and the sketch. It is a very American scene – a picture of a suburban house, a yard with flowers, a car in the drive, and children playing on the sidewalk. The students take turns reading their descriptions
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about the drawing. As they finish, the teacher suggests they talk about how they go about grocery shopping in Nashville. The immigrants slip easily and with little hesitation into the conversation, turning now and again to ask how to say or pronounce something. They talk about who does the shopping. Back home grocery shopping is genderspecific. It is women’s work. Out of necessity in the United States – many of the men are here without their families – men have no option but to shop for themselves. So, they work their shopping expeditions, like Rosario and her husband, into their schedules. They shop on Saturdays, or late at night when they get off their shifts. But, one of the two Jose´’s admits, it is a great benefit to find a job that supplies a meal or two. He considers himself lucky. He and Leonardo have found themselves such a job, working in a food-processing business for a more settled fellow countryman. The role reversal is not an easy one to admit. The other Jose´ admits grocery shopping is a difficult and unpleasant task. The women at the table, Marta, Marlene, Yraisa, and Elia, find considerable amusement in his discomfort and he grows even more embarrassed. The gendered role of shopping sits deeply enough with this young man to cause him considerable discomfort. They all agree that shopping is very different in the United States. Many of the immigrants miss the markets of their villages and cities back home. There, they say, it is easy to find fresh vegetables, fruit, and other supplies all in one place. Here they must visit the Farmers Market downtown or contend with the ersatz produce of the Krogers and Harris Teeters of Nashville. In this respect, they contradict Anand’s Citlalicalli supermarket study, which found that low- and middle-income groups prefer small stores for buying fresh produce while higher income shoppers frequented supermarkets (Anand, 2009). The consumers in Anand’s study were motivated by convenience, something of less concern to new immigrants in Nashville. The Nashville shoppers all agree that they stick strictly to traditional foodways. They shop at all the local stores and they use the supermercados for the extras they cannot find elsewhere. As their sojourn in Nashville lengthens, they shop less at the supermercados and more for convenience and price, adopting shopping patterns more in line with those Anand uncovered in Mexico. (Fig. 1 depicts a suggested ‘‘economic’’ interpretation to this preference shift.) They can find most things they need at Sam’s, Kroger, or Wal-Mart. Some even visit Wild Oats where the large gallon bottles of reverse osmosis water sell for a high price. They know the water out the faucet in their homes is potable but their preference is for bottled water. And this is not the only idiosyncrasy. Marta raises a laugh when she describes her Saturday shopping chores. She is from rural Mexico and prides herself on sticking to traditional
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12
Beans From The U.S.
New immigrant’s preference. Seasoned immigrant’s 6
1
2
3
4
6
Beans from Mexico
Fig. 1.
The Shifting Preferences of the Immigrant Shopper.
recipes, none of which she has ever gotten from a cookbook she says as she points to her head. She explains that, after doing her Saturday shopping: ‘‘We go to McDonalds.’’ Contradictions like this abound, and Marta, aware of this silliness, laughs too. Leonardo, who is much younger than the rest, presents an unforeseen quirk. He is well versed in Mexican foodways, he says – a relative of his owns a popular Mexican restaurant near Nashville. He is almost gleeful when he explains just how popular it is with the soldiers from a nearby military base. While the others all readily admit to frequenting the area’s supermercados, Leonardo insists his family is exempt. The others are incredulous and press him. ‘‘No,’’ he says. ‘‘On Saturdays my mother goes to the Chinese shop.’’ Finally he admits the awful truth: the Chinese store knows its customers well. The store stocks groceries for its Spanish-speaking customers, reflecting a more broadly ‘‘blended’’ ethnicity through consumption than the ‘‘blended’’ Latino described by Da´vila (2001). Besides the fresh vegetables, the other bugbears include the meat selections at chains. The Styrofoam and plastic-covered offerings of Kroger and H.G. Hill are not appealing to these customers who are used to choosing their own
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custom cuts from a larger carcass. The weekend traffic around the meat section at Comestibles Mexicana is male-dominated as is the phone card and the money transfer section of the store. These are male preserves and the men in the language class patiently explain the process. Money transfers and phone cards are not tasks that fit with shopping – both are done separately. Money transfers appear to be transacted at any time. Phone cards, though, are a Sunday purchase. On Sunday, back in their countries of origin, the family will be at home. And that is when the cards are purchased and the calls made. These links to ‘‘back home’’ remain enormously powerful, so much so that one observer has suggested that Latin Americans will not be absorbed into American culture in similar ways to previous generations of immigrants (Fischer, 1997). While money transfers and shopping are separated as tasks by immigrants, the supermercado nevertheless secures its place as interlocutor of capital, consumption, and culture in the lives of new immigrants.
CONCLUSION As other American groups switch ethnic foodways much as you would switch channels on a television set, recent Latin American immigrants appear to be much more firmly locked into their grocery shopping and food consumption habits. As Barbara Myerhoff suggests, we construct our sense of self to give continuity to the past. ‘‘It must be actively sought and maintained by examining, selecting, interpreting, and connecting elements from one’s inner and outer self’’ (1980, p. 222). What other human endeavor, even one so mundane, could actively involve us in both dimensions of self-construction as the dastardly act of provisioning through grocery shopping? For the dislocated immigrant, forced from one violent environment to another, albeit to one with fuzzier dimensions of hostility, maintaining an identity becomes a core activity. Mike Davis has called this the ‘‘cultural umbilical cord’’ that connects Latin America to communities in the United States (2000). Shopping is thus the nourishment that flows between the mother and the child. Economic theory may be powerless (or uninterested) when it comes time to explain the oddity of these preferences but, as one community leader put it: ‘‘They [Latin American immigrants] do pay taxes, they buy groceries, they stimulate the economy’’ (Wadhwani, 2002b, p. 1). The gendered differences of employment shape the times immigrants shop, the patterns of where they shop, and the specific goals of the shopping expeditions. The divide between capital and labor is mirrored
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in the public spaces of shopping; buying groceries and sending remittances are separate transactions. Shopping is a ritualistic tapestry of preferences embedded within a wider political economy. Labor migration, capital flows, identity, and cultural change are interlaced within those preferences and the realization of those preferences through the act of shopping. The political economy shapes some of the culturally driven preferences, accentuates others, and allows for an agency-driven comfort to the not-so-simple act of consumption. The richness and complexity of consumption is diminished by the Wonder Bread approach of aggregated preferences.
NOTES 1. All prices listed are in 2002–2003 terms. 2. The names of the supermercados have been changed unless quoted directly from news sources. The names of interviewees have also been changed. The word supermercado is used here to mean supermarket, specifically smaller-scale operations usually owner-operated, that cater mostly to the Latin American immigrant community. Not all the outlets are easily classifiable and one in particular hints at other more complex identities at work. Centro Botanico Azteca, also on Nolensville Road, sells herbal remedies. ‘‘Inside Triguero’s shop, customers find an environment that honors traditional Latino customs. His business card shows an ancient Aztec medicine man, and the store has herbs in gallon jars on long wooden tables’’ (Clark, 2002). 3. Things are definitely not always as they first appear. The act of remitting money home is becoming for some much more intertwined with the process of grocery shopping. The Wall Street Journal reports that retailers are now tapping into the wire transfers of immigrants by offering a new service. ‘‘Rosendo Santos sits reliably in front of his home computer in Miami three times a month to buy groceries. The 28year-old accountant’s shopping list includes Cocinero cooking oil and la Campagnola tomato sauce. Usually his order costs more than $27, qualifying these days for free delivery. Only the delivery is to his family’s home in La Plata, Argentina. Mr. Santos and his older sister, Cecilia, who sends him the shopping list by e-mail, are participants in a small but growing trend of international online shopping that’s being driven not by the faded hype of the Internet but the grim realities of recession in much of Latin America. Instead of sending money – the way Latin e´migre´s have traditionally supported the folks at home – the Internet pioneers are ordering food and goods in the old country for home delivery, thereby controlling how money is spent while sidestepping often steep money-transfer fees’’ (Wall Street Journal, 2002).
REFERENCES Anand, J. (2009). Supermarketization, consumer choices, and the changing food retail market structure: the case of Citlalicalli, Mexico. Research in Economic Anthropology, 29, 63–88.
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Black, J. (1997). A dictionary of economics. New York: Oxford University Press. Chavez, T. (2002). Stop the madness, get smart about immigrants. The Tennessean, November 21, p. B3. Clark, D. (2002). Neighboring Hispanic businesses bridge traditional and modern. The Tennessean, November 22, p. M4. Da´vila, A. M. (2001). Latinos, Inc.: The marketing and making of a people. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Davis, M. (2000). Magical urbanism: Latinos reinvent the US city. New York: Verso. Economist. (2002). Feeling at home. Economist, November 2, pp. 9–10. Farris, A. (2005). New immigrants in new places: America gaining ‘‘global interior’’. Carnegie Reporter, 3(3), 30–39. Ferrero, S. (2002). Comida sin par. Consumption of Mexican food in Los Angeles: ‘‘Foodscapes’’ in a transnational consumer society. In: W. J. Belasco & P. Scranton (Eds), Food nations: Selling taste in consumer societies (pp. 194–220). New York: Routledge. Fine, B. (2001). Social capital versus social theory: Political economy and social science at the turn of the millennium. New York: Routledge. Fischer, W. C. (1997). Identity, community, and pluralism in American life. New York: Oxford University Press. French, R. (2002). Mexican bakery goes international. The Tennessean, September 19, p. 3M. Giard, L., Mayol, P., & de Certeau, M. (1998). The practice of everyday life. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Greenaway, D., Bleaney, M. F., & Stewart, I. (1991). Companion to contemporary economic thought. New York: Routledge. Halter, M. (2000). Shopping for identity: The marketing of ethnicity. New York: Schocken Books. Jordan, K. (2002). Carniceria Dominguez expands with new location. The Tennessean, December 4, p. 5M. Kehrer, M. (2007). Transnational consumer goods corporations in Egypt: Reaching towards the mass market. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 151–172. Lipsey, R. G., Courant, P. N., & Ragan, C. T. (1999). Economics. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Martinez, R. (2002). Latino homicide: Immigration, violence and community. New York: Routledge. Migration Policy Institute. (2009). Tennessee social and demographic characteristics. Available at http://www.migrationinformation.org/datahub/state.cfm?ID ¼ TN. Retrieved on June 18, 2009. Miller, D. (1998). A theory of shopping. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Myerhoff, B. G. (1980). Number our days. New York: Simon and Schuster. Newman, P. K. (1998). The New Palgrave dictionary of economics and the law. London: Stockton Press. Porter, E. (2002a). As Latinos fan out across America, businesses follow. Wall Street Journal, November 26, p. A1. Porter, E. (2002b). Mexico woos its citizens living in U.S. Wall Street Journal, October 24, B1. Rees, M. W. (2007). Migration in times of globalization: The central valleys of Oaxaca, Mexico. Research in Economic Anthropology, 25, 27–50. Sassen, S. (1998). Globalization and its discontents: Essays on the new mobility of people and money. New York: New Press. Schiffer, E. (1998). ‘‘Fable number one’’: Some myths about consumption. In: R. Scapp & B. Seitz (Eds), Eating Culture (pp. 288–294). Albany: State University of New York Press.
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Sen, A. (1999). Development as freedom. New York: Knopf. Soto, R., Mejı´ a, M. C., & Gonzales, J. (2002). What many seem to overlook about Middle Tennessee’s immigrants. The Tennessean, November 17, p. 25. Streeten, P. (2001). Globalisation: Threat or opportunity? Herndon: Copenhagen Business School Press. Suro, R., Bendixen, S., Lowell, L. B., & Benavides, D. C. (2002). Billions in motion: Latino remittances and banking. Washington: Pew Hispanic Center. Thaler, R. (1980). Toward a positive theory of consumer choice. Journal of Economic Behavior and Organization, 1(1), 39–60. Thaler, R. H. (2000). From homo economicus to Homo sapiens. The Journal of Economic Perspectives, 14(1), 133–141. The Tennessean. (2003). A day in the life of Nolensville Pike. The Tennessean, April 9, pp. 1–24. Varian, H. R. (1999). Intermediate microeconomics: A modern approach. New York: W.W. Norton & Co. Wadhwani, A. (2002a). Negativism about Hispanics rising, poll says. The Tennessean, November 14, p. A1. Wadhwani, A. (2002b). Poll angers Hispanic residents, advocates. The Tennessean, November 17, p. B1. Wall Street Journal. (2002). E´migre´s send food online to old country. Wall Street Journal, November 6, p. B3.
WORKING HARD AND STAYING SAFE: DRILLING RIG HANDS IN ALBERTA Dan E. Houser ABSTRACT Drilling rig work is dangerous, repetitive, and both physically and emotionally taxing, but is attractive to many workers because it affords a means whereby those lacking postsecondary education are able to earn high salaries while still in their twenties and thirties. This chapter examines the workplace culture of the personnel at a number of rig sites in Alberta, Canada. It focuses on the ways in which workers speak about their own motivations and goals and discusses the verbal norms surrounding safety and accidents. It concludes that – the insistence on ‘‘money’’ as the prime motivator in the workers’ folk model notwithstanding – there are significant personal rewards inherent in being an accepted member of the production team.
INTRODUCTION In contrast to the dominant pattern of late modern society in Alberta, in which citizens work hard and save a portion of their earnings with a view to
Economic Action in Theory and Practice: Anthropological Investigations Research in Economic Anthropology, Volume 30, 331–349 Copyright r 2010 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0190-1281/doi:10.1108/S0190-1281(2010)0000030017
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the future, oil rig workers – employed in a demonstrably high-risk occupation that produces much of the province’s wealth – earn enviable hourly wages, but spend their earnings in ways that appear to contravene the conventional rationality of future-oriented savings and planning. To a much greater extent than the societal norm, rig hands seem to ‘‘live for today’’ and this chapter suggests that they do not do this out of ignorance of the societal norm. On the contrary, this pattern of hard-work-and-extravagant-living is itself a sort of subcultural ideal and involves its own elements of pride and ingroup camaraderie. A recurrent catch phrase that has taken on currency in the Alberta oil patch is that of ‘‘depreciative assets.’’ Nominally, this refers to material objects, such as trucks and equipment, which depreciate in value as they create wealth. But, whether they are conscious of this or not, it is a trope that epitomizes the workers’ own style of conspicuous consumption and their own existential situation. For oil rig workers are, without doubt, depreciative assets in the Alberta economy. As the job uses them up, both physically and emotionally, they will inevitably be replaced by someone younger, faster, and stronger, with little fanfare. From the perspective of the dominant North American economic ethos, one might expect that rig workers, being conscious both of the high wages they make in return for the stressful and high-risk work they perform, and of the limited number of years they are likely to be able to sustain the rigors of the work, would embark on a course of frugal living and accumulating reserves of wealth (investment certificates, mutual funds, RRSPs, and so forth) in anticipation of the time when their own ‘‘labor-value’’ had depreciated. In the dominant worldview, this would be understood as a kind of long-term rational transaction – making hay while the sun shines and putting it aside for a rainy day, so to speak. But the ‘‘live for today’’ ethos of the rig worker subculture prioritizes a different set of values. Personal savings and investment are not utterly nonexistent, but play a minor role in workers’ lives. Rather, the key values are values of display and conspicuous consumption, as epitomized by exotic vacations, extravagant hobbies, and the expensive late-model, shiny, and well-appointed trucks that the workers drive to their jobs.
OIL PRODUCTION AND RESERVES Daniel Yergin wrote, ‘‘Energy is the basis of industrial society’’ (1991, p. 787). Over the past century, oil has emerged as the most valuable commodity in the energy sector, and as of 2009, Canada was second only to Saudi Arabia in
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terms of estimated gross oil reserves (Government of Alberta, 2009). The province of Alberta is responsible for producing more than 75 percent of Canada’s extracted oil, and to date, nearly all of the country’s oil sands production. In 2005, Alberta produced more than half a million barrels of conventional light to medium crude oil per diem, making the provincial total for that year 209 million barrels (Alberta Energy and Utilities Board, 2006). The cost of drilling a conventional oil well in Alberta is significant. According to the 2007 report by the Energy Resources Conservation Board (ERCB), this cost ranged from a low of $730,000 to a high of $1,390,000 (section 1.3, pp. 1–10). The report noted that current production wells (especially those drilled within the past five years) are steadily declining in performance, producing around 5 m3 of product per day in 2006, as compared with the average of 8.5 m3 per day in the mid-1990s (section 3.2.1, pp. 3–14). In order for Alberta oil companies to continue to profit from exploration and extraction, overall production efficiency needs to be increased continually, as the halcyon days of easily located and cheaply produced sweet crude are past.
INDUSTRY AND WORKFORCE The push for high-volume extraction and the desire to increase profitability contributes to an industrial culture that, by its very nature, privileges speed over safety. In such an environment, issues of competent job training and personal safety awareness are crucial. According to a 2007 bulletin by the Alberta Government, employees under the age of 25 are 33 percent more likely to sustain a working injury than older coworkers (Government of Alberta, 2007). Based on my personal experience, entry-level oil work is attractive to persons recently out of high school, as the pay rates are high and no secondary education is required. Owing to the physical and nomadic nature of rig work, a high rate of turnover exists within the junior positions; in fact, such is the volatility of the labor pool that a drilling rig in a busy season may be short on qualified personnel. A shortage creates increased pressure to maintain production rates (or even accelerate them) and this in turn makes it all the more difficult to maintain an emphasis on worker safety at all levels of production, most particularly on the drilling rig itself. In addition to being Canada’s epicenter for oil extraction, Alberta is home to a large network of industrial services that are focused around oil and gas production. In local parlance, the entire industry is referred to as the Oil Patch. According to Manta (2009), Alberta is home to 6,843 services for
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energy and resources alone, with more than 25,000 industrial services operating in the province in total. Peripheral industries related to the oil patch include the welding and fabricating of equipment, such as drilling rigs and storage tanks, construction of exploration sites, mechanical maintenance of heavy equipment, manufacture and application of chemicals used in well stimulation and maintenance, geophysical imaging of potential areas of exploration as well as environmental agencies that investigate incidents and make recommendations concerning proper techniques for well abandonment and safe incident cleanup. As Alberta continues to experience population growth, the number of candidates for industrial jobs also increases. According to Andolfatto and Yan (2008, p. 4), Alberta boasts an average income level nearly twice that of Newfoundland. Perhaps due in part to the volume of job opportunities, the Conference Board of Canada (2008) estimates that 30,000 persons per year will move to Alberta over the next two decades. Many of these people will be skilled or semi-skilled workers, and the oil industry will likely prove attractive to newcomers.
MAKEUP OF A DRILLING RIG CREW There are, generally, five positions that make up a drilling crew, plus field administrators. Any new recruit on a drilling rig must start at the bottom of the work hierarchy, which will be briefly described here (roles are set in italics type on first mention). The junior-most position is occupied by the leasehand, an employee whose purpose it is to essentially answer to and assist any personnel with more job experience. Roughnecks are charged with performing the physical changing out of drilling bits and drilling pipe. The motorhand ensures that all mechanical equipment specific to the rig function well and are properly maintained. The derrickhand is second-in-command on the rig floor. Chief tasks include ascending the rig derrick to couple or uncouple joints of pipe and rack them back in the upright position, and attending to the many facets of maintaining the optimal mud mixture for lubricating the wellbore as it is drilled. Occupying the top position is the driller, who is charged with both the performance of the rig and the collective well being of the crew. While not a crew member who actually labors on the rig floor, the rig manager (or colloquially the ‘‘tool push’’) serves several key purposes, including acting as a ‘‘trouble shooter,’’ scheduling workers and arranging their shifts, mediating arguments, dealing
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with administrative directives from head office, going off site for repair parts or equipment, and dealing with contractors.
THE ECONOMICS OF RIG WORK Rig work pays well and a high salary is one of the primary attractions to the job. In Canada, the Canadian Association of Oilwell Drilling Contractors (CAODC) sets the wage schedule recommendation for rig workers. The CAODC (2010) calls itself ‘‘a trade association, representing drilling and service rig contractors throughout Canada’’. One rig hand referred to the CAODC as ‘‘a union, one that doesn’t collect fees, but doesn’t advocate on behalf of its workers, either.’’ Interestingly, the Board of Directors is composed entirely of the heads of various drilling and service companies. When informants were asked if they felt this constituted a conflict of interest in any way, the most frequent response was a wry grin. It is common knowledge that having the wage recommendation determined by the heads of drilling companies, those with a direct interest in the amount of employee wage payouts, is hardly ideal. However, many informants were critical of provincially organized unions, such as the AUPE. Such unions were thought to be ‘‘powerless’’ and responsible for creating generations of workers that ‘‘do nothing but bitch,’’ Rig hands realized that their potential earning power was directly affected by the wage schedule recommended by the CAODC, but the workers that commented said paying union dues was not going to be received favorably by rig hands anywhere in the province. As of October 1, 2008, the CAODC posted a new wage schedule on its website. While the schedule is a ‘‘recommendation only,’’ it was generally accepted that this would become the standard wage scale for drilling rig and service rig employees. All rig employees are paid hourly, with drillers commanding the highest wage at $40.00 per hour. At the bottom end of the scale are leasehands, earning $26.00 per hour. The top three positions, those of motorhand, derrickhand, and driller, qualify for a raise of $2 per hour, should hands in those positions complete a training program created by the CAODC. This program is similar to a journeyman program for more traditional trades, such as carpentry or welding, and contains scholastic components. Only one of the rig hands I interviewed, a relief driller from Saskatchewan, had actually completed the training program. For the most part, opinions about the program were negative, as rig hands viewed it as step toward discriminating against those who were uncomfortable with the classroom-learning component. A motorhand with more than 20 years of rig
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experience said he felt that the program was designed to push ‘‘old timers with lots of experience out, and bring in kids that don’t know shit.’’ Some of the rig hands I spoke with viewed money as a social equalizer. As such, any attempt to bring classroom learning back into the equation – which is how a few senior rig hands viewed the training program – was perceived as a direct impediment to their ability to earn the best salary possible. As a result, the program was unpopular and a source of complaint, even though it was designed to legitimate rig work as a trade, in the same way as plumbing or construction. A major problem with the program was its source: the CAODC. This instantly put rig hands on the defensive about the rationale for implementing the program. The aforementioned driller who had obtained his ‘‘ticket’’ (certificate) told me that his office had ‘‘lost the thing’’ several months previous and that he had not actually seen it yet. He didn’t put much stock in the program per se, but was interested in the nominal raise that accompanied it. Other rig hands were less gracious in their estimations. Rig hands work long hours and put in long hitches (designated numbers of shifts followed by days off). A standard shift is 12 h in length and there are no scheduled breaks or meal times. It is my understanding that regular hitches vary from rig to rig, but on the rig studied, the norm was a hitch with seven night shifts followed by a 24-h turnaround (known as a ‘‘short change’’), and then seven day shifts to finish. The rig hands would then have the option of taking seven days off or continuing immediately onto another hitch. There were three 5-men crews in total, such that one would work the day shift, one the night shift, and the other would be on a regular week off (the rig manager was in charge of scheduling the tours and informed me that he strove to give workers both the shifts and time off they wanted). During fieldwork, it was noted that it was not uncommon for hands to ‘‘stay in’’ (continue working) for three or more weeks at a time; one derrickhand stayed in for five weeks during the study. When asked about the rationale for keeping such long hours, a common response was directly related to the weather: rig work is ‘‘easy’’ during the summer and fall months. This changes considerably in the winter, when temperatures routinely reach 30 1C and wind chill factors send those numbers ever lower. Equipment failure rates are much higher in such extreme conditions, and even the most routine tasks can become onerous. As a consequence, some rig hands prefer to take more time off during the colder seasons than during the warmer ones. As well, when the rig is working steadily in the warm weather, taking on longer hitches is an opportunity to make more money, a pursuit uppermost in the mind of any rig hand, as they themselves frequently said. Besides monetary factors, there is afforded a certain level of respect to those who have braved long hitches, as surviving
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such an ordeal is not insignificant. One of the drillers had done a nine-week stint in northern Alberta at one point in his career. Taking on a hitch of this length is a considerable strain on a person, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The driller in question reported that he had grown quite desperate and reckless during the last two weeks of his hitch, and at one point, being in a ‘‘dry camp’’ (no alcohol permitted), drank heavily in his vehicle, alone.
BEING SAFE ON THE RIG Ten years ago we didn’t even wear coveralls or nothin’. All this safety shit has been since then. I have fuckin’ pictures you wouldn’t believe. Back then it was more like how the Americans are. We didn’t give a fuck. Motorhand (2008)
Drilling rigs possess awesome power. They can exert forces in the hundreds of tonnes and pull a drill string out of the ground that measures thousands of meters in length. After spending some time viewing one in action, I was struck by how much of the equipment appeared to be both robustly built and capable of inflicting serious injury or death very quickly. There are few operating guards in place on equipment or signs posted to warn the uninitiated about the potential for injury. Many of the working apparatuses are several feet above the ground, and have little in the way of easily traversable walkways. The noise levels can be deafening, and walking surfaces may be crowded, slippery or cramped. On top of all these inherent dangers, rig hands move at a high level of speed, as the job often demands it. It is expected that they will know where to walk and what to do to remain safe (or, at any rate, appear to know). On the particular rig of study, the manager made it very clear that he was interested in maintaining a safe working environment. As such, rig hands understood that they could be randomly tested for drugs. It was also understood that if an employee came to work intoxicated, this was grounds for being ‘‘run off’’ (fired). Even so, there are many factors at play on a drilling rig that encourage employees to take risks. For instance, the personality of a driller can have a direct influence on the risk attitudes of the crew. One driller may be known for working slowly and methodically. Another may be thought of as a reckless ‘‘cowboy’’ – hard on equipment and personnel. When a crew consists of workers who are familiar with each other’s idiosyncrasies, they can, nevertheless, work well together. Problems arise when new people, whose quirks and personalities are unknown, are mixed in with an established crew. A further factor is the attitude of the oil company employing the drilling contractor. The recent tendency has been to
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drill new wells as quickly as possible and then move on. As such, there is tremendous pressure on the drilling contractor to complete a new well in short order and thus compose work crews at random. While it is highly unlikely that any oil company would publicly endorse productivity over safety, it is well known among rig hands that pressures to perform quickly originate at the upper levels of management and trickle down to the ground level. Not surprisingly, many rig hands appear nonchalant about working in such close proximity to dangerous equipment. They are being what Sunstein (1998, p. 799) terms ‘‘selectively fatalistic’’; certain risks are considered normative in particular situations, whereas others are aberrant. In an inherently risk-laden environment, routine serves to norm behavior and thus reduce unpredictability, but at the same time, it lowers or overwhelms workers’ consciousness of and attentiveness to risks. Drilling companies are aware of this problem (as is OHSA), and have introduced increasingly involved safety protocols over the past two decades (see Hansen et al., 1993). One result is that workers, according to a junior driller who was interviewed, ‘‘are mired in paperwork,’’ yet risk behaviors are still prevalent, and the myriad demands of production-within-time constraints conspire, tacitly, to encourage risk taking. A few weeks prior to my arrival in the field, an inexperienced roughneck working on the rig sustained a serious injury. He had been physically guiding a length of pipe across the rig floor, while one end was tethered to a mechanical lift. For some reason, the roughneck had placed his hand on the bottommost threaded portion on the pipe, which happened to strike the rig floor while in motion. As a result, his hand was severely crushed, and three fingers were lost. Since I had many questions about safety, various informants (including a rig manager) related the above story to me. Nearly all were of the opinion that the roughneck’s hand placement was not safe and that he ‘‘should have known better.’’ Many of the other rig hands made jokes at his expense such as, ‘‘He’s at home, growin’ fingers.’’ Since this accident was considered preventable, most coworkers did not pity him. A rig manager indicated that he would prefer to run off a junior employee injured on the job, because he ‘‘wouldn’t want the guy back, he’s stupid, he’s a hazard.’’ This response ran counter to what I had expected, namely, that it would be understood that junior employees would be more inclined to make mistakes, and thus be given more consideration. In fact, the reverse was true, and the rig manager said that he would give more consideration to a senior employee who sustained an injury because ‘‘you’ve developed a sense of attachment to the person, you know.’’
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I also heard from a derrickhand who complained bitterly about having to wear a fall-prevention harness whenever ascending to the top of an equipment building to perform maintenance or cleaning. ‘‘Sometimes I feel like they treat me like a child, you know, just ‘cause some guy fell once.’’ Another derrickhand made similar comments, in his case regarding wearing protective headgear while working on the side of the derrick. ‘‘Tellin’ me I gotta wear a helmet up on the spike? What the fuck is that? It makes me look like a retard.’’ This derrickhand felt that not wearing head protection while working up the derrick was an acceptable risk. It is worth noting that the derrick is a particularly dangerous area to work in, both because of its height and because workers are totally exposed in the event of an emergency. Should a gas fire start in the bore of the well, the derrickhand is often in its direct line. If the derrick experiences failure, for example, due to equipment malfunction or extreme weather conditions, the derrickhand is again the most vulnerable. Even though a restraint harness is worn, in the event of a fall, serious internal damage can be done and legs or arms can easily be broken from the jolt of the fall or when striking sections of the derrick. Despite his obvious awareness of these risks, this derrickhand appeared primarily concerned about the aesthetics of a piece of safety equipment, and disliked using it. Perhaps, as Sunstein suggests, ‘‘Risks that seem uncontrollable may produce adaptation’’ (1998, p. 805). While the derrickhand’s fatalism about working up the derrick was plain to see, possible reasons for it remain beyond the scope of this paper.
MONEY AND POSSESSIONS J. D. House characterized rig hands as ‘‘a dispersed and invisible proletariat that make no mark on the urban social scene’’ (1980, p. 3). House’s declaration was intended in a comparative sense, distinguishing between oilfield laborers and the office executives whose buildings crowd Calgary’s downtown skyline. I would argue that rig hands do indeed influence the urban social scene, albeit in different ways than oil executives. Highly conspicuous consumption characterizes a considerable portion of the rig hand paradigm. This consumption is purposefully visible to the lay public and to each other, and may manifest itself in large vehicles, expensive hobbies, lavish vacations, and multiple homes. The key appears to be that these possessions be noticeable, as they symbolize the rig hand’s sacrifice in terms of time spent with family and friends, in order to earn a large salary, as well as serving to illustrate a tangible acceptance and perpetuation of rig
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hand values. However, this ‘‘public visibility’’ can be less overt, depending on the social situation. For example, it would not be unusual for an oil executive and a rig hand to find themselves vacationing in the same overseas destinations, sipping drinks from the same bar. The casual observer would not necessarily know who was the rig hand and who was the oil executive. In this situation, perhaps the rig hand is really sending a signal to himself, one that indicates that he can mingle with ‘‘the big boys,’’ and so has overcome, at least in this situation, any social impediments particular to his working station. The primary draw to oil patch work appears to be the potential for earning a salary that can exceed $100,000 per year. Typical responses to inquiries about job satisfaction were in terms of pay; almost always framed in terms of, ‘‘how much?’’ I learned, despite opinions held by members of the lay public that oil workers are paid extremely high salaries, that most, if not all, of the rig hands interviewed believed that they were in fact underpaid. The primary reasons for this belief appear to be due to the routine physical and emotional separations from friends and family. Owing to the nomadic nature of the job, rig workers are often absent from birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, and other rites of passage. Based on my experience, the current wages earned are high enough to attract rig hands to trade potential time spent with friends and family for monetary gain, but not enough to keep them from complaining about the tradeoff. Certain rig hands interviewed believed there was a direct correlation between staff shortages and the pay grades on offer. One driller intoned, ‘‘Better money will get you better guys, simple,’’ and perceptions that the pay scale was out of line with the toll the job exacts were commonplace. When a motorhand was asked what he felt he was worth, a driller in hearing distance retorted, ‘‘That’s a loaded question,’’ and the motorhand looked uncomfortable. After a bit more prodding he disclosed that he felt his position should pay around $30 per hour, as opposed the approximately $25 per hour he was earning at that time (July 2008). This employee was the only one that actually disclosed to me what he considered a ‘‘fair’’ dollar amount value for an hour of rig work. Approximate rig hand salaries were previously noted, and the rates of pay are considerable, especially since secondary education is not a prerequisite to holding a position (with the exception of the recent Journeyman Program, also discussed above). These wages, coupled to a work lifestyle that is noticeably different when compared to traditional occupations, can contribute to an economic sensibility that is typified by hyperspending; there appeared to be little emphasis placed on long-term gain or frugality,
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especially among the junior hands. I spoke regularly with several of these lower-tiered employees and learned they either did not intend to be working on a drilling rig in 20 years or had no discernible long-term plans for their working future. Among the approximately 20 rig hands interviewed, only 1, a roughneck, had made definitive plans to leave the oil patch (after a period of time on a drilling rig, he enrolled in a physics program at a university). Certain others, when asked if they intended to stay in the oil patch for the duration of their working lives, would answer in terms such as, ‘‘I need to get outta here, but I probably won’t.’’ One young roughneck confided to me that a family member had a small business that he was interested in taking over, and hoped that the impending birth of his first child would provide the impetus to leave the rig and begin a new working career. Still others were unsure of future paths, preferring to wait and ‘‘see what comes.’’
BUYING INCREASED SOCIAL WORTH A recurrent theme that arose from fieldwork was that informants often believed that earning power was a type of social equalizer. Many of the rig hands I spoke with and observed had limited formal education. Only one was intent on pursuing postsecondary training, and several had not completed high school; one experienced motorhand had entered the working world with a sixth grade education. There exists a strong distrust of formal educational systems in the oil patch (Knight, 1984), and I was a recipient of much tongue-in-cheek joking about my own educational background. The fact that informants and I did not share the same types of values concerning money, possessions, politics, and education made it easier for them to place me into their own constructed categories. At times, my different values made for difficulties achieving credibility with informants. Early on during fieldwork, the rig manager commented that I was ‘‘no better than anyone else.’’ I subsequently heard this phrase directed both toward myself and others many times over the next several weeks as people began to get used to my presence. It was soon apparent that this pronouncement was generally employed for two reasons: to remind someone who felt they ‘‘knew better than anyone else’’ to toe the line, and in reference to those who had exceeded the informal limits set for conspicuous consumption (such as a very junior employee purchasing a particularly ostentatious vehicle, or social or intellectual arrogance). I quickly caught onto this continually reinforced egalitarianism (which, paradoxically, reinforced the hierarchy of the workplace) and learned to guard against
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the sorts of comments that would have led to it being used against me. Soon, the phrase was used less to refer specifically to me, but I still encountered it regularly. Part of the process of rig workers ‘‘feeling out’’ a new member to the group consists of asking certain questions, which appear to be aimed at sussing out value sets and priorities. In witnessing rig hands talking among each other, questions often centered on how much money one earned or how much money one actually had access to. Rig hands spoke of money often; it was a recurrent theme of conversation day in and day out. Wages, hobbies, homes, vacations, and parties also received considerable attention. It goes without saying that descriptive stories or accounts of how money is spent are also appreciated, and to a degree, expected by the group. If one of the rig hands had purchased a new vehicle, his coworkers were sure to ask many questions about the purchase. The rig hand in question was then expected to actively disclose the details of the new acquisition. Owning new vehicles is a core component of the rig hand value system and symbology, and the parking area on a rig site may look like a car dealership: the highly visible trucks are a manifestation of the consumer-oriented values of this group. For example, a motorhand on the rig had recently purchased a newer 4 4 truck after owning an older, heavily used vehicle. When the truck appeared on the lease, I noted that the other members of the derrickhand’s crew asked many questions about the vehicle, such as engine specifications, the year it was built, if it had been purchased used or new, the current mileage, how much had been paid for it, and what sorts of options it had come equipped with. There were also questions about adding a trailer hitch to pull a boat, and purchasing aftermarket accessories, such as different wheels and tires or adding performance engine parts. All these questions served to reinforce to the derrickhand that his purchase was a ‘‘good’’ one in the eyes of his work peers, and he took pride in keeping the truck looking new. Practicing conspicuous consumption is not new (see Bagwell & Bernheim, 1996; Frank, 1985); Veblen wrote extensively about it over a century ago, in The Theory of the Leisure Class (1934). As will be shown, the conspicuous spending and consumption practiced by rig hands has its own particular patterns and sensibilities. While in the field, I received the impression that purchases of large vehicles or grand homes could be seen as attempts to demonstrate that one did not need to possess a degree of higher education in order to enjoy financial success (this is strictly my own inference; no informants indicated they believed this to be true). I was led to understand that in the world of the rig hand, education should only have a single goal: that of enabling one to make more money than is currently earned. In this
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sense, the acquisition of education should not be seen so much as an unbridled proclamation of ego, but as an investment in the future. In this respect, it is perhaps akin to a Trobriand kula presentation that is given with a view of its eventual return (Malinowski, 1922, pp. 96–99). Many informants told me of their phobias or dislikes involving classroom instruction, papers or exams (a derrickhand, on hearing that I had enjoyed the life of a student, chimed in: ‘‘Really? Not me man, I fuckin’ hate it. Whenever I have to take a test or somethin’ I get all nervous and shaky’’). For some, going to school was akin to running a gauntlet, and the reward for enduring such a test was best expressed through monetary recompense. My own lack of wealth and possessions became a running joke and a great source of humor in the field. Informants took pleasure in pointing out that they paid two to three times more income tax than I grossed in salary per year. While crossing the yard to make for the rig itself, it was not uncommon for certain workers to shout out to me, asking if I was ‘‘still living on canned beans,’’ or to suggest that it would be nice if I was to buy them breakfast, but that I ‘‘couldn’t even afford to pay attention.’’ Similarly, many conversations were had concerning the amount of time I had spent in school versus the potential monetary payoff. When told that anthropology does not pay particularly well, many rig hands shook their heads, perhaps in disbelief or amazement. The notion of pursuing knowledge or learning as its own reward was not one that fitted within their value system. Certain informants frequently contested the value of academic learning. I was often asked what ‘‘good’’ my education level was, and when trying to explain the intrinsic value of pursuing research interests, questions would invariably turn to the monetary payoff component. When I told rig hands how much money I earned in an average year, most were incredulous, whereas others thought it a great sport to make fun of having such a small salary. No one told me they believed that learning was its own reward; in the rig hand paradigm, money is at the epicenter of decision, and all movements are to be made with the end goal of accumulating money in mind (‘‘What else is there, besides money and toys?’’). In those terms, pursuing anthropology does not make good economic sense.
ON DISPLAY As mentioned, rig hands often spend money on goods that are highly visible, be they large vehicles, designer clothing, or powerful watercraft. I argue that this type of consumption appears to exist for two reasons. First, the grand
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homes and lavish hobbies serve as public markers of the success of the rig hand, a success that often comes at the expense of a healthy or functional family unit or social support network. One of the motorhands I spoke with frequently had saved his earnings for several years and then purchased a large home on the edge of a golf course. He was very proud of this purchase and felt that it had improved his social station considerably. The reality of the situation was less attractive. He began to feel that some of his neighbors, who had come from families long established in business or real estate, looked down on him because of his occupation. He told me, ‘‘They’d all just scowl at me, I had the biggest house and they just resented me and what I had.’’ It is important to remember that many of my informants appeared to define social class largely in terms of income levels. As for the motorhand, he eventually grew tired of the hostile treatment and sold his home after about seven years. This notion of ‘‘feeling judged’’ by society was not unusual among the rig hands interviewed. One rig manager felt that there were negative stereotypes surrounding rig hands that continued to persist from a by-gone era. ‘‘Hotel owners still don’t want ‘em stayin’ in their places, even though half the hotel is taken up by ‘em.’’ During another interview, he told me that the general public believes the worst of rig hands. ‘‘People hate them because they, first, are wreckin’ the environment, they think they make too much money, and they think they are a lower class of people.’’ One motorhand, with more than 20 years of drilling rig experience, said the public perception of rig hands is that they are the ‘‘lowest common denominator, all animals. No one wants us, boy.’’ My second point is that heavy spending serves to reinforce the particular consumer values that have developed among rig hands. Such spending appears to form part of an alternative value system, focused around the work group as the principal referent. The commodities that rig hands value, such as big trucks and expensive vacations, may be perceived of as ‘‘vulgar’’ by certain sects of the public, which can then react negatively to this particular expression of consumption. The rig hand may regard this reaction as born out of envy or jealousy, and come to believe the salary earned enables a level of acquisition that is beyond those who do not work in the oil patch. For example, a derrickhand who enjoyed recreational offroading relayed a story to me of purchasing a new all-terrain vehicle at a dealership. The cost of the vehicle was more than $10,000 and he elected to pay the entire amount with his debit card. Meanwhile, at this same dealership, another man about the same age as the derrickhand was turned down for financing due to insufficient earning potential. This other customer
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witnessed the derrickhand casually spending a large sum of money and, according to my informant, resented it, much to the pleasure of the buyer: ‘‘He looked like he wanted to stab me in the eye.’’ This derrickhand related other similar instances to me and expressed pity for people who were not able to purchase with the same impunity he practiced. He did add a qualifier, though: the time traded on the job, away from his family and home, needed to pay off in a spectacular way. In this case, it was the substantial salary that acted as the dividend. This derrickhand also drove a large truck, one that was highly visible and audible. While it was obvious that he took pride in keeping such a vehicle (often washed and waxed), he was quick to point out that he had ‘‘earned it’’ by being ‘‘out here.’’ For this derrickhand, highly visible material goods demonstrated that he had put in long work hours to acquire them; in his own words, ‘‘If you’re not stealing them, the only way to get ‘em is to work hard.’’ The derrickhand did not have the advantage of ‘‘breeding’’ or education; he simply had access to a large salary and used it to validate his sense of self-worth in a social situation where the defining factor was disposable income.
CONCLUSIONS In retrospect, I now realize that I underestimated both the uniformity and degree of closure of the workplace culture of rig workers, as well as its degree of opposition to the normative culture of the wider society. Rig workers have a distinctive economy of conspicuous consumption, which, however, in contrast to the standard conspicuous consumption model of Veblen (The Theory of the leisure Class, 1934) does not sort them out from one another in terms of a hierarchy of social status. Rather, (and particularly with its strong ‘‘live for today’’ emphasis), it proclaims their status equality among themselves, while at the same time setting themselves apart from the norms of the wider society: in Alberta, ‘‘everybody knows’’ that oil rig work is a way that a person with a high-school education or less can make high wages relatively quickly, but that the work is dirty, grueling, and dangerous. As noted, the ultimate token of membership is to drive up to the work site in a brand-spanking new truck, impressively fitted with the requisite aftermarket accessories. Until the day this happens, every time the new worker has to drive up in his old ‘‘shitwagon’’ and park it in the line of shiny trucks, he is reminded that he is not fully subscribed to the brotherhood, and
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his appetite to become a member is whetted. Although he might have other pressing claims on his paycheque, he goes into debt (or further into debt) to purchase the badge of membership, perhaps reasoning that he will soon get ahead of the curve and be solvent, and maybe even build up a nice bank balance. But the lifestyle, for all its rough edges, is an expensive one, and the ‘‘member’’ undergoes a whole series of subtle changes in his outlook on the world, in his language at work, and in his values – in establishing which things he prioritizes over which other things. I am increasingly convinced that, notwithstanding the strongly affirmed conscious model among rig personnel that ‘‘the money’’ was the great motivator, there must be other factors to be considered. Viewing a rig in action, one cannot escape the sense that the men actually enjoy being rig hands. The money on offer is impressive, certainly, but a two-year diploma to a technical school or a job-based apprenticeship could enable a higher earning ability, under arguably less exacting working conditions. Owning and operating a small business is entirely possible without the aid of secondary education, and provides the opportunity for the worker to be his or her own boss. So, what is it that makes rig work attractive to these men, beyond the financial reward? I believe that the principal requirement of this job that rig hands must continually cross between the domains of working and nonworking life is, in itself, a type of reward. There is an intrinsic value in being part of the rig hand group, just as there is in being a father or friend. As I understand it, while on the job, rig hands put on ‘‘tough’’ personas, often characterized by rough talk and aggressive behavior. At home, or off the job, other personas, such as that of ‘‘family man’’ or ‘‘buddy,’’ may be very different, but are just as appropriate to the various social situations. In a Goffman sense (1959, pp. 17–76), these rig hands quite naturally employ impression management to best serve the social situation: what constitutes appropriate behavior or speech on the drilling site is not likely the same as at a family function or when on a date. Membership in this particular work group is attractive for a number of reasons. First, the location of the group is most often geographically removed from the area of personal residence. This removal sends important signals to both the friends and family of the rig hand and to the larger public, directly drawing attention to the ‘‘unusual’’ nature of a job that requires a regular physical relocation. Second, the candidates for drilling rig work who actually ‘‘stay on’’ at the job are relatively homogenous (owing to a host of factors in the selection process), and
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display a particularly singular dedication to doing the work, even if they claim they do not enjoy it. This job is unpleasant at best, and those workers who are successful on a drilling rig need to employ a considerable resolve, in order to do the work day-in and day-out. Group membership, even if beset with periodic bursts of short confrontations, is far more meaningful when members share a common resolve; in this case, it is the determination to continue working on the rig that gives the hands a common bond. Third, the job and its requisite lifestyle, in some ways, harkens back to days of old, when exploration was new and exciting, and townsfolk were well-versed in the popular stereotypes of the ‘‘men who drilled for oil’’ (see Anderson, 1981; Boatwright, 1963; Gow, 2005; Gray, 1970, for further historical accounts). The job is, in its way, imbued with a certain glamour: it pits the physical and creative capabilities of a rag-tag group of (usually) men against a host of daunting odds, including market forces, the fickleness of the larger public, and the untrustworthiness of the large oil companies. The vision of the ‘‘lone wolf,’’ toiling against considerable odds, while highly romantic, remains deeply embedded in the rig hand paradigm.
GLOSSARY OF TERMS Derrickhand
Driller
Hitch Leasehand Motorhand
The crew member that handles the upper end of the drill string as it is being hoisted out of or lowered into the hole. On a drilling rig, he or she may be responsible for the circulating machinery and the conditioning of the drilling fluid. The employee normally in charge of a specific drilling crew. The driller’s main duty is operation of the drilling and hoisting equipment, but this person may also assist in the myriad of daily tasks necessary to operating a drilling rig. The number of shifts a rig hand works consecutively before taking time off. The junior-most member of a drilling crew, often charged with performing the most menial tasks. The crew member on a drilling rig that is responsible for the care and operation of drilling engines. Also
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Roughneck
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considered an informal mentor to roughnecks and will assist them as needed. An employee of the drilling company who is in charge of the entire drilling crew and the drilling rig. Also known as a toolpush or drilling foreman. A worker on a drilling rig, subordinate to the driller, whose primary work station is on the rig floor. Sometimes called floorhand or floorman.
REFERENCES Alberta Energy and Utilities Board. (2006). Alberta’s energy reserves 2005 and supply/demand outlook 2006–2015. Available at http://www.ercb.ca/docs/products/STs/ST98-2006.pdf. Retrieved on February 9, 2010. Anderson, A. (1981). Roughnecks and wildcatters. Canada: Macmillan. Andolfatto, D., & Yan, Y. (2008). Regional development patterns in Canada. Available at http://www.sfu.ca/Bdandolfa/provinces.pdf. Retrieved on February 9, 2010. Bagwell, L. S., & Bernheim, B. D. (1996). Veblen effects in a theory of conspicuous consumption. American Economic Review, 86(3), 349–373. Boatwright, M. C. (1963). Folklore of the oil industry. Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press. Canadian Association of Oilwell Drilling Contractors. (2010). About CAODC. Available at http://www.caodc.ca/about/about.html. Retrieved on February 9, 2010. Frank, R. H. (1985). The demand for unobservable and other nonpositional goods. American Economic Review, 75(1), 101–116. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Doubleday. Government of Alberta. (2009). Industry and economy. Available at http://alberta.ca/home/ 181.cfm. Retrieved on February 9, 2010. Government of Alberta. (2007). New and young workers. Available at http://employment.alberta.ca/SFW/5369.html. Retrieved on February 9, 2010. Gow, S. (2005). Roughnecks, rock bits and rigs: The evolution of oil well drilling technology in Alberta, 1883–1970. Calgary: University of Calgary Press. Gray, E. (1970). The great Canadian oil patch. Toronto: Maclean-Hunter Limited. House, J. D. (1980). The last of the free enterprisers: The oilmen of Calgary. Toronto: Macmillan. Knight, K. E. (1984). Technology transfer in the petroleum industry. The Journal of Technology Transfer, 8(2), 27–34. Malinowski, B. (1922[1961]). Argonauts of the western Pacific. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Manta. (2009). Industrial companies in Alberta. Available at http://www.manta.com/NA/ Canada/Alberta/iEi-Industrial. Retrieved on February 7, 2010. Sunstein, C. R. (1998). Selective fatalism. Journal of Legal Studies, 27, 799–823.
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The Conference Board of Canada. (2008). The labour shortage: Just the tip of the iceberg. Available at http://www.conferenceboard.ca/documents_ea.aspx?did ¼ 1711. Retrieved on February 9, 2010. Veblen, T. (1934). The theory of the leisure class: An economic study of institutions. New York: The Modern Library. Yergin, D. (1991). The prize: The epic quest for money, oil, and power. New York: Simon & Schuster.
BOOK REVIEW: MARKET AND SOCIETY: THE GREAT TRANSFORMATION TODAY (CHRIS HANN AND KEITH HART, EDS.) Hann, C. & Hart, K. (Eds) (2009). Market and society: The great transformation today. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, cloth, $110.00, pp. xi, 320, index. Market and Society is a timely collection of essays commenting on and applying the work of Karl Polanyi. The editors provide a useful introductory chapter, duly noting Polanyi’s profound insights into the unique challenges of the relationship of economy and society in the capitalist era (p. 1). Their view of the validity of Polanyi’s analysis in the postwar period before and after 1980 (pp. 6–8) seems a bit dubious, but in any case one should not take a unilinear view of Polanyi’s double movement. In a more dialectical view, social protection and expansion of commodity production would ebb and flow, as the endemic problems of market capitalism persist alongside variegated collective actions to ameliorate them. In the final analysis, this seems to be the editors’ view of the matter (p. 9). Many of the essays are conceptual in nature, articulating elements of the tool kit that Polanyi provided. Stephen Gudeman offers an interesting take on Polanyi’s notion of a double movement, arguing that despite great diversity, all economies display two basic contrary tendencies, mutuality (or solidaritybased provisioning) and market (or impersonal provisioning). This means that economies are both embedded and disembedded in Polanyi’s sense. Jens Beckert cautions against the use of the embeddedness concept in contemporary economic sociology, because it has been drained of its content in Polanyi’s work. Missing are the broad, critical inquiry into the social requirements of a capitalist economy and the need for reform to render such an economy amenable to a humane existence. Phillipe Steiner compares the work of the Durkheim Group and Polanyi on the cultural effects of the formalist economic point of view. He finds much to recommend the analysis of the Durkheim Group and is chagrined that there was so little influence on the Polanyi Group. One assumes that he would allow that Marshall Sahlins is the exception to this finding. His finding that Polanyi neglected a deep sociology 351
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of knowledge analysis of the economistic fallacy might be controversial among the Polanyi Group. David Graeber picks up Polanyi’s analysis of the varied social positions of money and market elements and comments interestingly on markets in a concrete sense and ‘‘the market’’ as a model and ultimately an ideological device. Chris Gregory examines the curious now-you-see-it nowyou-don’t place of householding in Polanyi’s work. He concludes that the concept was dropped because it has only very specific historical application. One might also suggest that it really was never an independent concept since it does not represent a distinct transactional mode, in that it must be organized on the basis of reciprocity, redistribution, and one supposes maybe even market exchange. Nonetheless one agrees with the conclusion ‘‘that theoretical advances must be grounded in historical and ethnographic research.’’ Gerd Spittler points out the lack of and need for comparative study of work, so to avoid the impression that capitalist and noncapitalist works have nothing in common. This point brings to mind the important discussion by Marx of the need to separate the universal and specific aspects of economic categories (Marx & Engels, 1975–2001, Vol. 28, pp. 17–48). The remaining essays apply Polanyi’s concepts to specific substantive cases. Jean-Michel Servet revisits Polanyi’s analysis to examine the recent neoliberal regime and its transformation of global economic governance. He contends that Polanyi’s analysis suggests a solidaristic economy in which markets operate in context of expanded realms of reciprocity and redistribution (on this see also Stanfield & Stanfield, 1997). Keith Hart also uses Polanyi’s work as a basis for examining the recent period of intensified globalization. He emphasizes the role of money, quite so since the neoliberal regime is one of the ‘‘financialization.’’ He argues that once again, as in the era that Polanyi examined, a confluence of technical changes and ideology have brought the world perilously close to social disintegration. Jonathan Parry uses his research on India to show the similar cultural and nondeterministic thrust of Polanyi and Antonio Gramsci. Jane I. Guyer draws on many ethnographic contexts in discussing the ethnography of price and makes interesting observations regarding the increasing role of risk composites in prices. In a wide-ranging discussion of the history of British welfare programs and the experience of recycling, Catherine Alexander indicates the weakening of the protective response under the neoliberal regime. Drawing on the ethnography of tourist-based development in Jamaica, James G. Carrier argues that anthropologists should pay more attention to The Great Transformation. Using the recent experience of China, Chris Hann urges consideration of nonmarket disembedding of economy from society, specifically during the postwar period in China before the reforms that began in the late 1970s. This
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raises the notion that the state can be disembedded from society, a notion that has relevance to the industrial democracies in that one can plausibly argue that they are far less democratic than commonly thought. The general themes of these essays, summarized in a final chapter by Don Robotham, attest to Polanyi’s continuing relevance, albeit with considerable revision to reflect changing ethnographic context as well as perceived defects in the original conceptualization. The relevance of Polanyi’s work to the concerns of economic anthropology and to the contemporary world of global capitalism is made evident. The postwar corporate-welfare state before 1980 is deemed to have embodied much of the reembedding of economy in society that Polanyi called for. The eventual return to this path with the collapse of neoliberalism seems inevitable. The authors devote no attention to either the nightmare of fascism or the dream of socialism. One can quibble a bit about some points. In contrast to a later observation (p. 6), the editors early on seem to overlook Marx in their observation that ‘‘one man,’’ Polanyi, ‘‘made the modern history of the relationship between market and society his special concern y . The Great Transformation y remains the most powerful indictment y [of the] destructive attempt to build society on the basis of self-regulating markets’’ (p. 1). Rather one may well say that, in his preoccupation with the place of economy and society, Polanyi is properly labeled a post-Marxian. This is not to minimize Polanyi’s contributions, one may say the same of Veblen, Weber, and Schumpeter, but to emphasize the profound dimensions that Marx addressed in regard to the relation of economy and society in the wake of the unique historical character of capitalism. The mention of Veblen reminds that the authors almost completely neglect American Original Institutional Economics, despite the prominence of the Polanyi Group in its postwar development and the similarity of its themes to that of Polanyi himself (Stanfield, 1986, pp. 139–144). The acceptance of the postwar corporate-welfare state as a substantial embodiment of Polanyi’s idea is problematic. The reforms continued the protective response, to be sure, but that included its spontaneous, haphazard nature. Polanyi seemed to espouse a repositioning of the market in society based on a clear conception of what was involved, a delimitation of the market’s reach and conscious use of reciprocity and redistribution in its stead. Or at least, absent this, one can conclude that a cultural crisis must ensue if such a major change is undertaken with no guiding principles or self-awareness on the part of the agents of change (Stanfield, 1995, chaps. 7 and 9). That Polanyi contrasted the ideologically infused attempt to create the self-regulating market economy to the spontaneous character of the protective response, in effect refuting the Austrian view that a German
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ideology permeated the interventionism, does not mean that Polanyi approved of social protection proceeding without any sense of its larger purpose nor that he thought such drift to be a program for the future. The famous essay on the market mentality makes this abundantly clear. Quibbles notwithstanding this collection is more than welcome. The essays are thorough and interesting and leave no doubt about Polanyi’s continuing relevance. In this there is agreement with recent observations made by Joseph Stiglitz (2001), though the contributors to this volume would likely not be persuaded by Stiglitz’s observations that ‘‘economic science and economic history have come to recognize the validity of Polanyi’s key contentions’’ and that ‘‘the myth of the self-regulating economy is, today, virtually dead.’’ They would though heartily agree with Stiglitz that Polanyi’s concerns and analysis anticipated the issues raised by the variegated protests against the neoliberal regime of global economic governance.
REFERENCES Marx, K., & Engels, F. (1975–2001). Collected works. New York: International Publishers. Stanfield, J. R. (1986). The economic thought of Karl Polanyi: Lives and livelihood. London: Macmillan. Stanfield, J. R. (1995). Economics, power, and culture: Essays in the development of radical institutionalism. London: Macmillan. Stanfield, J. R., & Stanfield, J. B. (1997). Where has love gone? Reciprocity, redistribution, and the nurturance gap. Journal of Socio-Economics, 26(April), 111–126. Stiglitz, J. E. (2001). ‘‘Foreword’’ to Karl Polanyi, The Great Transformation. Boston: Beacon Press.
James Ronald Stanfield
